Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
Then, about ten days ago I booked myself in for a psychic reading. There, I've said it. How flaky is that!?! I'm an atheist. Admitedly not your Richard Dawkins, militant type of atheist, but rather your scientific-minded, everything can eventually be explained, sort of atheist. Well, no, not everything can be explained, but forgive me, poor mathematician that I am, you can prove something's not provable. But I digress. Away from the embarrassing fact that I had a consultation with someone who talks to dead people, from the other side, I ask you!
She's very good. I've seen her in operation before. She's my local pub landlady, and apparently she's been on one of these Derek Accora (is that how you spell his name?) style tv programs, where they go to "haunted" houses and try to film evidence while various mediums talk to the dead folk while some poor, blonde presenter gets scared half-witless by creaking floorboards. So, my pub landlady (I was going to call her Madame Arcati, but that would be too rude, so let's call her Alison for all you "Medium" fans out there) occasionally holds psychic evenings which have become so popular you can hardly get in through the pub door. She puts on a sort of show where she talks to indiviuals, but publicly, and invariably has people in tears with what their dear, departed loved-ones have to tell them from the other side. I suppose I'm a curious sceptic. It's fascinating how accurate she seems to be without slowly honing in on the correct information. The pieces of information she imparts seem to be snatched from out of nowhere, which I guess is why people are so floored.
I've become so curious about it that I've felt I'll only know what she's doing if I get a reading myself. The opportunity arose one night when she announced that she was starting some evenings where she'd do pre-booked, private readings. Twenty minutes for £10. Irresistible. I booked in for the following Tuesday.
We sat down at opposite sides of a small, square table in a quiet corner of the pub. Alison had a deck of gold-edged cards, which she asked me to cut. As she started to lay out the cards, I felt slightly disappointed that we were obviously baout to have the equivalent of a tarot card reading, something I do myself at dinner parties when the spirit moves me. Or rather, when the wine moves me. It's certainly a lot of nonsense when I wield the cards, I assure you.
After interpreting about three cards, Alison suddenly asked if the name Ed, Ted or Edward meant anything to me. Someone from the other side. My maternal grandfather was Eddie. She talked about him for a little, but things that weren't particularly unusual. She then said he was saying something about Lucy. Did this mean anything? My sister's name is Lucy. My family don't live locally and I can't say that I've ever found reason to mention them within her earshot ever. She talked about my sister needing me later in the year, there may be marital problems, and that someone is having blood tests, but not to worry, that person will be spiritually fine. My sister isn't a happy person, I'm not really sure why. And my mother is currently going through a round of tests for Alzheimers. I hope she's talking a load of rot. One amusing thing she did say, though, was that she was sure my marital break-up had been initially very difficult (when is it not?), that now it was much easier (true, but isn't that often the case?), but that Eddie said I wasn't to expect the X to ever apologise. Well done Poppa, I never realised how much you actually noticed!
So back to the blog. Alison asked me if I kept a diary, to which I replied that I had been writing a blog, but that I had let it slip. She said I really should get back to it. And who am I to argue with someone who gave my grandfather a chance to get a word in over my grandmother.