Today, you will punch a skeleton.
That level of detail would renew my faith in horoscopes.
Sagittarius: Through a panto horse-head you’ll nibble at the finger-food as best you can, but eventually the neck-hole will smell like pickled onions and you’ll get Brie in your mane.
Then a man in a latex Halloween costume will poke you in the rump with the pointed edge of a salada, and your fraying dignity will unravel all at once.
In a blinding rage, you’ll claw at his tibia, fibula, radius; looking for something snappable.
Your wife will cry and leave without you.