I don’t know about you, but the thought of Tarot reading can instill a sense of toe-curling mockery and eyeball rolling from deep within. Memories of those fortune tellers ready and waiting for you to depart from your hard-earned dollar on the sea front in Blackpool; phone lines with X amount standard per minute charges to tell you something that you desperately want, nay need, to hear about the forlorn state of your love life; and kooky, stuffy, moth-ball stinky new-age shops promising to tell all about the secrets of the caverns of your heart if you cross their palm with silver!

Yep. I get it. I really do!