Poppy Folly

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The Independent Culture
It's been shocking what Mercury's been doing to my memory these last few weeks, so remind me: have I been saying how sensitive and intelligent Virgo is? How well-dressed and amusing the sign is, and how clever their haircuts? Or has it been more along the lines of sexually defective neurotics with the emotional capacity of a vegetable processor?

Both are correct, but maybe it should be put on record that my scientistic description of the sign may be influenced by the fact that I have suffered under Virgo.

Quite how he got in under my radar isn't clear, maybe the haircut was styled by the same people that did the Stealth bomber, but there we suddenly were in the familiar position, the three of us (me, him, his stomach), and me gasping for air and trying to attract his attention ("I've started so I'll finish" is Virgo's one-track motto).

It was only because it was over so soon that I was able to get to the surface with just a purple face and a mild case of the bends. "Phew! That was like the last scene of a snuff flick," I said. Tactless? I don't think so. When you've come through a life-threatening experience you forget your manners sometimes.

"I hope the narrative was interesting enough to carry you through the horror," he said.

"There wasn't time to get involved in narrative," I said. "Maybe next time we'll spend a little more time fleshing out the minor characters,? he said, and he was gone (asleep, that is, not vanishing like a ghost in the night - the preferred exit in these cases, so we can pretend it was all a dream).

But there it was, Virgo in all its parts: Intelligent, amusing, useless. You can't help liking them. Well, that's not true, now I see it there like that, but anyway, there it was.