Greetings, O irritating little twerps! Welcome to the month of jaundiced July. With marauding Mars and grim Saturn in your sign, you take an interest in mediaeval armour, running up a suit for yourself in your garage with a selection of your favourite tools.
Come the New Moon in idiot Cancer, you join a mediaeval re-enactment society and distinguish yourself with your use of the longbow, the lance and some daring-do antics with the bombard. Your skilful exhibitions draw stirring rounds of applause from your fellow enthusiasts and you organize several assignations with the foreign visitors. You then come to display the intricacies of your own suit of armour that you don for the occasion. You clump around the place, wielding the weapons of long ago, an ironclad campanologist as you've tuned each piece of the suit to ring like a bell. Enthusiastic applause now turns to thunderous approval and you win an award given by the loonies that appreciate these efforts to bring the military past back to life, all beneath the sepulchral glare of the New Moon in cretinous Capricorn.
But what's this? Egad, tiny tykes! It's a development of an unpleasant kind as the bolts in your armour lock into position during this martial display, leaving you trapped in a metallic prison. Gadzooks, now there's a rub! As the great Sol Invicti rolls and clatters into lackwit Leo while cranky Chiron makes crazy congress with the Loony Nodes, you're abandoned by your new friends and left alone in an empty exhibition hall, an anachronism in iron, muttering to yourself while mischievous Mercury chases the great Sol Invicti through the lunatic sign of the Lion. After a contretemps with a Russian kitchen hand that mistakes you for a samovar, you settle into immobility and wonder what will happen next.
As I'm overcome with creeping ennui and desperate for a dose my little brown bottle, you'll have to click here next time to read of what will doubtless be the startling developments. Hail and farewell, my virginal ninnies!