Your stars: it could happen

From a personal perspective let me make the bold, bald statement that affairs with bold, bald Virgoans never really come to much. Even at their boldest and baldest, Virgoans are quintessential white boys. They can never thrill a woman's depths with that lazy Caribbean drawl, that Afro-rumble at the bottom of the throat where the tremors go down into the lungs, and from there into the parts we don't think about.

You see, for girls like us, it's the voice that counts. It's the voice that surrounds us and absorbs us and allows us to believe that we can really do all those things that we just think about in the bath.

You thought it was the looks, and so you made yourself quite good-looking. No, but it's the voice that counts (bummer!).

Now, because Virgo men are on the whole polite and hard-working, and want to fit in, they do what they think passion looks like. But it's never real. Because passion is a rude, untutored thing; passion is abundant life, vigorous and unpredictable.

Passion, in its most important sense, is just a greasy pig.

How can polite, hard-working love flourish when an oily porker is trashing the bed, and messing up the dinner-table, and squatting where the television ought to be, bristling and leering and showing off its backward parts?

But passion departs with as little reason as it arrives. Suddenly the house is quiet, the crisp linen sheets are fresh and across the water- meadows there is the bell for evensong.

At the his-and-hers desk, the pens are again laid out neatly in their correct order. Virgoans, male and female, wash their faces before they go to bed. And the pig is where it should be, slung up on a butcher's hook, waiting to be made into bacon.