Perhaps the glimpse of something at the rear of a boutique, an aroma wafting up from a subterranean kitchen, the way the good-looking young man looked at you back there as he laughed gaily with the vendor, or a nose, an ear, the globes of a shapely bottom, breaks the spell which has bound you, as you find yourself walking briskly after work to the station, realising that you are dissatisfied, tired, cold, hungry and alone.

Listen again to the words of this song. If it speaks to you, hurry home, for God’s sake, Ladybird!

“And if she says come inside
I’ll come inside for her
And if she says give it all
I’ll give everything to her
I am justified
I am purified
I am sanctified
Inside you.”

No reverie! Read the news, an editorial perhaps, or the sports pages, but no culture or lifestyle. Under no circumstances detour from the station, call into your local or visit a neighbour. You are in grave danger at this hour—for the remainder of the winter.

Yes, the Vertex has entered the eighth house.