Mrs McNulty popped around again this evening. For some reason, she has begun to make the sign of the cross whenever she sees me.

She thrust into my hand a set of horoscopes for the coming year, while apologising for their lateness (she usually has these prepared by the end of December). This was due to unforeseen circumstances, she explained.

‘Remind me again, what star sign are you?’ she asked.

‘Not sure. Cancer, I think.’

She gave a sharp intake of breath, crossed herself once more then mumbled about how she needed to get back to her sawing. After she left, I read her entry for Cancer:

This year sees your transiting Saturn conjunct with your natal Saturn in the 8th house, and Uranus conjunct the Moon. The Vertex is conjunct Pluto and your 4th House has become shadowed with Neptune’s dark umbra. These factors, combined with irregular disturbances in your quincunx, point tragically yet irrevocably to one thing: Death will cast its shadow before the year is out.

Her usual mumbo-jumbo. I added it to the recycling.

February

Thursday February 1st

Anger directed towards a Gym Membership Card

There you go again: jogging my memory,

exercising my conscience,

climbing up the wall bars of my guilt.

Bench-oppressing me.

But what do you do all day

except wallow in my wallet?

Your companions are always active.

Observe the healthy sheen

of my store reward cards,

the litheness of my public library card,

and just look at that debit card,

flexing its muscles once more.

I ran into an old adversary of mine at the bakery this morning as I was reaching into my wallet to pay for a couple of chocolate croissants and a pain au raisin: my gym membership card. Apart from the occasional bike ride, and walking to and from football each Saturday, I have yet to engage in a single reckless act of health and fitness this year. I made a private vow to myself that a new training regime must begin in earnest from this weekend before ordering one more chocolate croissant to make the most of the ‘4 for the price of 3’ offer.

Friday February 2nd

This Be the Curse

They muck you up, these stuck-up cats.

You may not think so but it’s true.

They come and sit upon your lap

When there are other things to do.

You wait upon them, hand and foot,

And in return get fleas and lice,

Their hairs collect upon your suit,

They bring you chewed-up heads of mice.

Cats hand on misery to man.

It gathers in the litter tray.

So get up quickly while you can

Before the cat climbs back to stay.

I had just sat down to write today’s poem when the doorbell rang. It was Dave from next door with some news: my cat has been sleeping around.