Perhaps, dear reader, you could imagine for a moment that you have entered the musty tent of the medical fortune teller, hidden here in the labyrinthine nether regions of this publication. The walls are hung with used theatre drapes, and light comes from an old flickering phototherapy unit in the corner. The soft pulsing of a monitoring machine can be heard. In the middle sits a be-gowned and be-masked figure, bent over a portable light box. The smell of his cheap aftershave mingles with the chlorine in the air. You can sense the communion with higher forces.
Thanks for indulging me. You can put the lights back on now. You see, I love trying to predict the future. It's not that I'm very good at it; I invested heavily in tank tops in the 1980s, and I still have 14 boxes of eclipse eye protectors in the shed. But I