The Moon Over Libra

I like being a Scorpio.

Like the infamous scorpion and the frog story, it partly excuses all sorts of inappropriate misbehaviour without much explanation.

Victim : OMG Why did you stab me?
Paul : Umm. I could not help myself. It is my nature.

Yeah blame that ever-ready stinger.


Scorpio are we?
Turns out with the controversial new horoscope squeezing its way into the line-up, I might not even have that as an excuse. Seems like the planet earth wobbling out of alignment seems to have turned the heavens upside down resulting in the appearance of Ophiuchus.

Which would toss me clear across the astrological charts into the realms of Virgo. The cold, analytical fellow. The anal-retentive perfectionist. The meticulous neat-freak dresser.

See that gentle, attractive man over there in the corner, with the thesaurus under his arm? The one with the tick-tock mind, clicking away the hours neatly and methodical­ly noticing the smallest details? If you look closely, you can almost see him measuring each minute for what it's worth. He's a Virgo.

Good grief! That's the wordy description of a typical Virgo. God help us. Does that mean I need to invest in copious hair gel now? Maybe an electronic calculator or two?

Better the dark, brooding and unflaggingly loyal Scorpio with their wry, acerbic humour.