Jessica McFarland

Astrology isn’t an actual science (that’s astronomy, in case you’re already confused). I know this.

The position of the stars on the particular Thursday in September on which I entered the world is not responsible for my personality, work relationships, or love life. Furthermore, the position of the planets at this very moment has nothing to do with my current mood, unless I’m somehow angry at Jupiter for being too, I dunno, gaseous. (Incidentally, ‘dunno’ is in the dictionary as a contraction of ‘ (I) do not know’, originating in the mid 19th century, not the late 20th, as I believed up until now. But there, you see, I’ve become distracted. Damn you, Jupiter!)

Where was I?

Right. Astrology. Bogus.

But I know there’s part of me that wishes it wasn’t.
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(And this probably says an awful lot about me:)

Lying in bed after a night playing musical theatre reeds, getting sleepy, one light on, glass of rosé wine, reading Foundation by Isaac Asimov. Learning about the efforts of the people of the planet Terminus to re-establish technology after the fall of the Galactic Empire. Enjoying the author’s projections about what technology will be like thousands of years into the future (atomic power and ultrawave; I guess mobile phones were already a thing of the past).
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