What ho, leonine loonies! Last time we left, you were heading for the precipice, ready to hurl yourself from a cliff top as a member of a procession of the dead returning to an ancestral home beneath the waves in honour of Halloween. Some would say this is a fitting end to your presence in the Zodiac and all of the voices in my head agree with that. So, will the horrors of noxious November be terminal? Or will a miraculous event save you from imminent demise?
Let us consult the vile and bitter prognostications and so discover! Things begin in an unsettling manner as mischievous Mercury rogers the living daylights out of aging Saturn, whilst moving in perverse reverse. Thus, as this procession lurches alarmingly towards a leap into empty air, you find you're haunted by voices from long ago. Childhood arguments echo in your mind, most of them about spending an inordinate time in the bathroom or before the mirror, all ending in insults or irritating japes and all directed at you. In fact, you've never forgiven your family for inventing a game called 'hide the hair product' which they later patented and made a fortune from. And they never gave you any of the earnings, even though they used an insulting caricature of you for the box top.
The Full Moon blazes in cloddish Taurus and your feeling about the harsh authority of sneering parents rises in your gullet. You howl like a cat possessed and almost wish that you could launch yourself into empty air and escape the misery and travail of a painful past. Hide the hair product indeed! But, as narcotic Neptune engages in serial sexual relations with vamping Venus, mischievous Mercury and the great Sol Invicti, you decide death is not the answer and so step from the lurching cart to preserve yourself, commending these beautiful spirits to their life beneath the waves. And yet, as you stand at the cliff top, you're a tearful little feline, wondering when it is you will find home that you can share with those who love you! The obvious answer is always the most elusive, I suppose! You dwell upon past sorrows in relationships, the lies, infidelities, betrayals and, worst of all, the insults to your hair!
But as you stand, poised on the precipice, watching the ghosts depart to Davy Jones locker at the bottom of the briny, the grief and tears within turn to an unbridled fury, just as marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with mischievous Mercury moving in perverse reverse. You shriek foul anger to the winds, leaping and gesturing in an overly dramatic, exaggerated manner. However, as this performance is indistinguishable from your usual conduct, no further comment will be made. You seem to see the faces of your betrayers in the spray as waves break on the shore. You hurl rocks at them in a frenzy of aggression, seeking to slay the image of the thing that has hurt you. But what's this? Ye gods and little fishes! Vamping Venus slopes lustfully into addlepate Sagittarius and the performance becomes a tour de force, a pyrotechnic display of manic motion and deadly passion! So swayed are you by these feelings that you're like a pussy possessed! A cat in a trance! A feline swept away by the ravages of rumination on the past!
So swept away indeed that at first you do not notice the creak and grind of ghastly planets as they fart in nasty aspect in the cosmic winds. It's the great Sol Invicti, rolling into silly Sagittarius, with jolly Jupiter following along in hot pursuit, his crapulous bulk shaking heaven and earth as he does so. Suddenly, you look up to see a crowd assembled, watching your every move with interest and applauding as you accomplish a more intricate or impressive manoeuvre. Then, a figure steps forward from among them to congratulate you as you stop. It seems this person is a theatrical promoter and wishes you to star in an upcoming musical, oddly enough entitled THE DANCER ON THE CLIFFTOP.
By my sainted aunt, little hairdressing types. What a serendipitous moment this is! You immediately accept the part, negotiate a salary and ask for an advance so you can have your hair done and buy new clothes. And, of course, you forget about your emotional agony now that you're standing in of a circle of admirers. See you next time on your way to stardom, hair gel vanities! For the nonce, ave!