written in the stars
HOROSCOPES ARE PHOOEY BY JAMES SHACKELL
I used to work in an office in which it was very hard to be a horoscope sceptic. Whenever the printer jammed, or someone’s train broke down, I was surprised by how many otherwise level-headed people would emerge, nod sagely and (without apparent irony) say things like, “Ah yes, Mercury’s in retrograde. I felt it this morning.” And the other person would slap their forehead and say, “Of course! Mercury! Every damn Tuesday!” I never had the courage to ask, “Erm, sorry, what does ‘retrograde’ mean?”
Astrology is the last socially acceptable magic. People look at you funny if you believe, really believe, in Santa Claus, but you can happily talk hostile mergers over crumpets and Capricorn rising over lunch, and nobody seems to
