My guardian angel has given up on me.
After threats of misery, heartache and lifelong trauma unless I hand over my credit card details, he has moved on to others clearly more needy than I am.
I thought I had shaken off Adrian the astrologer, but, possibly sensing that the guardian angel was winging away, he has returned with a vengeance. Fearful of my destiny unless I sign up to his cosmic plan, he is now offering a discounted rate.
Adrian seems even more worried for me than the angel was (they’re so fickle, these celestial beings) and has written to ask if I could imagine a life without fear.
To be honest, Adrian, I didn’t have any fear in my life until you popped into it, telling me all sorts of weird stuff about planets coming to eat me when I slept, and the like.
I don’t think Adrian is very in tune with me. For example, he asks me to imagine knowing “exactly what you wanted and how you should go about getting it.” Been there, done that, Adrian. Knew it. Got it. Next.
Any goal, any obstacle, meeting every challenge . . . he goes on, and the ultimate prize is apparently my finding “the treasured gift hidden within”.
Within where, exactly? And what kind of gift? Oh, hang on, here we go: “Imagine being able to build the financial empire you’ve always dreamed of.”
Dreams really aren’t Adrian’s thing, because I’ve never dreamed of building a financial empire; just having enough to shop in Whole Foods once a month, that would suit me.
I can’t help feeling that Adrian’s got my planets, if not my entire solar system, muddled with someone else’s. He asks me to imagine what it would be like to travel the world (done that – in fact, it’s why I find myself sitting in New York, even as I write), or write “that novel” (did that – 1990; you are way behind, Adrian). He adds: “or even just buying the home of your dreams”.
Now, there’s the problem: if I had not bought so many homes of my dreams, I would have a financial empire by now. The very last thing I need is another one, when I am already trying to offload the two I currently have.
To deliver the things that I apparently need for my “Transit Period Guide”, Adrian has reduced the price of the purchase to $19, or, as he puts it, “a fraction of the normal price . . . just 19 dollars!”
That’s still 2 x 1.5 litres of Montepulciano at Grand Cru, my local wine store in New York, or as much as I can drink between the hours of 5pm and 7pm at Adella, my favourite wine bar. It’s also 19 – yes, 19 – Celeste pizzas from Peapod (with 19 cents change). So, you see, Adrian, you can cost price all you like, but the pizza is still going to be a lot more reliable than you appear to be.
Adrian has a very simply solution: “We just need to find a way to help you move past the financial obstacles that are holding you back!” You’re telling me! Like paying angels and astrologers to empty my bank account.
The “exclusive” offer and “amazing discount” is apparently going to come to an end very soon, and Adrian urges me to act fast because I “CAN” have everything I dream of.
Okay: I dream of playing the piano to a room full of people disappointed when the guy they have booked drops dead at the keyboard.
I dream of meeting a man I can keep chained in the basement to stop him breathing the same air as other women, while I go out partying.
Most of all, I dream about taking over the controls of a Jumbo 747 when the pilot collapses with food poisoning at the wheel/stick/control panel, or whatever it is.
You see? Apart from the words “wings” and “drinks trolley”, and the knowledge that the pilot sits at the front, I know eff all about planes; that might be a bit of a problem, I can see.
But when I was asked on a recent radio interview what was my ultimate fantasy, it was the last one. Saving people’s lives has to top the list every time – apart from the dream of Wales beating England in tomorrow’s Rugby World Cup match, obviously.
So, Adrian, my “Devoted Guide”, as you keep calling yourself, unless my $19 is going to buy me the fulfilment of these dreams, I ain’t paying. I’m actually questioning your devotion, anyway.
I once went out with a Jewish Hungarian Australian dentist who said he was falling for me in a big way; the next day, he came out in a facial rash and broke up with me, so forgive me for being a bit suspicious on the whole devotion front.
If you get to speak to my angel, though, do give him my regards; it was good while it lasted.
But while the sky might have no limit in your celestial and planetary worlds, the sphere of credit cards most definitely does.