The Magpie

I am a true, but honest magpie, collecting silver of unusual kinds.

I root around for the weird and wonderful; the gold mixed with silver, the ones which stand out.

I keep my treasure safe in a dark wooden box with tarnished brass handles tucked underneath my bed.

They tell stories of the places I have saved them all from.

A ring of rough cut crystal set amongst an island of silver; my find from a cobbled Glastonbury street when I walked amongst magic bookshops and drunk from the Abbey Well. 

The birds-egg blue turquoise one covers my hand; it had been put in a box, snuck into my pocket to say I love you.

Amber and silver tells an exotic story. Born from the jungles of Costa Rica where I picked out the amber, I chose the mould, and so she was made by a local of the sandy beach.

Elaborate blue-lace Agate with gold-silver swirls brings romance and air from the Cornish coast. Raw, but beautiful, she offers memories of a year of real, young love.

These are the show-offs; the ones who grab stares.

But my old reliables are comfortable - always there.

A Guatemalan street seller sold me three silver bands, all woven together on the third finger of my right hand.

Perhaps unlucky - but a present from my Mum, a tiny silver ring worn on the ring finger of my left hand. The designer grooves have worn off -  it's now almost smooth - but it feels safe when I worry and reminds me of her.

A Victorian fork twisted into a perfect circle, engraved for a Jennie of 1890. A passed-exams present, bought on a bit of a whim, from Covent Garden Market - for fifty quid.

Now for my baby, my favourite piece. The Aesop of storytellers, the charmer of all; my delightful charm bracelet with a heart lock and key. She gets people talking, sometimes strangers too, with her tinkling whispers of who I might be. A pine cone charm for the woods by my home, the key to my heart and a cowboy hat. Tiny shells whistle songs of the sea, with an English rose and a Christmas tree.

My silver holds a story about where I have been, adorning my body like a Persian queen's.

Image from here

A hermit and her cat

L was packing his suitcase - and as usual everything was done at the last minute. I sat on the couch, watching him in my big fluffy dressing gown, chewing at the sleeve. It was early Saturday morning and his cup of tea I had just made for him was going cold on the side. You see, L doesn't like tea, quite like I like tea.

"It's not going to be long. I'll be back before you know it." He said as he glanced up, before quickly stuffing a handful of socks into a side pocket. It was his first trip away since we'd moved into the new flat in September.


L's new job in London, unlike my job in London, is most definitely his 'career' job. He's lucky enough to jet across the world once a month and call it work, (though I would call it pleasure, not business, to have your passport stamped in pretty colours....) I didn't really like the travelling side of his job for purely selfish reasons. For instance, when L was away, I would have to make sure:


1) I remembered to lock the front door at night (usually L's job).
2) Be back by 6pm to let the cat out - definitely no after work drinks allowed - as no cat-sitter.
3) I definitely remembered to turn the heating off before I leave the flat - as not made of money.
4) I did the washing up. As there was  nobody to wash up the dirty dishes after I have cooked the dinner.


And of course, I would miss him.


But for one week a month - or two - I would have to be the responsible one. 


It was only five minutes later and the taxi had already pulled up, I got a quick kiss, then the door slammed shut and L was on his way to Barcelona. The flat was suddenly uncharacteristically quiet. I could hear the click, click, whuuurrrr of the boiler as it jumped into action. The cat stretched herself, clawing her scratch post and mewing in satisfaction. I felt lost for a brief moment. But as I dragged the duvet over to the couch, made myself another cup of tea, then flicked through the TV channels at a rate of knots, I thought that having the flat to myself for a week, might not be half bad...


I thought about all the things that I love to do, which usually annoy L - and then I did them.


1) I slept like a star in our large double bed - pointing my toes and flailing my arms in my sleep.
2) I cooked vegetable Quinoa on Tuesday (and nobody moaned about eating seeds).
3) I got to use the whole of the heated towel rail, a luxury compared to squishing my towel up into the grooves half way down, ensuring damp for the next morning.
4) I was on the edge of my seat throughout the Corrie special, and there was no complaining about watching Question Time instead.
5) I left my make-up thrown all over the bathroom, my hairdryer plugged in, and my clothes on the bedroom floor, slobbishly.


Today is Thursday. It's been six days and the quiet in my home has gotten too loud. The cat is starting to go a bit loopy. Last night she stole some of my water, but got her head stuck in the glass. I laughed so much (obviously after saving her) until I realised I was laughing out loud to myself, and then thought that I probably looked a little nuts too. It must be because she's missing L. I don't play with her catnip-string-toy quite as excitingly as L does; he wiggles the string up the wall, over the bed and across the couch making her jump at shadows. She really loves that.


L phoned me last night from Barcelona. There was a three second silence when I answered the phone as the two lines found the connection despite thousands of miles between them. His voice came through intermittently. But it was definitely his voice, and I felt a wave of relief run through me. Then the line cleared:


"I've missed you." He said.

"It's been a little bit quiet here" I whispered. "It doesn't feel quite right."

"It's because we are like one person, really." Was his response.


You big cheese ball. I love you.


I have never liked the phrase 'my other half' when referring to a partner; to me, it conjured up individual inadequacy. But, I understood what L meant.
Our home only felt like a home with L in it, without him, it was just a flat with all our things in. It is so true - home is where the heart is.

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.

When I grow up, I want to be...

When I grow up I want to be a publisher receptionist.

As she lent over my desk, the new graduate from the latest graduate recruitment drive banged down a heavy wad of paper-clipped documents.

"I need these bound by tomorrow morning at the latest... Actually...make that the end of today."

She smiled sweetly at me, as if to thank me, before swivelling on her heels and singing over her shoulder:

"You're a star."

Yes, and you're a condescending cow.

I scooped the documents into my arms, thoroughly annoyed. The telephone rang - which stopped me from announcing all my academic achievements to her alongside a host of obscenities.

Yes, I'll just put you through.

The receiver clicked loudly as I placed it down. It was only mid-morning and already I had been barked at to make coffee for twelve (er - milk, two sugars - actually can I have tea?), whilst transferring calls from half of Ghana to the right recipient, then attempting to fix the new coffee machine balancing precariously on a chair, because someone had pulled out the milk frother.

When I was six, I wanted to be a vet. When I was ten I wanted to be an actress. By the time I left university I had absolutely no idea. I envied those student nurses and doctors who could guarantee a career as soon as the red ribboned scroll hit the palm of their hand. They seemed to just know what they wanted to be. I secretly wished I could be one of those people who snapped up placements in top law firms then became partners after two years because their Dad was the CEO. I didn't have any people in high places; it was looking like, if I was to get anywhere near a high-flying career, I'd have to bloody well do it myself. Marvellous.

Staring blankly at the box, I sat in a heap on the floor fiddling with the instruction manual. As usual I looked first at the unhelpful and slightly blurry pictures in numbered boxes displaying odd parts of the machine, rather than the long, wordy instructions. I twisted the page around and my eyes followed, as if looking at it upside down would make understanding how a new binding machine works a whole lot easier...

I wish there was an instruction manual (with pictures) on achieving my dream career in publishing. Mid-September I'd got a call, offering one weeks work experience in a well known publishers in North London. I felt rather lucky. Having annoyed the hell out of them through emailing, posting letters and telephoning every week, I eventually received the call:

"We don't usually do this, but my colleague said you sounded so enthusiastic... (and probably ever so slightly desperate)... we'd like to offer you work experience..."

 

And I'm determined to get there. But those who lack high people in high places don't just fall into the job of their dreams without hopping across a few stepping-stones of reality first. I'm on number two of my stepping-stones. Number one was getting a home in London. Number two is keeping a job, so I can keep my home.

Pushing the button violently, I heard the intermittent dit dit dit as it punched lots of little holes into the paper. It was more than satisfying. It was rather loud - disturbing much of the office who had given me such a hellish morning - and consequently a few looked around and glared at me. ha. The noise sounded much like a raging machine gun, which, I must admit, made my imagination run away with itself for a moment.

There are those people who do a job because it's what they love, and my God, how lucky they are. But most of us are doing a job to get somewhere; whether the reasoning is to get more money, to keep a home, get a promotion, pay off a debt or even feed the kids. I cannot comprehend treating people a certain way simply because of what they do for a living.

I have been:

• a cocktail waitress
• a PA to the MD
• a bankruptcy clerk
• a recruiter
• worked in a flower shop
• a sales assistant at Harrods

 - and now a receptionist.

Being 'a receptionist' does not mean I am only a receptionist, but a person-working-as-a-receptionist who likes, cooking, reading a good book, debating spiritual matters over a large glass of wine with friends and crying at old films.

I held my shoulders back, took a deep breath, and whilst pretending I was a really fabulous editor at a top publishing house, I handed the beautifully bound documents back to the new graduate with pride, placing them gently on her desk.

Never been gigged

I am rather ashamed to admit, that before last night, I had never been to a real gig. And at the ripe old age of twenty-five...this fact is pretty terrible.


Don't get me wrong; I went to Wembley Arena when I was twelve to watch Peter Andre dressed in some kind of armour singing 'Mysterious Girl'. Great. But not a 'gig'. I've been to Leeds festival and seen Muse playing the big stage. Amazing. But not a 'gig'. It's never been all up-close and personal - where you can feel the sweat of the lead singer as he crowd-surfs all over you, and live the moment when the man-to-the-left-of-you's beer is thrown all over your head.

Last night I faced blizzards and high winds (all right... snow and cold air) as I trekked to Brixton Academy. I'm still new to London, and discovering new and fabby places is high on my agenda.
With LJM, hat pulled right down and his scarf wrapped over his nose (who could blame me for initially thinking a thug had lovingly hugged me), I queued amongst the cool and the quirky before being ushered into the security routine: check bag, check alcohol, check chewing gum, check ticket - checked.

I had one of those gigantic plastic cups of beer - apparently only a pint, but feels like three - because I was still drinking from it after the support band had left the stage, the techies had adjusted the set and the band were into their third song...

But it was great.

I bobbed about behind the sound box, getting a clear view of the stage just behind two hooded lovers, who occasionally blocked my view as they lent in for a kiss. Being on the shorter side of average, I usually rely on my ears rather than my eyes in crowds, but we were in the standing area - on a huge slope - so you could see the band and all across the top of the audience.

LJM is the 'cool' one in our relationship when it comes to music; always discovering those bands which end up being huge. I hadn't really heard of The National, but after he bought their latest album, High Violet,  I instantly clicked to their sound.

The band walked on stage amongst a beautiful yellow back-lighting which framed their black silhouettes like shiny halos. A little ball of excitement bubbled from the pit of my stomach.

You know that kind of music which resonates with your soul?  Just like that - you get it?  In my first ever 'gig' - I got it!
This incredible vibe filled the whole room - everyone became part of a moment - a room full of strangers all crammed in together had one thing in common and it felt buzzy to be a part of it. 

When you stumble across outstanding creativity, whether in the form of music, art or writing (especially blogs!), it fills your spirit with enormous satisfaction and appreciation. When this happens, my energy feels like it might actually explode with happiness and I always look around to see if anyone noticed. It's like all the everyday things which we may forget about having seen, appear to us in black and white. And yet, this piece of creativity shines so brightly amongst them in many millions of colours - right in front of your eyes -dazzling your very being.