“What’s your star sign?” is maybe my favourite question to be asked by a stranger.
Not because I earnestly subscribe to the belief system of astrology – but because if someone is asking, they are generally a Fun Person.
Fun People like to get to know the inner worlds of others.
And everybody knows their own star sign. (Yes you do, don’t lie.)
Now I get it, the idea of someone’s personality being informed by celestial bodies millions of lightyears away is silly. But astrology is a great game, and a pretty efficient tool for self-reflection if you suspend your disbelief for long enough.
You can learn a lot about a person from the qualities they ascribe to themselves based on their sign; and whether they use it as an excuse for, or confirmation of, their biases.
Equally, you can ascertain a great deal about someone’s character from their reaction to the question itself; whether it’s enthused, nervous, dismissive or even mocking.
In that way, asking “What’s your star sign?” really can be a measure of compatibility, even without comparing birth charts.
So I’m all for star signs. The controversy comes in, I think, with horoscopes.
Mystic Meg was national icon
Yesterday the news broke that Mystic Meg (real name Margaret Lake) has died aged 80.
She was unquestionably the horoscope queen of the UK media. She wrote for the Sun and News of the World for more than 20 years, as well as appearing on the National Lottery programme throughout the ’90s, where she predicted what the winner would be like.
Mystic Meg was an icon, a myth beyond the woman herself; and undeniably, the butt of many an affectionate joke. I didn’t know her, but I like to think she knew that, and didn’t mind.
But some folk hold real scorn for astrologers like oor Meg, who make a living touting fortunes and futures. And I understand that too.
There is definitely an argument to be made around the ethics of filling your pockets with the money of people who may be vulnerable and likely to rely on psychic readings or horoscopes for a sense of direction, or who may take advice literally and to their detriment.
But I also think everyone has the right to their own escapism. Some people use drink, or drugs; for some it’s Netflix, or a swim in frigid seawater.
Growing up, my family’s escapism was reading our Mystic Meg horoscopes on a Saturday morning, and spending the next half hour dreaming out loud over a fry up.
Horoscopes helped my family escape
“What’s Meggie saying to it then?” someone would ask, and we’d flick to her page.
We’d make up stories about the ‘adventurous new paths’, ‘handsome strangers’ and ‘unexpected riches’ predicted to come our way that week.
Mum (Capricorn) hoped there’d be enough ‘riches’ for a trip to Greece, or the Maldives, or maybe Australia.
Dad (Sagittarius) hoped the ‘new paths’ would fix the potholes in the driveway, or lead him to a job where he wouldn’t be on his feet all day long.
As for me (Taurus), I hoped the ‘handsome stranger’ would have a horse, or a guitar, or a nice smile, depending on the week.
And although I’m sure the horoscopes sometimes contained warnings or cautions, I don’t remember them. I only remember those hopes, the nice bits that we each picked out and picked over.
Mystic Meg was a way for my family to share our dreams without getting too American about it. Her column was sanctioned silliness in a household where there wasn’t an awful lot of time spare to dream.
GMTV, on set #ThrowbackThursday pic.twitter.com/0TfaszcpK2
— Mystic Meg (@MysticMegTweets) August 8, 2019
There was always work to be done, and we did it.
But for that half hour every Saturday, while dad did the crossword and mum made the breakfast, I got to know the people who were my parents.
Now I live far from home, but I still check the horoscopes of everyone I love each day. The list keeps getting longer (Pisces, Aries, Virgo, Gemini…) but it always starts with three: Capricorn. Sagittarius. Taurus.
I love that little ritual. And I have Mystic Meg to thank for it.
Rest well, you spooky legend.
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