Mystic Meg, Britain’s most famous astrologer, died aged 80 this March.
Astrology – What a load of crap I always say.
In the student canteen we had a breakfast ritual. Pass The Sun, tearing out page 3 of course, and reading each other’s horoscopes. Just for a laugh.
“You will meet new love at a petrol pump, they will have an unusual form of identification”
Discussion begins. I can’t drive, so you won’t find me at a petrol station. We mourn missed romances and my motoring deficiency.
On the other hand, my new Irish passport may be the ‘unusual identification’. We debate my national identity.
I admired the chutzpah of Mystic Meg. Her predictions were too specific, too risible, too easy to refute.
Proof to me that her self-belief or delusion was genuine.
Broken clocks are right twice a day, but they don’t start conversation and turn acquaintances into friends.