The Elephant in the Corner

There is definitely an underlying something going on. Just tucked beneath the facade of our everyday lives is something we can feel, but can't quite put our finger on. People seem somewhat agitated. No, you don't have to be the world's most perceptive person to sense that something just isn't quite right generally.

It's like everyone's got an itch.

I was discussing this global itch with a friend as he drove me home late last night.

"We have pretty much everything we need, nowadays."  He said, looking at me sideways and keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.  "Most of us have a roof over our heads. We have jobs, and if we don't have jobs, we have the resources available to find one. We've got clothes on our backs and we are fed and watered. Even those things that used to be considered a luxury are coming to us as standard, like cars and fancy holidays, for example. "

"That's true." I agreed, nodding at him.

"So now we have all these things that we thought would complete us, but most people still aren't happy. It's like there's something missing."

"Something we can't quite figure out?" I ask.

"Exactly." He says.

 

Sitting back, I let his words sink in and reflect for a moment on my own life. I am lucky enough to have a job. A job that means I can eat well, treat myself to nice things occasionally, go out when I fancy and put a safe roof over my head. Okay, so I might like to have a bigger flat, a more exciting job, enough money to jet off to sunny locations more than once a year, but right now I have everything I need to live comfortably. Should that not be enough? As that familiar uneasy feeling sweeps over me, I realise that actually, it's not.

My mind quickly scans all the people I have met recently who race around London consumed in the rat race, scratching their heads on how to feel fulfilled in their life. The guy from work who moans as he stirs two thick sugars into yet another cup of coffee, the girl on the train who forgets she's holding her Mulberry handbag, just like every other girl in that carriage. It lacks a big fat meaning, once you get down to the bottom of it all.

How are you?  

Need we ask...

I'm fine.

We hardly register the fraction of a second's pause that follows after those two words, 'I'm fine'. But next time, you might notice that your insides skip a beat.

How much attention do we really pay to our insides?  Not your stomach, liver, lungs and the sort. I'm talking about the insides we can't see. Meditation, inner reflection (or call it what you will) is the art of devoting a little bit of time conversing with your insides. My recent personal battle with sitting down and shutting up in order to converse with my insides hasn't been an easy one. There's always an excuse; a more exciting thing to think about, a distraction or two.

 

I have perfected the art of putting off facing my insides to the point of almost resenting getting up close and personal with who I truly am. We are taught from a very early age how to interact with the world outside us; to communicate with other people, discover new objects and experience an outward life, so much so that somewhere along the way we seem to have forgotten how to communicate with ourselves.

Perhaps I'm a bit frightened at what I might find by staring directly at my true bare being. It would mean accepting myself for being very absolutely me. 

 A scary thought.  But one worth thinking about. 

It's a bit like the gigantic elephant standing in the corner.

cited

I'm One Year Old Today

I don't like to say, 'it all came to me in a dream'. 

It kind of insinuates I'm sitting on the right hand side of some deity who funnels divine inspiration to me as I sleep. Now, that would be lovely, but I'm sure quite improbable. 

But the idea struck me out of nowhere, and I'm putting it down to that brilliant part of me that I don't get in touch with too often, that seems to know a hell of a lot more about who I am, and where I'm going, than I do; my subconscious. 

We moved to London on 27th September 2010. The decision hadn't been a very well thought out one. I woke up one morning and suddenly felt that London was something I should do and it was time to do it now. The problem was, I had had a love affair with Manchester from the moment I'd arrived, and it was very much my home. The people were warm, friendly and open. You could walk from one end of the city centre to the other in about half an hour. It had theatres, shopping centres, stadiums and was utterly cosmopolitan. It was where I'd first discovered Spiritualism, and had met like-minded, open people - who weren't complete nutters. It was where Liam and I had first met and fallen in love. The home of many a messy student night. It was just a bloody cool place.

I'd stolen seven banana boxes from Asda in Moss Side and crammed all my belongings into them. Just seven banana boxes, a suitcase or two full of my clothes and the cat. I felt I should have accumulated more from my five years at university. With Liam's things in there too, the white van we'd hired for the move packed out a little more, with the parental donations of a coffee table, a TV and a TV stand. Within a week, we'd taken the obligatory trip to IKEA Croydon and kitted out our little box flat with all sorts of wonderfully named Swedish cutlery trays and pillow cases. There was barely a colour scheme, but it was our home.

A week passed. I bought an Oyster card for the underground and must have been charged at least five times for not beeping through the gate correctly. I walked too slowly for Londoners- either my legs were too short (I doubted that) or Londoners walked life at a faster pace than I did. London smelt funny; dusty or sooty - I wasn't sure. 

Two weeks passed. I found myself exhausted at the end of each day, crashed out on my Solsta IKEA sofa bed. I dreaded the commute to work; wedged under a strange man's armpit, whilst he huffed morning breath down my neck on the District Line was just beyond terrible. My wallet was nearly always empty, because lunch in London for under five pounds was hard to find. 

No, me and London just weren't getting on.

"I'm fed up. It's too fast in this city. It's too dirty. Plus, everyone's so depressed!" I whinged at Liam. 

He told me to be patient, we were still adjusting and that I'd get used to it. He was right, of course. But at that time, I just could not see how I could possibly fit in. I liked open space, open people, open possibilities. 

Exactly a year ago, yesterday, I woke up suddenly - just a few minutes before my morning alarm. I’d had a very vivid dream, and immediately reached for the paper and pen I kept by my bedside table for these kind of mental emergencies, and scribbled down five words.

I'm sure you can guess what they were. 

In my dream I was standing in a very busy market street. People were trading goods with stall owners, children were skipping across the cobbles, a couple were kissing. They were all so busy that they didn't notice me. I had a hand bell in my right hand, and started ringing it to get their attention. Nothing changed. So I rang louder, and then louder still. I stood there in the cobbled streets, ringing my hand bell and laughing out loud for ages. Then suddenly a little girl turned and looked at me. And as she noticed me and began to laugh, so did her friend. It was infectious. One by one each person in the market woke up to the sound of the bell, and everyone was laughing. 

It made me think: It only takes one thought from one person for things to start happening. If that thought is a good one, people begin to notice. And before you know it, everyone's caught the thought, connecting like-minds and positive people. London might be a big smoky city, and I only one little light, but I was going to put my light out there, and see what happened.

Lipstick Lesbians

It's one of those dutiful nights. Where, despite being absolutely exhausted, I've given in, pulled on the black jeans, curled a few strands of hair and slicked on some baby pink lipstick and dragged myself to a pub half way across London - all for love. Alright, for Liam. So I agree to a cheap house white - as long as it comes with a 'tap water and ice'- and I sit back at the table which is surrounded with all his friends, and I try to laugh at the right moments, and not shudder at how acidic my wine is.

It's late. The pub's noisy. A girl in a heavy knitted cardigan has started swaying on her own to '99 Red Balloons' and waving at herself in the mirrors. There's talk of another round of drinks. Someone's smoking off the balcony. No one seems to mind.

"Just nipping to the loo." I say, squeezing Liam on the arm. I slope in and out the obstacle course of wooden pub chairs, avoiding people and pints alike. I've not been here before. I squint, looking for a sign, wishing I'd put my glasses on. I hope I won't walk into the men's toilet, which often tends to happen. In a dark corner painted a grubby green, I spy the door. Then a pointy hand with toilets written on it politely. I push it and enter.

Suddenly I'm faced with two whitewashed doors with absolutely no signs. It's like Alice In Wonderland- I just need a white rabbit. I stop for a moment, wondering which one I should push before a voice pipes up from behind me.

"Well that's not very helpful, is it?" A girl says in a soft Irish accent. "Chance it for the one on the left."

I push the door, and by the smell alone, we realise we've hit the wrong one.

"Whoops!" I shriek, and laugh, bursting quickly through the door on the right.

What a state. Tissues all over the floor, water on the basins and soap smeared up the mirrors. It was definitely the ladies toilet. If it wasn't obvious from the mess, both cubicles are locked. She makes a point of hammering on each door and telling the occupants to "bloody hurry up".

I stand opposite the large mirror. My reflection stares back at me and my curls have gone flat. I sigh, open my handbag and reach for my hairbrush. As I'm fumbling about I notice that the girl is staring at me.

"English girls are so pretty." She says casually, turning to apply her lipstick.

"Oh, really?" I laugh off the compliment.

"Absolutely. You're really pretty." She says, turning to look at me and half smiled.

Not quite sure what to say, I laugh. "I'm sure I look tired." I say, embarrassed. There was a flicker of something else in that smile.

"Are you from 'round here?" And without waiting for the answer she says, "I'm staying with my friend near Clapham."

She definitely wasn't a Londoner. She was far too friendly. I stole a quick glance at her face as she was busy fluffing her hair and talking about her friend's flat. She was quirky. Dark haired and pale with big blue eyes- typically Irish.

As I start a polite but distant response, the toilet flushes from behind one of the cubicles. She stops fluffing to glare at a sheepish looking girl who walks out alone, who decides against washing her hands to just exit as swiftly as possible.

"After you." I say.

There's an awkward quiet in the toilet. God knows what going on in the other cubicle. The Irish girl grins and clacks her cute black boots across the lino into the cubicle. I busy myself fiddling with a loose curl up close in the mirror. She pauses as she pushes the door. I notice that there are loads of odes to love and hate written across the back wall in different lipsticks and eye liners. What's she pausing for? She suddenly spins on her heel to face me and I half expect her to ask me to join her.

"D'you have a boyfriend then?" She tilts her head and wrinkles her nose as I nod. "Shame. Course y'do. You're dead pretty. I'd be surprised if yer didn't." Then she strides into the toilet cubicle and closes the door.

Shame...? 

Afraid of the silence and not wanting to hear her pee, I turn the taps on full and pretend to wash my hands. Yelling over the water splashing across the sinks and onto the floor, I shout, "Yep. He's quite a nice one too. Been together ages." Then I add (because I now have a feeling that I need to make myself appear less available), "We have a cat."

She might just be a non-Londoner who hadn't yet realised that in London you just don't talk to strangers. But no denying it, there was definite flirting. I didn't know what to do... Run? Or stand there red-faced when she came out the loo?

Thing was, I couldn't run. I still really needed to pee.

So I stayed. I'll admit, part of me was pretty chuffed. Having never been hit on by a girl, I found it all rather exciting. There was no sleaze. No ass-checking, boob-staring or cheesy chat up lines falling from slurring lips. A definite improvement on the usual. For a moment, it was pretty scary when she leant forward to kiss me goodbye. Just a friendly two-cheeker - though I swear to God she sniffed me. I left the ladies toilet in air of smugness and made my way back to the rickety wooden table where Liam was playing around with beer mats, and his friends were singing along to Chumbawamba's 'Tubthumping'.

Later on, when a few of his mates had been asked politely - then less politely - to stop dancing on the tables, we made our way out of the pub and into the fresh air to queue up by the hundreds of late night drinkers looking to making their way home at the bus stop.

I leant on Liam and put my arm around his waist. "Guess what?" I asked, teasing. "I got asked out tonight by a girl."

"You didn't...!"

"I did." I said, looking all smug. He smelt of fags, lager and possibly something vaguely cheese and oniony. I sniffed him. "You stink." I said, poking him.

"You love it." He grabbed me tight.

"Only a little bit." I said wrinkling my nose. No, he was right. Such an appealing smell. I wasn't ready to become a lesbian just yet.

Spirit Saturday

The Saturday before last, I behaved like many people suppose a twenty-five year old should. I spent two hours getting ready; painting my nails a metallic grey, choosing some wet-look leggings, picked a black vest top, ironed my luminous yellow cardigan and lined up my black patent shoes (with a luminous yellow heel, nonetheless) by the back door. It was Liam's birthday night out, and we were heading for Brixton. We popped open the champagne I'd been given from work for Christmas, and I thought about changing my outfit about three times before he finally dragged me out the door, the bottle left empty on the coffee table amongst the entire contents of my make-up bag. I started with a pint of lager, thinking 'beer before wine is fine - wine after beer is queer...' and all that. I was hoping the champagne didn't count.

Well, it did. And so I ended up at 3am in MacDonald's in Brixton, threatened to be kicked out by the security guard, for possession of a bottle of wine (which wasn't even mine). Really.


This Saturday night just gone, I didn't behave remotely how people suppose a twenty-five year old might. I pulled on my thick woolly socks and my comfy brown leather boots. I turned off the heating in my flat, and switched all the lights off (except one, which I left on for the cat), and locked the door behind me. It was really blowy outside, and colder than I'd expected, so I buttoned my coat up and walked quicker to keep warm. Two buses, and one missed bus later, I reached the brick alley way which turned right off the main road. The first time I'd come, I hadn't noticed the painted sign above the alleyway, which read Spiritualist Church in faded italic lettering. I looked at my phone, and realised I was half an hour early. Well, I suppose it made up for the last time. I'd got lost, and frustrated with walking up and down the road counting door numbers without my glasses on, I was ready at this point to turn around and come home. By the time I'd realised my destination was through the painted arched blue door down the alley, I was ten minutes late and spend another five hovered at the entrance, unsure whether I was just that little too late to walk in and sit down.
This time, I thought, I was so early, they may not even be open yet. But I took hold of the large hooped metal door handle, pushed, and the door creaked open slowly.


"Hello?" I called out.


"Yes, 'ello. Come in." Came the voice from inside.


I'd walked into a make-shift porch, which was really a part of the room sectioned off with a heavy navy curtain.
Blimey, who'd said that?
But I'd never heard a spirit talk in a Jamaican accent before, so I thought I would be safe to pull aside the curtain. A little old lady, in her coat, hat, scarf and a blanket on her knees was sitting in the far corner of the room, doing a crossword from the paper.


"Come in, lovey - take a seat." She said, lifting her newspaper my way in a gesture of acknowledgement.


I smiled and nodded, making my way past the rows of plastic chairs (the kind you see in doctor's waiting rooms), choosing one with a pink cushion, and sitting down.
Being early, it gave me good time to take in my surroundings. It was a large room, with windows set up high all around the four walls. I took my coat off, and immediately wished I hadn't - it was obviously hard to heat a room this size. It had high ceilings which made the room look bigger, which was lucky, since much of the floor was occupied with furniture of some kind, spread higglety-piggelty all around the room. A coffee table which looked like it hadn't been moved since the 1960's, a mahogany bookcase with different coloured leaflets scattered among it's shelves and a beautiful Victorian arm chair next to a fairly modern desk - which would have looked at home more in an office.
In the centre of the room, to which all the chairs faced, was a platform. Now, I guess that's where the Medium will stand to demonstrate. It was cluttered, but cared for, bursting with baskets of flowers, and bowls of fruit. It took me a few minutes, even with my glasses on, to realise that they weren't actually real. In fact, looking around the room, I suddenly noticed many more vases of artificial flowers - irises, lilies, poppies, carnations - and even though they weren't real, I felt someone had thought about them, the sentiment was there.
As the clock on the wall made it's way to a quarter past the hour, more people walked in from behind the navy blue curtain. There was a room to the left, which I'd decided was probably the kitchen. As if to prove me right, I suddenly heard the clink of glasses and a lady strode through the door carrying a tray of small glass tumblers and a jug of water, placing it carefully on the table which was to the front of the platform.


You'll always spot the Medium in a Spiritualist Church. They're the one dressed up in a suit, or in similar smart attire, looking unlike anyone else in the room. I was told once it was so they looked presentable; dressed suitably for public speaking. 'Gives a professional image', my teacher had said. And there he was, his expensive looking suit contrasting spectacularly to the room he was demonstrating in.
If you've never been to see a demonstration of mediumship, or indeed, a Spiritualist church, I could completely understand you feeling the way I first felt, sat nervously at nineteen, right at the back of the room about to see my first demonstration of mediumship and wondering what on earth I might be about to witness.
I remember thinking at the time:


So, this bloke thinks he can talk to dead people.
And he thinks he can prove it.
Oh, come on...
Why is he wearing a suit?
Actually, please don't make me see any actually dead people...
Well, at least I'm sat near the door - just in case I need to run. 


But I didn't need to run. There were no spinning heads, apparitions or ectoplasm floating through the air towards me from the platform where the medium that night stood. I wanted him to be a fake. I would have left, satisfied, with my inquisitive mind put to rest that it was all a load of rubbish. But he seemed just like a normal bloke standing on a sort-of stage in front of a group of strangers. He had no crystal balls or tricks of the light as far as I could see. It was as if invisible information was being streamed into his ear, and out through his mouth.
He described events in great detail, spoke of memorable dates and brought to life images of people who he claimed had passed away. The descriptions he used weren't the ones you'd expect, there was less of the; "Hm. I've got an old lady with grey hair, here. She liked cooking..." And more of the real-life random specifics you might expect if you'd spoken to each different member of the audience in depth, and found out about their personal family history. Such as; "The car accident in Australia involving that red truck." Or perhaps, "There's a gold pocket watch of your grandfather's, kept in the top right-hand draw of that dark, wooden desk."
He chose people in the audience to talk to, and promptly made them nod, gasp, then whisper to their neighbour about the finer details - and a lot of the time they would cry. It seemed as if everything he said, really meant something to those people. But to me, it seemed ever so subjective. So my mind remained still just that little bit wondering, but quite rightly, skeptical.
After about half an hour of sitting on those plastic chairs in Clapham, my bum had started to go numb. I was chilly, so placed my coat over my lap and tucked my hands between my knees. My mind started wandering. The Medium was spending quite a while on each message, and, I'd noted, was rather good at reeling off the names of the apparent deceased. All very well, I thought, but who doesn't know a James, Shirley, Mary or William? I wasn't hugely convinced. I had started focusing on the way his eyes darted about, and the way he expressed himself with his hands - the things you notice, when you're drifting. When I heard him speak somewhere distantly from the back of my mind:


"She was the kind of woman who'd never give up, she was really determined, and even though she was sick, she didn't want anyone to think she was weak..."


I looked up. He was talking openly, and to no one in particular. He carried on.


"She would have had problems with walking. I see her using a stick, then feel later on she would have used a wheelchair. But where her body deteriorated, her mind was very sharp - right up until the end - which would have made her feel very frustrated..."


By now, I was listening carefully. The description resonated with me. Grandma was just like that before she passed.


"Can anyone understand this description?" He asked out.


Where I had begun to slouch in the chair, I shuffled up a bit so I could see him properly. I looked behind me and all around the room before finally accepting that no one else could take what he was saying, then I very slowly raised my hand. His eyes flicked in my direction and he smiled, but his poise remained still. Focused, it seemed, upon the invisible information being streamed into his ear.


"I'm getting the impression..."


He paused.
His hand went to his throat, and he clutched it, as though in pain for a moment.


"...That this woman couldn't swallow - or she couldn't speak. There was a problem with her throat."


I nearly fell off my chair completely.


"Yes - both. She couldn't swallow or speak towards the end." I whispered, my voice unusually quiet.


I didn't tell him, or anyone else just how accurate this invisible information he had received, was. You see my Grandma died of Motor-Neurone disease at seventy one. A disease which left her with an increased loss of mobility in her limbs, stopped her speech, and left her unable to swallow or really breathe. She was a sharp woman, who was proactive in life and to describe her as determined hardly hits it... but it seemed that this man might just have. It was subjective information, that was for sure. No other person in the room other than myself could understand what he'd said. The description fit my Grandma perfectly. But could what he'd said be a coincidence or a lucky guess? I would be left wondering as usual. But deep down, instinctively, I believed it to be true.

The demonstration came to a close and teas and coffees were offered, and I was finally relieved of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, which had started to dig into my back, only to be placed upon a wobbly wooden one in the kitchen.
The chatter got louder in the little tiled kitchen which contrasted from the one voice that had spoken aloud all evening. Strangers huddled around the table helping themselves to bourbon biscuits from a Christmas tin, beginning to get to know each other better. I knew I'd have to leave soon. It was a friendly atmosphere and I could well have stayed for another mug of coffee, but it was already 9:30pm and the prospect of taking two buses home on a Saturday evening loomed over me. I just knew I'd end up sharing a seat with a rowdy drunk on a boozy night out in Clapham, if I didn't leave now. The Medium was propped up in the corner, in his suit, sipping his tea. I walked over to the sink and tipped the dregs of my coffee away then rinsed the mug in the bowl of soapy water. I took one of the faded flowery tea towels which hung on three tiny hooks, dried off the mug and placed it on the full-to-the-brim draining board, hoping I hadn't overstepped the mark by washing up my own mug in someone else's kitchen.

There were plenty of you-must-come-again's and lovely-to-meet-you's and I assured them I'd had a lovely time, and thanked the quiet lady in the corner for my coffee. As I pushed the heavy wooden front door hard, and stepped out into the dark cobbled alleyway, I could still hear the babble coming from the kitchen, but much fainter now, and the light shone onto the cobbles from the mottled glass windows of the church, making me feel safer as I made my way back to the main road.

I stood by the bus stop and carefully rolled up a cigarette before lighting it, all the time keeping one eye on the red lights on the screen to see how long the 219 bus to Clapham Junction would be.

No, it definitely wasn't a normal Saturday night out. But I wouldn't say I was a completely normal twenty-five year old, either.





Open-minded skepticism

There used to be a shop down our town when I was young. It was a crystal shop. As you walked in, a bell tinkled and various dreamcatchers and hanging chimes hit the glass door. It smelt of Sandalwood incense and I always wrinkled my nose up in surprise; but loved it. Big glass windows allowed sunlight to stream in, catching hundreds of different kinds of crystals and dispersing the light to cast beautiful rainbows all across the walls. Well, I thought this shop to be the most marvellous thing my little self had ever seen. Whenever washing the kitchen floor for my Mum gained me a 50p or two, I used to race down the hill from my house and press my nose up against the glass of the crystal shop. I only had 50p, but I must have spent about two hours in that shop deciding what to spend it on. I loved the names of the crystals: Lab-rad-or-ite, Ob-sid-ian, Amy-thyst. I used to pronounce the names slowly, curling my tongue around the longer ones, before asking the shop assistant exactly where they came from, how rare they were, and what healing properties they were supposed to have.


"Dreams rather a lot in class" was always written on my school report, but as I got older I seemed to look more for the magic in life, not less. I have always been a big thinker, asking never ending questions like, Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? What happens when we die? But neither my parents, my teachers, nor the Anglican church had any answers.


By the time I was sixteen, I was offered a part-time Saturday job in my crystal shop. I had become such a part of the furniture, I think they must have thought I deserved to get paid for it.


Every Saturday, I met weird and wonderful people.


A large blond lady called Chrissie was in every three weeks, with booked appointments jammed one after the other. Chrissie was a palm reader, and apparently a psychic. I was scared of her. She wore black T-Shirts with grey wolves etched on the front, had large silver rings on her fingers and dark eye make-up. She had a strong presence when she walked in the room, and spoke rarely and to the point - always.


Then there was David; the most incredible artist who sketched local landmarks with precise detail. His skin was grey and he smelt of gin. He would often come into the shop mid-morning half-drunk, and not leave until two O'clock - pleased to have people to talk to. I often worried about David.


Angela was the shop manager. She was obsessed with angels, crystals and energies. Her hair was mousy coloured with wild curls, and whenever she laughed, she threw her head back and popped her gold rimmed glasses back to the top of her nose.


But my favourite was Lesley. She was from Hull, called everyone a "Staaaar" (having never met a real Northerner - being from the most sheltered town in Britain - I thought her accent was something to behold).  Aside from being one of the best psychic mediums in our area, Les smoked Richmond Menthol cigarettes, which sometimes made her hands shake. She always wore low-cut tops and used those big eyes to stare pointedly at you with openness when she spoke.


"You've got a back problem." She said casually, on one of my first Saturdays at the shop.

"Oh?" I replied. My eyebrow raised half a millimetre.

"Yes. I feel it's your lower back, and you'll have an operation - but don't worry - you'll be fine."


I stared at her, and exhaled (I hadn't realised I'd been holding my breath). That week, unbeknownst to anyone but my Mum, I had been given a date for spinal surgery. I was diagnosed with Scoliosis at thirteen, and had been waiting three years for my curved spine to be straightened out with a metal rod and pins in surgery. It was a serious procedure involving possibly paralysis, and I was very nervous, so had told not a soul. How could this woman know about it? No one except my Mum knew I was to have the operation, and she'd never met my Mum, so how did she know?
I was completely and utterly stumped. Needing to know more, I tucked myself away in my favourite corner of the public library and read as much as I could find amongst the shelves. There seemed to me to be a magic about what Lesley had said to me, something seemingly impossible. I needed to work it out, and I wanted to believe it could be real.


When the words Psychic, Medium, Spiritualist pop up occasionally in everyday life, I bet you think of TV's 'Psychic Sally' Morgan, or Derek Acorah (formally seen on ITV3's Most Haunted). You'll possibly be imagining gypsies with purple painted nails, sitting tight in tiny box rooms. Their walls filled with signed pictures of B-list celebrities vouching for their talents all along Blackpool promenade. You've probably seen the adverts filling the back pages of magazines; those poised, black-haired women with enhanced green eyes, smouldering in front of a moonlit backdrop alluring you to 'find the answers to all your questions!!' for £3.50 per minute, this fact which is written in tiny font at the bottom.


Not my scene, you're probably thinking. 


Really, that's not my scene either.


I would call myself an open-minded skeptic. One of the biggest critics of this kind of 'psychic' you'll ever meet. But skepticism aside, I am mediumistic too.


This came as a shock at first. Believe you, me.


I was on one of my missions to find out more about this psychic phenomena, and so I'd taken two buses and walked ten minutes through the dodgiest looking streets I'd ever seen, arriving at a Spiritualist centre in Manchester to attend what they'd described as an 'Awareness Group' on the website. I peeked in, thinking if it was full of complete weirdos, I could still turn around and run away.
But I was spotted, and before I could run, I was offered a cup of tea. Well, it couldn't be all bad if there's tea.
I was paired up with with a local taxi-driver called John. He was normal looking (much to my relief), had friendly, twinkly eyes and a rather dirty laugh which couldn't help but make you smile.


The teacher said softly to the group: "I want you to clear your mind and focus on your partner. When you feel ready, I want you to tell them anything which might pop into your mind."


"Don't worry, love, just do your best." John winked at me.


Great. And I actually chose to come here and do this?
I squeezed my eyes closed, and took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. All I could think of, was what I was cooking for tea when I got home after this horrifying ordeal. An image of a steaming dish of pasta bake flew into my head.


"Pasta bake?" I asked, hopefully.


Then as my half hearted attempt fizzled out and faded, I suddenly saw very strong image of a fire-engine. The red was vivid, and unlike my pasta bake, the image shot across my mind barely quick enough to keep it there.


" - Fire-engine." I piped up.


John leaned forward.


"Yes." He said slowly. "Keep going."


I saw a blue front door - this too flashed across my mind, and almost went again before I really saw it. I saw clearly the number 63 in bronze numbering  boldly between my imaginary blue door's panels.
No way. That's too specific. If this means something to John, I might actually wet my pants.


But it did mean something to John. (No, I didn't wet my pants, but very nearly...) John's grandfather had lived in a house which had a blue front door. Yep, you guessed it - it was number 63. But the icing on the cake (not, perhaps, for his grandfather) was that he had been killed by a speeding fire engine.


Completely creeped out, I left the Spiritualist centre that night vowing to myself that I would never, ever go back.


But of course, I did.


I went every week for five years to that Spiritualist centre, looking for the confirmation and proof that mediumship - the ability to prove that the spirit of someone lives on after their body has died - is real. And whilst I have practised and demonstrated my own natural abilities, getting more and more accurate with the pictures I see and the evidence I can give, I still find it incredibly hard to understand where the information comes from, and how I receive it.
The showmanship and fakery of many psychics and mediums is all too easy to see. The dreadful stereotype is stuck fast, and in some cases, is still true. In writing my most personal post yet, I'm hoping you will not write me off as a crackpot - or imagine me sitting here with long, painted purple nails -  but realise that I'm really quite a normal twenty-five year old. I'm just looking for answers with an open-minded skepticism.