- Hooray to you, piscatorial nightmares! Last time, as the dolphin of all France you inhaled a demon made of smoke. This demon was a child of Asmodeus (a rather ghastly denizen of the lowest hells) summoned by a nameless female sorceress in an arcane rite, made to ensorcel a cardinal and save Joan of Arc from a severe grilling on the matter of her faith. I trust you're keeping up, my little fishy things! If not, kindly return to the forecasts of these last months and gain a modicum of belated understanding as to where your wretched life has gone, is going and is about to go.
For it is about to go somewhere in an almost unprecedented manner. Mischievous Mercury ushers in the ides of manic March by clashing with Pluto, dark lord of the underworld and you are filled with exaltation from the demonic smoke you have inhaled. You vault the prostrate form of the nameless hag, burst from the darkened room and race through the palace corridors, scattering fops right, left and centre. You find your way to the cardinal's rooms, sneering at him coldly as you enter. You bend his cross painfully and tell him if he ever lays a hand on the Maid of Orleans, you will personally place his private parts between the pages of a prayer book and shut it hard. You depart, laughing demonically as he weeps affrighted tears down his now ashen cheeks and onto his liturgical robes.
A gaggle of ghastly planets farts in the cosmic winds and you decide this is enough of mediaeval France. It's too limiting, isn't it, my wittering ninnies! All these fops, a language you can't understand and nary a clock or coloured balls to pass the time. You've saved the Maid. Now you must search out a bigger playground to exercise your recently acquired powers.
Jolly Jupiter hobnobs with nasty Neptune! Shriek! Marauding Mars clashes with lugubrious Saturn! Double shriek! Thus, at the New Moon in your tragic sign, you declare you will be a time lord, just like Doctor Who! With mischievous Mercury in arrogant Aries and your solar second house, you decide you will whisk up and down the course of history, gathering fabulous wealth until you become the richest person in all the world, bathing in rubies everyday and buying everything and everyone you want. You run to the palace treasury and seize handfuls of jewels and gold. You will be a buccaneer in time as you were once a buccaneer on the high seas.
Avast me hearties! Shiver me timbers! You will be a chronological corsair, steal a multitude of clocks, set them all at different times and then you can choose whatever time you would like it to be, like half past twelve or twenty to four in the morning! What jolly fun! Perhaps your brain will, one day, be studied by scientists just to see if it has anything at all within its confines.
But what's this! Horror upon horror! The great Sol Invicti and vamping Venus clash with Pluto, dark god of the underworld, and you're seized by a nameless terror. You snivel and have shivering fits. Perhaps these dark desires aren't yours at all! Perhaps the old hag was right and you are in mortal danger for these are the desires of a demon! What will you do! The child of Asmodeus may be living in your bosom or somewhere even more private than that! At this moment, the universe itself (you remember the one, benighted, ruled by insane gods) erupts in hideous cacophony as another Equinox unleashes its fury upon an unsuspecting world. The great Sol Invicti batters his way into arrogant Aries! And, what's more, marauding Mars clatters into Aquarius, sign of the idiot god! Eek! You have the brainless warrior god in your solar twelfth house! You're doomed, my little fish-faced miseries! Doomed!
Mischievous Mercury now begins going perversely backwards and you start to worry about wanting all this money! Perhaps you're just sublimating other desires, like a desire for sex or asparagus or grapes or cayenne pepper or a bevy of pet lizards. You're all confused. Marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with cranky Chiron and you feel the angry demon, child of Asmodeus, thrashing about within, urging you to get on with the buccaneering! And then, the last horror of manic March unfolds! A Full Moon in loathsome Libra! As she shines her ghastly necrotic light on the great Sol Invicti, vamping Venus and mischievous Mercury, you wish that life could be a simper affair. You wish in fact with all your might that you were an apricot tree, growing in a field somewhere, ready to bestow the bounty of your fruit upon the heads of passing wayfarers.
Gadzooks! The horror of what follows next is unspeakable! At least, on my current prescription strength it is. Return next month and I shall see if Heavens' doctors are merciful to me in my travail, giving me something so strong that I may continue with this dreadful drivel! Ta! Ta!