You have arrived to the Pisces waiting room and all that bobs patiently in its fertile pond of dreams. Here we sit in odd solitude biding time and tides and waiting for the big change we feel coming deep in our marrow. Bones worn weary by a world chewing its own arm off in spite and a revolution of the species that will no longer broker refusal.

Astrology for the apocalypse continues unabated, darklings. The dance of the planets is eternal and does not disrupt its constant choreography just because the seething ball of gas third from the sun is crippled by the labour pain of its rebirthing. As one of its handmaidens and scribes, you can bet your hand sanitiser on its prescriptions continuing here.

This weekend is a chance to wash the slate clean, after the delicious topsy turviness of the last two weeks.