I had asked her to examine my personal future but also to apply her acclaimed soothsaying to a miscellany of questions.

Is Tony Abbott about to become prime minister again? Is the ongoing confected diplomatic stoush between the West and Russia going to escalate into a World War engineered by belligerent reds-under-our-beds buffoons like Boris Johnson?

Is foreign minister Julie Bishop, becoming conscience-stricken, going to give back the money taxpayers have been paying for her property-developer boyfriend to travel with her wherever she goes?

Is the boon of light rail ever going to be extended to Tuggeranong? For there, among Tuggers' grumbletonians, the debilitating mood-changing affliction LRES (light rail envy syndrome) begins to take its toll. It is pushing its victims into perverted behaviours, like voting Liberal.

"And most pressing of all, WonderDaphne," I continued, "for it is the great issue on all thinking Canberrans' minds, can you stickybeak into the future and see what it holds for Ricky Stuart and the Raiders?

"Has Ricky really, as it appears, been made coach of the lamentably unsuccessful Canberra Raiders for life (in imitation of what the Chinese Communist Party has just done for President Xi Jinping)? Or, one day, does his tenure become dependent on his team's results?"

In the eerie, candlelit gloom of her consulting rooms (psychic business must be good in these superstitious times because Daphne operates from her swish 18th-floor penthouse apartment atop New Acton's glittering Nishi Building) there was a suspenseful silence. It was broken only by the soft snoring of Zed, Daphne's black cat.

"Ian," my clairvoyant whispered, ''I see you next month going on a long, long, overseas journey.

"And you will be going somewhere extraordinarily remote. You're running away from something. You're going into hiding."

I gave an awed gasp. Daphne was spot on. For in truth I am about to go to Orkney off northern Scotland. I am going there to escape (for on this craggy, uninhabited, puffin-infested little island I am renting there is no radio, TV or iPhone reception) all media mention of that stomach-turning horror (horrific for republicans like this columnist), the Royal Wedding of May 19.

"And you will have a companion on your travels, a love interest," Daphne diagnosed.

"I see his or her name beginning with an S. Sigrid, perhaps, or Sean, or Sergio, or Samantha, or…"

"Is it Sandra?" I gasped.

"Yes, that's it. Sandra!" the gifted clairvoyant confirmed.

Daphne's soothsaying powers in this astounded me. For, yes, my partner's name is Sandra and she is coming with me to Orkney. And of course unlike entitlements-gobbling Julie Bishop and the craggy object of her affections, we will be paying our own ways.

And, no, for as far as eagle-eyed Daphne can see into the future (and on a clear day she can see as far as 2068) pigs will fly, John Howard will apologise for embroiling us in Iraq and light rail will be extended to Tuggeranong before Julie Bishop's armour-plated conscience is touched by a pang of anything.

And Daph divines that light rail will never be extended to Tuggeranong because, by about 2020 the ACT government realises that light rail is a primitive mode of public transport. The government regrets ever laying it out to Gungahlin, and for the rest of Canberra invests in and installs something called Hyperloop.

Daphne, who through her crystal orb can see it in action here by 2033, says it is a ripper new technology devised by SpaceX's Elon Musk and capable of moving people at aircraft speeds for the price of a bus ticket.

"Gosh! Look at it!" Daphne enthused, seeing it in her crystal ball.

"Wow! It's using a levitated pod with an electric motor to glide silently through a low-pressure tube. It's whisking Tuggeranong commuters away from Tuggeranong to somewhere really interesting, to Civic, say, or to my New Acton, or out to a Raiders match in the (artificial) twinkling of a robot's eye."

Then, using her sorcerous globe and her uncanny powers, Daphne hurtled by upgraded Hyperloop to a 2067 Raiders' match.

There she could see the Raiders (the previous season's wooden spooners) somehow squander a 30-0 half-time lead and lose 30-36 to Manly.

On the touchline she could see a white-bearded old man angrily waving his walking stick and gnashing his dentures at the Raiders' mistakes. Yes, it is head coach Ricky Stuart, 99.

A legend of the game, it turns out that, yes, he always had been appointed for life because legends of the game deserve respect. Sentimental Raiders managers had thought it vulgar and unAustralian to judge Aussie footy coaches (the way coaches are so ruthlessly judged and sacked in top English soccer) on mere merit and mere results.

Daphne, engrossed, spent so long at the 2067 Raiders' match that she didn't have time to address all of the questions (Tony Abbott? War with Russia?) I had asked her.

Her next client, a chronic LRES sufferer from Tuggeranong in urgent need of her mystic healing powers, was morbidly pacing to and fro in her waiting room.