Back Off Mercury!

Well thank heavens (literally) for that. Mercury is no longer retrograde which means that life should start moving forward rather than keep running around chasing its tail and persistently dropping the toast of progress butter side down.

Mrs Pumphrey brings me the celestial news this morning.

'I thought I'd wait and see how things went for a few days before I delivered the news,' she says. She is wearing a rather fetching Madame Arcati from Blythe Spirit outfit.
'Practising for Hallowe'en?' I say.
'Just you hush,' she says, and I am relieved I got away with the remark so lightly because insulting a chicken generally results in a savaging of the knee cap.
'I have been watching Mercury since last Sunday,' she continues, adjusting her turban. 'And feel I am now able to predict that life will flow more smoothly at Much Malarkey Manor. For the time being,' she adds, somewhat ominously.

She's right, of course. Madame Pumphrey is rarely wrong about matters esoteric. She likes to be called Madame Pumphrey in the lead up to Hallowe'en. She reckons it makes her sound more mystical and part of the whole 'veil-between-the-spiritual-planes' thing.

'Go on,' she says. 'Have a think. How has life moved on for you this week?'
'Well, ' I say, 'I've started teaching that Adult Education course, so I've got some income to cover Christmas. And Heather got a job yesterday. (At this point I shall allow myself a quick 'Whoo-hoo!' in celebration of Daughter being gainfully employed).'
'Anything else?' asks Pumphrey.
'And I have a renewed energy for 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue,' I say, because I have. I was becoming rather concerned about my magnum opus. Having been caught up in a huge whoosh of creativity during the summer, then a huge de-whoosh of flat nothingness when I became of the opinion that everything I wrote was a load of old tosh, I set to with the novel again this week and it's like a blocked drain has been Dyno-rodded and a big gloop of fatty blockage has been removed.

'That's no way to talk about Mrs Slocombe,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I'd say she was more fluffy than fat.'
'Did I say that out loud?' I say.
'You did,' says Mrs P. 'And you need to watch out for that. You're doing a lot of speaking your mind of late and someone's going to punch your lights out if you're not careful.'
'And Andy has been coming home from work on time now he is no longer temporary SVS,' I say. 'AND that eyesore of a lorry has stopped parking in front of the house and waking us at 5.30 every morning when it pulls away. Mind you,' I say, 'I've been asking for a bit of help from you-know-who on that score. 'And I look up to the skies and tap the side of my nose.
'Santa Claus?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Oh, it wasn't Santa Claus who sorted out the lorry. It was Tango Pete.'
'Tango Pete?'
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Now the summer season at the circus is over, he's doing a bit of clamping and towing work. After all, he has got 28 hens and 193 chicks to support.'
'Right,' I say.

Onwards and upwards then, now Mercury is out of the way. Or at least taking a forward trajectory.