I loved it that you loved my dilly Witch's story. Here's another one…

Old ladies are from Mars...

"Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimber in the wabes
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome raths outrabe."

(“The Jabberwock” by Lewis Carroll)

‘Twas three days before Christmas and three old ladies set off from Johannesburg, in a brillig red car, to join a massive 17-member family gathering in Ramsgate on the south Coast of Natal (Kwa-Zulu that is). They were Sue, my son's mother-in-law, Taurus, matron of a private clinic; Kyla, my daughter, Taurus, choreographer, day job running salaries for a large fashion company (designated an old lady for the purpose of the journey); and me (astrologer, Pisces, no day job).

Little did we suspect the celestial slithy toves and cosmic borogroves that would bedevil our journey. But the astrologer should have, could have, might have, but didn't. I had given the ephemeris a cursory glance before I left and had noticed a few nasty little mome raths which I decided to ignore. It's not that I went into denial – far too tame for a Piscean. I did the other Piscean thing. I pushed the red button on my mimsy white cellphone which connects me directly to God and had a little chat.

Naturaly I was told that having served an arduous apprenticeship and subsequently been admitted into the heavenly host of astrologers, I was exempt from mundane astrological effects. The trivial comings and goings of planets in their courses could not impact me. This had to be so, for how could I perform my sacred horoscopic tasks were I constantly subjected to the astrological irritations suffered by unevolved human life on this planet.

How's that for astrological hubris? We all fall prey to it – you, and you, and you too – and I'm a slow learner. I doubt I'd have got the message even had I been tied to a rock in the middle of the ocean with a griffin pecking at my liver all day.

Let's review what was happening on Saturday 22 December 2007. Considering the start-of-journey chart as if it were a horary, Capricorn rising makes Saturn retrograde in Virgo in the 8 th , our significator, (of dubious quality). Mercury so appropriately the ruler of the 9 th , the significator of the journey, in Capricorn in the 12 th (not well placed but otherwise in good nick). The two significators are in Mutual Reception and embrace each other with an applying trine.

Whatever happened on the journey couldn't be too disastrous. But believe it or not, even in a horary chart, the cause of the utter chaos that ensued was Uranus exactly on the cusp of the 3 rd , together with Sun, Mercury, (ruler of the 9 th ), Jupiter (ruler of the 3 rd ) and Pluto ensconced in the 12 th (not desirable). Those little twelfth house gremlins were cooking up a brew worthy of Macbeth.

Now to the current transits. The N Node was anaretic, having recently moved into 29 degrees Aquarius, but the most relevant was Mars retrograde at almost 4 degrees Cancer, highly debilitated in its worst possible sign. Being good astrologers one and all, we shudder at retrograde, and know that Mars heartily detests being in Cancer, the sign of his Fall.

Mars, the archetype of in-your-face action, make decisions yesterday and, if things go wrong, snicker-snacker goes your sword (Lewis Caroll again) stuck for an unconscionably long time in an internalised, emotional sign like Cancer must be most frustrating to Mars, already reined in by retrogradation. He starts to sulk and resorts to passive aggression.

A word about retrograde motion. Mars went retrograde in the middle of November at 12 degrees Cancer. We know that the influence of retrogradation cannot be truly over until Mars once more, when moving direct, reaches the degree at which it originally turned retrograde. And that only happened on 5 th of April – a full FIVE months! Is this why I am hearing so many complaints of ‘blockages' from clients?

There's a lot of unnecessary hype about Mercury retrograde which even seems to have filtered down to the man-in-the-street – ill understood and mostly exaggerated. I suspect much the same has happened with Mars retrograde. These personal planets moving retrograde CANNOT affect everybody. When Mercury turns retrograde, the whole world does not collapse in a stew because their computers go on the blink, appointments are missed, and papers mysteriously go missing.

Likewise, when Mars turns retrograde, the whole world does not suffer road accidents in red cars or get mugged or hi-jacked (only if you live in Johannesburg ). There HAVE to be specific connections to the natal chart, usually involving the angles. If the set-up is compounded by three people in a red car with specific connections – you're doomed.

With hindsight, here are the facts. Kyla has her Midheaven at 11 degrees and N Node at 5 degrees Cancer (there's the angle), and Mars, remember, was sitting resentfully at 4 degrees. Sue has her Moon-Saturn conjunction at roughly 8 degrees Cancer, while my Ascendant and S Node are at 8 and 9 degrees Cancer (another angle). Voila!

Another astounding fact is that all three of us have Mars in dignity in Aries between 10 and 20 degrees. I believe our strong Mars' prohibited us from experiencing real trauma and disaster such as an accident or mechanical failure. One could also argue that transiting Mars, being retrograde, was separating from our placings, thus mitigating the circumstances. It was more of a comedy of errors.

The journey from Johannesburg to Ramsgate should take, at most, 7 hours. It took us 13 hours. The first whispered indication came at the first tollgate where we were held up for 15 minutes by traffic volume; then again at the second tollgate where the wait was 35 minutes. Irritated, we stopped for breakfast, when we received a call from a family member informing us of a ghastly accident outside Ladysmith between a large railway transport van and a bus. Apparently, bodies and twisted steel were scattered across the highway. The authorities had closed the M1 highway to traffic, and were attempting to divert a 20 kilometre backup of cars at the Ladysmith tollgate onto the old Durban road.

Feeling very clever, we picked up the old single-lane road just outside Ladysmith and headed off for Newcastle , a journey of 95 kilometres. To interrupt our story here, driving through the back end of Ladysmith was like being in downtown Johannesburg where vendors, sangomas, thieves, drug pushers and pickpockets ply their trade – a milling mass of humanity, noise, filth and garbage – very scary for previously advantaged white women. Rising pristine, albeit incongruously in the centre of this incredible chaos was the coup-de-grace – a large and beautifully painted billboard stating “Keep Ladysmith clean and beautiful”. Quickly! Where's a camera for a shot that will win an international photo competition.

Now in high spirits because of that funny thing called Life, we find that the road to Newcastle has catapulted us into a time-travel warp, right back to the Boer War. It is market at regular intervals by old British bunkers and heritage sites. Rorke's Drift, Ishlandwana and Majuba Hill, all sites of important battles between Boer and Brit, are but a stone's throw away. Eerie stuff!

Once in Newcastle , after milling about uselessly and wasting precious time, we discover to our horror and disbelief that there IS NO ROAD to Durban . Apparently, Newcastle is out on a limb North-East, whereas we need to travel South-East. It is now the family joke that we have zero, nada, sense of direction, just like all women. I stoutly tried to maintain that it's been my lifelong ambition to see Newcastle but was shouted down with derisive cries of “See Newcastle and die!” I then began to blame the planets, a stroke of genius.

So back we trundle, the whole 95 kilometres, to Ladysmith. On my life, I will never read anything about the Boer War again. Now comes the moment of truth, whether to pick up the old road and drive to Colenso (which is what we should have done in the first place) or to chance it on the main M1 highway in the hopes that it has been re-opened. I mean to say, it has been HOURS! We vote for the latter, the only right decision of the day.

Was this the end of Mars' reign of terror? No! Just outside Pietermaritzburg we hit the mother of all traffic jams, and travelled (I mean inched) our way, bumper to bumper, for almost 2 hours. There seemed to be no apparent reason other than the volume of traffic. At this stage I retired to the back seat to sulk, smoked up a storm and refused to speak to anybody until the traffic eased up. Kyla drove grimfaced but Sue stayed gung-ho and cheerful. I wanted to smash her head in with the biscuit tin, she saved the day by remaining determinedly cheerful. The remainder of the journey passed without incident.

During our ten-day stay on the coast, Mars of course, didn't obligingly turn direct, but kept moving inexorably retrograde – until 30 January in fact. But he changed his tactics and included, amongst other things, the theme of “keys” and “cellphones” which, I always thought, were under the rulership of Mercury. How about including Cancer – “Keys to open the door of the house”. And “Cellphones to call family members”. I repeatedly told everybody to be careful and watch the details on this holiday. I tried. I really did. But as we know, no prophet is recognised in his own country. It's a strange thing but I don't think my very grown-up children even hear my voice anymore (do I see other mothers' heads nodding?)

Kyla and I went off to do a huge grocery shop and, on our return, found that the two house cleanser, who had been asked to await our return, had locked up the house and summarily departed. The second set of keys were on the beach with the family. We had bought frozen food and bags of ice, and the temperature was 32 degrees Celcius. Easy! Phone them to bring us the keys. Can't! Kyla had forgotten to recharge her cellphone (and I didn't have one).

Only one thing to do. Get in the car, go to the beach and get the keys. Off we shot, down to the only set of traffic lights on that stretch of the South Coast road and – you've guessed it – hit a completely motionless traffic jam stretching all the way to the Umtumvuna Bridge whee an accident had occurred. We backtracked and stopped at the tourist office, but Kyla couldn't raise anybody on their cellphones. Nothing to do but return home and wait – and wait – and wait.

Two days later, Kyla and I decided to go gambling at the Wild Coast Sun. We are not sun worshippers and don't like flopping around sweating in the sun on the beach. This time we had the keys and the family on the beach, due back for lunch, had none. It transpired later that nobody had their cellphone with them. What to do? Nothing if not fertile of imagination, we hid the keys under the clivia in the garden, and posted a note on the front door (stuck with the kids' play dough), to phone us at the casino.

Other relatively minor incidents follow. I was bitten by a spider; Sue lost her cellphone at the casino and was relentlessly chased by a manic crab on the beach (hello Cancer), while Kyla was terrorised by a ten-foot cockroach which reduced her to girly screams and which her poor mother had to go and kill for her. There is nothing in the world like a Natal cockroach!

The two last and major incidents occurred after Kyla and I had left on our return journey, mercifully without incident – just uncomfortably hot even with air conditioning. The house was burgled in broad daylight to the tune of R30,000 – does not the stomach churn? When Kyla reached her home in Cape Town , looked after by a friend in the neighbourhood, they could not get into the house. The neighbour had locked the kitchen door and hung the key on the keyboard. Then she sprung the lock of the front door before leaving and shutting it. Naturally the keys could not then open the door from the outside. They waited two hours for a locksmith to arrive.

And that is the story of Jabberwock. Until next time….