A long time ago, a friend of mine, worried about the loserish state of my life, sent her astrologer to me. He’s great, she said. Everything he told me came true. My addiction to horoscopes, tarot readers and other such romantic predictive entertainments has not lacked for intensity, but it has been missing a certain earnest seriousness. This must surely explain why, though I have often pleasurably fantasised about forthcoming good fortunes, nothing anyone has told me has come true.

Having accepted that it is really the daydreaming (and flattery) that I might crave, rather than any anxious preparation for the future, I have now limited my encounters to various newspaper and online horoscopes which provide the pleasure without the lecture—something that I’ve found inevitably accompanies a personal astrological consultation. At least for me.u00a0To be frank, astrologers and I, we have a chhattees ka ankda— which serious followers will know means jldfjlasjdflajdfl;adjf;lasd f;kf’ejf;lkdl;ksd;asljdf fojsdfpjsd.