I was running early for Psychic Club and so did what any 36-year-old-woman would do in such circumstances – I went and had a jolly good swing in the nearby park.

As I flung myself back and forth with increasing gusto – listening to 80s power ballads, plotting tonight’s psychic feats and staring at the big ‘hand of God’ sculpture in this pretty park – I counted all the fucks I do not give that most people would think me singularly weird.

If only the woman who read for me last night could have known…

Turnout was poor and time was short.

We had a husband and wife – ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’, who were keen to explore their psychic potential (she more than he). A lady we’ll call ‘Gill’ who’d spent eight years in a circle and was getting back into it after a hiatus. Next, a lovely woman who was into acupuncture, Reiki and energy stuff – ‘S’. Then, of course, Brenda and me.

We only had an hour – noise was building towards some sort of social event downstairs. The pressure was on.

Brenda said we’d be performing psychometry again. It seems this is her preferred starting exercise and fortunately I’d had the – ahem! – foresight to bring along a personal object. I slipped a single die onto the tray beneath the tea towel and wondered if anyone would thus detect that I am a dangerous maniac who oft channels Dr Luke Rhinehart.

Once again, the sole Mr promptly removed his watch on Brenda listing possible objects. Brenda told him to secretly select something else. His hand instantly dived to his pocket on Gill advising that keys are also a suitable conduit for psychometry. And so I knew he’d put his keys in.

(S, in fact, contributed first and I noted the sound of keys. More on this later…)

It was time to enter our spiritual garden. The meditation – accompanied by much thumping from upstairs – began.

The door to my spiritual garden was a bright pillar-box red this week. Possibly because I’d walked down just such a street where people paint their doors eye-catching colours. But, whatever – it was a spiffing door.

Brenda suggested our Spirit Guide would be waiting for us. Now, the Hypnosis Training Academy blog, of which I am a fan, followed my humble blog yesterday. And so, this being a thing of note on an otherwise dull workday, I was not especially surprised to find hypnosis guru Igor Ledochowski standing among my Wonderland of flowers in one of his nice, smart business suits.

I was about to ask Igor a barrage of questions when Brenda suggested we ask our Spirit Guide whether they – or, in fact, someone else – could help us with our readings tonight.

I’ve studied a fair amount of Igor’s materials, and so accepted the suggestion that a rational, erudite polymath was not the best person from whom to extract mystical messages from Summerland. So guess who emerged from the shadows? Yes, demented old crone Mortianna from ‘Robin Hood Prince of Thieves’.

Mortianna proceeded to disembowel a red squirrel and I saw the letter ‘P’ form in its entrails. The name ‘Peter’ sprang to mind. No idea why. I decided to use this for the impending reading. Mortianna madly cracked bloody eggs open on her forehead and danced in the gore until it was time for me to close the door.

To the readings! I got a set of door keys. Boring. The keyring had broken off, so this was literally four ordinary looking keys to someone’s house/flat/etc. Ugh. I speculated they belonged to Mr despite that first jangle I’d heard from S.

As we meditated on our objects, an upstairs music rehearsal broke into a crashing rendition of ‘Ziggy Stardust’. This made me stupidly happy as there’s barely a day goes by that I don’t think about David Bowie. So I thought about keys and Bowie.

Ziggy played for time, jiving us that we were voodoo /
The kid was just crass, he was the nazz…

Brenda invited whoever felt moved to deliver a message to go first. Mrs had gotten something… Unclear if was for S or Gill, but the message was: ‘SLOW DOWN’. This urge to communicate was wrought with such emotion that I thought she was going to cry. The bracelet she read from belonged to Gill, and Gill accepted ‘slow down’ as somehow meaningful. Mrs was quite spent.

Gill had my die. She sensed it belonged to Mr or S, so she seemed deflated when we established it was mine. She detected “change, a great desire for change, but frustration too, obstacles”… I nodded in agreement, but I figure from what followed that I must have looked irksomely blank…

Gill got a red car next. Was I planning on buying a red car? Well, I could hardly confess that I’ve been contemplating how – purely hypothetically, I must stress! – to pull off the perfect hypnotic murder, the plot of which features… red cars. Maybe Gill is psychic? But I said ‘no’: because I have no immediate plans to buy a red car. But apparently one is coming my way. (I’d like a Mini Cooper, please, Universe.)

Gill was also getting a ‘Robert’* – did a Robert mean anything to me? I said ‘no’. But she pressed – I must know a Robert? She was definitely getting a Robert… I racked my brains – is it possible to not know someone called ‘Rob’ in this day and age?! Hmm… I went to uni with a Rob and follow a couple of famous Robs on Twitter. COULD IT BE UNI ROB..? HOLY SHIT! ROB..? ROB!

But before I could make this illusive Rob fit, Gill accused me of being a ‘closed person’. Then Brenda agreed that I was ‘closed off’. WTF?! If you, dear reader, should ever have the pleasure and privilege of meeting me, you will find that I am an open book. Though I do concede that attending a psychic circle while being agnostic as to whether a ‘P’ formed from an imaginary squirrel’s guts is from Aleister Crowley’s or my own tombola-brain does, perhaps, let off a whiff of closed-ness.

Anyhoo, Gill returned my die and I said some generic things about owners of keys. I failed to learn the lesson from my first Psychic Club: my heart said they belonged to S while my head said Mr. So I marred reading for S by first speculating on Mr. I said this person was busy (a hit), practical, had lots of responsibilities… I threw in ‘Peter’. This was a miss, but Brenda said for her to ‘watch out’ for a Peter, which pleased yet troubled me. I wondered about the broken keyring – I guessed it was an animal, because of the squirrel. But it was a Hamsa. Epic fail.

S then reunited Mr with his car key. Finally, Mr read for his Mrs (about her pearl necklace – yes, really).

Next, we split up to read for one another. The theme of Mrs’s message for Gill was ‘ARE YOU OKAY?’ and ‘EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY’ – repeat, repeat. Brenda came to hold Mrs’s hand as the force is strong in this one, it seems. Gill was probed for feedback: a family dispute was found. Brenda advised Gill to send her Spirit Guide to speak with her relative’s Spirit Guide. I found it challenging watching these well-meant women interacting – I cannot accept that playing out a psychic soap opera is helpful in resolving real human communications problems.

I read for Mrs. The outpouring of her emotions brought to mind a wishing well, so I used that as a metaphor for self-inquiry. I said I got a strong image of ‘The Moon’ tarot card (because I did), which gave Brenda something to riff off. But I could tell I was a disappointment because I wasn’t matching and mirroring the emotions at play.

Gill read for me. She sensed my career was important to me; that I’m ambitious; that my colleagues sometimes don’t appreciate me enough (classic Barnam statement); and that I have a difficult relationship with my boss (I LOVE my boss and someday she’s going to be Prime Minister). She foresaw travel. Yes. Was I moving house? No. Well, she definitely saw me entering or exiting a house with a key. I nodded: it is indeed correct that I live in a flat that I enter and exit via the aid of a key (but only while the retina scanner for my Batcave is undergoing repairs).

I could see she was struggling with the barren wasteland that is my love life. There was a kerfuffle about a ‘framed photo of a man beside your bed’, which I conceded as the photo of my nephew in the living room – it was getting a bit awkward by this point. She spoke of ‘a period of partying with the girls – not so much with men’… I think because she was wondering if I’m a lesbian. But, to give Gill her due, she kept making the ‘drink’ cup-to-mouth gesture throughout the partying prediction – presumably she can see the Rasputin in me.

The Spiders From Mars told us that our time was up. So we took a quick psychic shower and departed.

It’s strange, but I’m not convinced Psychic Club is the best place to practice cold reading after all. Not unless I want to do it like this.


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