Monthly Archives: August 2017

Short story: Don’t tell your father.

DON’T TELL YOUR FATHER

“Get in the car – NOW!”
Jamie’s ten year old heart sank. Not again. “Dad, please……can’t we just….”
“Shut your mouth and do as I tell you. Where’s your sister…….Alice, Alice, where the hell are you?”
“Mum…” Jamie implored, but Gill Martin shot her son a look that was half pleading and half warning. “Just get in the car Jamie”, she muttered.

He clambered listlessly into the back of the old Ford estate, trying to hold back bitterly disappointed tears. Alice silently scrambled in beside him, her face deadpan.

“Wait!” Aunt Lil came running towards the car. “I can’t stop you leaving, Frank, but at least let me give the kids a few snacks for the journey.” She dropped a brown paper bag onto Jamie’s lap, flicked her eyes towards it then back to his, and surreptitiously raised her finger to her lips. Jamie blinked, but couldn’t speak. He loved Aunt Lil……if he tried to talk, especially to say goodbye, he knew the tears would spill down his cheeks……and Frank did not allow crying. It was for babies and weak people, he said.
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Frank Martin ranted and raged non stop for around an hour, aggressively tearing up the road, gesturing at other drivers, pulling up bumper to bumper at traffic lights, forcefully slamming on the brakes and causing the heads of his wife and children to whip painfully backwards and forwards.

“That stupid bitch of a sister of mine never learns to keep her mouth shut!” Spittle flew from his twisted mouth, hitting the windscreen and sliding down.

“Well, you can all blame her for this one……..she’s the reason we’re back on the road again. She just can’t leave things alone. Telling me how I should treat my own family, telling me I need to calm down! She’s always been the same…..no wonder she’s single……no man could stand a day with that stupid, mouthy bitch!”

Jamie bowed his head, hating his father with every ounce of his being. No – one dared speak…….they’d all been through this before, a hundred times, and they knew the consequences of answering back or offering an opinion. Aunt Lil was the only one who wasn’t afraid to stand up to Frank, her eldest brother……but Jamie wished that she hadn’t intervened when he’d been about to dish out a good hiding to his son. Jamie could tolerate a beating, and they’d still be there, relatively safe, and with hope. Aunt Lil loved him and his sister, and life with her was……well, normal. She smiled and laughed, she hugged them, listened to what they had to say, took an interest in what they were doing. The last three weeks had been the best of his life…….but when he got out of his snug, warm bed that morning, to the smell of toast and coffee, to the sound of the radio, and Aunt Lil singing, he had no clue that it was all over. He should have known better than to believe that things were, at last, different, that he could believe in happiness. He should have known that his father would destroy every last bit of it. 
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Lil sat at the kitchen table, sobbing into a wadge of toilet paper. “You should have kept your mouth shut”, she told herself. “But I couldn’t stand by and watch him lay into that poor child!” She shook her head, as if to dislodge the memory. If only Gill would leave him, take the kids and start again. She would help her, would do whatever she could, even against her own brother. Frank hadn’t always been so……bitter, so violent. He’d always been a bit hot headed, but he had been a good son to their mother, taking care of her in a way his father, Harry, never did. Harry was a drinker and a gambler, and periodically would react against his wife’s pleading and nagging with his fists. He died of stomach cancer years ago, quickly followed by his wife. Frank never spoke about any of it, but increasingly, as the years passed, his behaviour became more and more reactive, more antagonistic. And holding down a job was impossible for a man who expressed major resentment towards anyone who held any who kind of authority over him.

She hoped that when Jamie looked in the paper bag, he wouldn’t give the game away. Apart from a couple of snacks, she had included a little mobile phone, her own number, and some cash. A hastily scrawled note told him to call her when he was safely able to, and to keep the phone and the money secret, even from his mother. She told him she loved him and Alice, and urged him to keep her updated. “Please God, don’t let Frank find out about the phone”, she prayed.

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The cheap motel was like any other they had used. The mattresses were thin and hard, the carpets stained, and the TV tiny, with poor reception.

“You lot stay here,” Frank instructed. He was calmer now, but the slightest thing could set him off, and so no – one responded, and everyone did as they were told. “I’ll have to go and talk to someone at the council, tell them we’re homeless…..AGAIN.” He spat the last word out, as if homelessness was something that had been unfairly inflicted upon him and his family…….as always, the victim of an unjust life.

There was silence for a minute or two after he left, broken by Gill’s falsely cheerful “Well….it isn’t so bad here……at least we have a shower!”

Alice stared at her mother, as if she was a peculiar stranger. “It’s horrible”, she stated. “It smells like sweaty socks.”

Six years old, deeply watchful, painfully direct…..when she did actually speak……Alice was somehow ‘different’. Tumbling dark hair, deep, indigo eyes that seemed to burn into whatever and whoever caught her attention, and a face that gave very little indication of what was going on in her mind. Alice did not ‘need’ Gill. She wasn’t the kind of child who desired attention and approval, she rarely asked for anything, and was happy to entertain herself, most of the time. There was, however, an unspoken closeness between Alice and Jamie……..he knew he could trust her, rely upon her, somehow. Whenever he’d received a beating, or a punishment, Alice would come and sit quietly next to him, sometimes placing a hand on his back, or his sob – shaken shoulders. She never spoke, but she was there. Jamie didn’t know what he’d do without Alice. He couldn’t put into words how he felt, but with her around he knew he was not alone. 
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Jamie waited until Frank’s car merged with the traffic along the main road at the front of the motel, before casually informing his mother he was going to sit outside for a while.

“Well…..be careful, and DON’T wander off”, she warned. “You’ll need to be here when your father gets back.”

“I know, I know, I know….” Jamie muttered, closing the door behind him.

Their room was on the second floor, and Jamie turned right, heading along the balcony towards the wooden steps that led to the ground floor. In front of the reception office was a paved area with a few pot plants that hadn’t been watered for weeks, and a bench. Flaking green paint revealed faded timber, but it was dry and clean, and Jamie sat down, guiltily checking in all directions, before rooting in the bag for the phone and Aunt Lil’s note. He keyed her number in, heart thumping and waited….within a split second Lil picked up.
“Jamie! Thank God! Are you alright? Where are you?”

“Hi Aunt Lil”, he was so relieved to hear her voice he had to fight back sudden tears. “Erm…I’m not sure. We’re in a motel called Greenleys, opposite a pub called……erm….The Mitre.”

“Where’s your father? And how is Alice?” Lil was worried….she hoped her actions would not lead to more trouble for the children.

“He’s gone to speak to the council, to tell them we’re homeless. Alice is in the room, with mum. She seems to be okay. I’m outside, on my own.”

Homeless! Lil shook her head, angry and frustrated. They weren’t homeless until Frank made them so….again. They had a home with her, until they could get back on their feet….she had told him that, over and over. But Frank had some kind of self destruct mechanism in his head that would lead him to push and push until he had another reason to blame the world, another reason to fight, to become a victim. The problem was, he was taking three other people down with him.

“Jamie, do you know how to text? I have added plenty of calling credit to the phone, but it will be safer for you to text me, rather than calling. Unless something happens, of course. I will ALWAYS respond, I promise. But it is important for you to be safe. We’ll figure something out, I promise. Oh…and make sure the phone is set to silent!”

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Frank returned several hours later with fish and chips and a half bottle of whiskey. He didn’t say much, barely ate, and settled himself down on the double bed, swigging from the bottle. By 9pm he was snoring loudly. Gill gingerly squeezed under the quilt, next to him, and indicated to the children to keep the noise down. As if they needed to be told. The TV was barely audible, and Jamie lay on his back, staring at a moth high on the wall above his bed. It hadn’t moved an inch since they arrived….maybe it too knew better than to aggravate Frank.

Alice, propped up in her hard, narrow single bed, was reading a book, using her finger to underline each word, her lips silently mouthing the story. Every now and then she’d stare intently at the colourful illustrations, as if willing herself to disappear into them, before turning the page. When she reached the end, she started again……over and over, until she fell asleep, dark hair spread across the pillow, her face relaxed and peaceful, lips parted to reveal a gap where a new, adult tooth was barely poking through the gum. The book lay open, face down on her chest. Jamie gently lifted it and placed it on the chipped, melamine bedside cabinet. He envied her…..wished he could respond to life the way she did.

He had been hiding the brown paper bag containing the phone, battery charger, cash, and Aunt Lil’s note, under his blankets. He wriggled down, covering himself completely, and retrieved the phone, moving as slowly as possible. He typed in a goodnight message, receiving a response less than a minute later. Reading the message, he felt so much better…….less sad and less afraid. He switched the phone off, slid it back into the bag, and lay awake, thinking and thinking, before drifting into an uncomfortable sleep. The moth still hadn’t moved, not even a leg or a wing……but it had a ring side seat to an unfolding human drama.

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Frank awoke, stiff in his body, chaotic in his mind, at 7am, and disturbed his family by banging around and turning the TV volume way up. Jamie’s heart sank when he opened his eyes and remembered where he was. Panicking, he rooted for the brown paper bag…..sighing with relief when he found it under his left leg.

Alice slid out of bed and clambered over Jamie, heading for the tiny bathroom.

“Don’t wee on the seat”, Frank shouted, sniggering, but Alice just rolled her eyes. She didn’t appear to be afraid of Frank, and Jamie wished he felt the same way. Having said that, their father rarely felt the need to punish Alice…….maybe it was a male thing, a father – son thing. Or maybe Frank just hates me, Jamie concluded.

“So…..what’s the plan today?” Gill ventured.

“The plan? The plan? I’ll tell you what the plan is, my darling wife……I am going back to the wonderful, helpful council yet AGAIN, forced to beg on bended knee. I have an appointment at nine o’clock…….and they had better come up with something or I will tear the place to pieces with my bare hands.”

Gill didn’t doubt it. She sighed quietly, and rubbed her aching head.

“Are you okay mum?” Jamie could see that Gill didn’t look right……she was pale, and seemed a little unsteady as she went to fill the electric kettle from the bathroom tap.

“I’m fine son” she reassured. “Just a headache. It started yesterday, thought it would have cleared up by now.”

“You want to have MY head”, Frank sneered. “Try banging your head on the same old brick wall, year in year out, always having to deal with the same kind of idiots, and THEN tell me about your headache!”

Gill ignored him, but Jamie noticed the look that flitted across her face, and his heart went out to her. Okay, she didn’t stand up to Frank, she let him get away with everything…..but what else could she do anyway? He’d only start on her, and then on them, because he’d be wound up and still looking for an outlet. They were stuck….trapped. A dark cloud descended upon the boy. He could hear his sister in the bathroom, running water…. and singing, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. What was her secret, Jamie wondered, for the millionth time? He wished he knew.
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The atmosphere changed, the moment Frank closed the door behind him. Gill breathed deeply, and sank onto the bed.

“I’m sorry children,” she slurred. “I should take you out somewhere….but I feel dreadful. I just can’t shake this headache. I’m just going to rest for half an hour, and then we’ll do something…..”

“It’s okay mum”, Jamie responded, stroking the top of her head. “We’ll be fine……won’t we, Alice?”

Alice shrugged, as if she didn’t care either way, and Gill gazed up at her son, gratefully.

“Thank you, both of you. And Jamie…..I’m sorry………” Her words trailed off, as she lay down, closing her eyes, drawing her knees up to her chest. For a second, Jamie was tempted to tell her about the phone, and the lifeline to Aunt Lil…….but he quickly decided against it. She’d be nervous about it, and end up giving the game away. No, he’d say nothing…..for now at least. 
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By 12 o’clock Gill could stand the pain no longer. She had used up the few painkillers she’d found in the bottom of her bag, and she hadn’t wanted to ask Frank to buy more for her. He’d make a huge deal about it, and she just couldn’t face it.

“Children, I’m going to have to go out and find a doctor’s surgery, or a chemist. This is getting worse, not better.”

She listlessly pulled her clothes on, and grimaced as she pulled a brush through her hair. 
“I think I have enough change in my purse……..please don’t wander off, and don’t open the door to anyone. I won’t be long……I promise….”

Uncharacteristically, Alice put her book down, jumped off the bed, and wrapped her arms around Gill’s hips. Gazing up at her mother, she said “It will all be alright mum. You won’t have to worry.”
Gill couldn’t hide her surprise……and despite the pain, a delighted smile smile spread across her weary face.

“Thank you Alice……I….I appreciate that!”

Alice nodded, as if it was a done deal, and went back to her book. For a second, Gill caught Jamie’s gaze, and an understanding passed between them. Somehow, the words of a six year old lifted their spirits, though neither of them understood why that should be. 
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“I know about the phone,” Alice announced, as she made her toy rabbit hop up and down on her lap. 
“What? What phone…..I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jamie stammered. How could she know? He’d been really careful.

Alice shot him a pitying look, before turning back to her toy. “I KNOW. I know lots of things…….”

Jamie felt guilty. He shouldn’t have kept it from her. He knew he could trust her……but he also had to protect her.

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you……I wasn’t trying to keep a secret from you. I just……”

“I know,” she cut in, calmly. “It’s okay. You were afraid HE would find out.”

“Yes. How DID you find out…..did you hear me using it?”

“No…..you were very good at hiding it. I told you, I just knew.”

Whilst they were alone, Jamie called Lil, speaking only for a minute or two. He explained about Gill’s headache, and how she’d gone searching for painkillers. Alice took her turn, saying hello, but then Lil advised them to ring off in case Frank returned. She was relieved to hear from the children, but also concerned about Gill’s health. The poor woman……she must be at the end of her tether. There was no point in phoning the police, Lil reasoned……there would be little they could do. And the social services would only scare Frank off, dragging the family with him. No, she’d wait until they were settled again, and then decide what to do.
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Jamie plugged the phone into the charger, hiding it behind the bedside cabinet. He left it for fifteen minutes, and was just unplugging it when Frank roughly pushed the motel door open…….they hadn’t heard his footsteps along the balcony….he must have been creeping up on them!

“WHAT’S THAT?” he yelled, striding towards Jamie.

“Nothing!” Jamie fumbled with the phone, trying to push it under his pillow, but Frank grabbed at the bedding, dragging it onto the floor.

“Give it to me…..NOW!”

Something in the boy’s head snapped…..no, Frank was NOT getting hold of this phone……he would die before he’d hand it over. He snatched it up, leapt over the bed, and ran for the door, desperately clawing at the handle. Frank tried to grab him, but he wasn’t quick enough, and Jamie yanked the door open, furiously throwing himself in the direction of the stairs. There were several bags of rubbish on the landing, which caused Jamie to hesitate for a second, before launching himself over the top of them…..and Frank, seizing the moment, clambered onto the bannister, intending to jump onto the staircase, landing in front of his son.

It all happened so quickly, but in slow motion…….Jamie leaping into the air, clearing the black rubbish sacks, skidding down the worn, wooden steps…..Frank dragging his bulk onto the bannister, leaning forwards towards the staircase…..and then losing his balance……grabbing at the railing, tumbling over the edge, shouting something Jamie couldn’t make out……..and hitting the ground with a dull thud. And Alice…..standing on the balcony, arms outstretched, palms forward………smiling.

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The policewoman was intrigued by the beautiful, inscrutable little girl, sitting alongside her brother, holding tightly onto his hand. Maybe she was too young to understand what had just happened……her impassive expression and manner certainly gave credence to that theory. The boy himself was shocked…….face the colour of chalk, eyes wide and unblinking. He was clutching a small mobile phone in his free hand, as if he would never let it go.
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Gill Martin returned to the motel, holding a polythene bag containing a packet of extra strong painkillers, to see three police cars and an ambulance, parked at different angles, blue lights blinking and flashing. Looking up at the building, she saw that the door to the room that housed her family was open…..and a policeman was standing outside.

“Jamie! Alice!” She screamed, running for the stairs. Immediately, an officer blocked her way.
“Mrs Martin?”

“What….? Wh….? Yes…..What’s happened……my children!” She wailed, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Please tell me they’re alright…..I was only gone for a little while……I had to get……” Her knees buckled, and the officer grabbed her arm, helping to steady her.

“It’s okay…..It’s okay Mrs Martin…..the children are fine……but we need to talk to you. Here, I’ll help you up the stairs.”

The first thing she saw as she staggered through the door was the children, sitting closely on one of the single beds, holding hands. She fell upon them, hugging them, struggling to breathe.

“Oh my God…..I thought something had happened to you……thank God…….”

“Mrs Martin…..we need to talk to you…..” The policewoman gently but firmly led Gill away from the children, pushing her down onto a wooden chair. “There’s been an accident, I am afraid……”

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The years go by so quickly, Lil sighed. Who would have thought it……Jamie, already 24 years old, and getting married….today!

She sat, alongside her husband of eight years……Joe, a gentle, reflective man……and gazed at the back of her nephew’s head, as he nervously awaited the arrival of his bride to be. Claudia…..a lovely, funny girl, just right for the sensitive, smart young man Lil loved so much. She squeezed Gill’s hand, and they exchanged smiles. The dark days were long gone….thank goodness. Frank’s death had been deemed to be accidental, his neck broken by the two storey fall. The coroner talked about Frank’s disturbed state of mind, and wished Gill and the children well. They were happy now……but a bruised spirit never really completely heals. Lil still wept for her brother, privately……..his mind and his behaviour had become incredibly twisted….but still, she had loved him….loved the Frank he used to be. But today was for smiles, for good times, for gratitude….for celebration.
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Jamie turned to see Claudia almost floating down the aisle, smiling, a vision in cream satin….and his heart skipped a beat. Briefly he caught Alice’s eye, and she pulled her tongue out at him…..he quickly flicked his eyes away, before she managed to make him laugh. Alice……he knew she had saved his life that day. HE knew, and SHE knew…….but no – one else on the planet would EVER know. They never spoke about it, and he would take it to his grave.

“I know you cared about us…….in your own weird way…..” Jamie addressed Frank, in his mind. “You taught me the most important lesson of my life. That there is a right and a wrong way to love your family”

And as he took Claudia’s hand, feeling like the luckiest man on the planet, Jamie made a silent vow: that his wife and their future children would never know one second of fear in his company.

THE END.

This story has already been featured on my Facebook page (link below):

https://www.facebook.com/Leanne-Halyburtons-World-of-Story-Telling-1664457420475008/?hc_ref=ARQZFXgICCFVtKkWtB60dAYDv2aWXoX1VeZQ3TjrhkaNOoM4USqp_ciXUlYyCL8pilE&fref=nf

Short story: Ask No Questions…

ASK NO QUESTIONS….

A cheating man and three women! Where will it all end….?

Please note that this story contains swear words and adult references!

Becki Rogers felt sick. Her body was clammy and her head ached. Mike was snoring away, lying on his side, facing away from her. She peeled the quilt from her sweaty body, and picked her way through the gloom, fumbling for the door handle. The bathroom assaulted her senses, swiftly waking her up. She slithered on cold, grey floor tiles, grabbing at the white ceramic basin for balance. Everything was grey, black or white in Mike’s bathroom, and the opaque window was without blind or curtains. The pale yellow, early morning sun streamed in, highlighting the starkness of the room. The starkness of the relationship…the starkness of her life.

She sat and peed, rubbing her eyes, and the flakes of last night’s mascara stuck to her fingers. “I bet I look like shit”, she muttered, as she wiped and flushed, and the diamond shaped mirror above the sink confirmed her suspicions. Blotchy, puffy skin, black – ringed eyes, dry lips. And a mouth that tasted as if she had been munching on the scrapings from the bottom of a chicken coup.

She knew that Mike would not rouse himself for several hours, and she didn’t want to hang around like a spare part. Two months ago she would have showered, piled on the make – up, quietly tidied up, and nipped out to buy milk, orange juice, bacon, eggs, and fresh rolls. Mike rarely had anything in, other than a couple of bottles of red wine and a half bottle of whiskey. But that was before she realised he was a selfish, lying, self – centred shit. And yet here she was, wasn’t she? In his soulless, black and white apartment, a place that served a purpose but could never be called a home. That would never, ever be HER home.

She crept back into the stale – breath smelling bedroom, gathered together her clothes, and tiptoed towards the door. Mike didn’t stir, and she hesitated for a moment, staring down at his broad shouldered bulk, his tousled black/grey hair. He managed to look smug and self – satisfied even when asleep. His square jawline, dark brown eyes, soft, generous lips and lightly tanned skin used to make her heart skip a beat. She still found him attractive, he still had some kind of hold over her…but he was beginning to treat her as if she was disposable, as if he was doing her a favour by drunkenly humping her a couple of times a week. He used to be all over her, sending suggestive texts, taking her to expensive, out of the way restaurants. He bought her little gifts, sexy undies and toys…clothes, shoes and jewellery. She should have known better. It was her own fault. Even after she discovered that he was married, and father to two children, she allowed him to persuade her to continue. He was sorting it out, he said. They were separated, and he had his own place, as she could see. It was only a matter of time, and then they’d look for a different place for the two of them. She wanted to believe him, and so she did.

Until she saw him in McDonald’s one Friday afternoon….with his family. The children were chatty and noisy, especially the boy, and Mike was teasing them, winding them up, and they were all laughing. She watched, from a table in the corner, hidden from view by a pillar, as he added sugar and milk to his wife’s tea, cocking his head towards her as she spoke…affectionate and attentive. Anyone who didn’t know better would swear that this was a happy, very – much – together family. She also noticed how he surreptitiously checked his phone every few minutes, and she knew he wasn’t expecting to hear from her. He was supposed to be working until 7pm, unable to take texts or calls. Her heart thundered in her chest, and a wave of nausea rose up. She pushed her chicken mayo wrap away, too sick to take another bite. It’s funny how life can change so dramatically within the space of five minutes. Funny and horrible. She wanted to cry out loud, to confront him, to inform his wife that the man who was stirring her tea, and lovingly wiping tomato sauce from her son’s face, was planning to set up home with HER. He’d been between her legs less than 24 hours ago, his strong body pinning her to the mattress, his broad hands firmly holding hers above her head, as he moved in and out, breathing lustful words into her ear. She could still smell him, ever so slightly, on her skin. She wanted to march across and break up the scene that was breaking her heart into a thousand pieces. Instead, she put her head down and left, tears cascading down her cheeks as she pushed against the heavy glass door. She knew he still had association with his family…but not like THIS.

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“Well how do you expect me to behave?” Mike’s face was red, his expression twisted and angry.
“I don’t know!”, Becki sobbed, hating the way he was glaring at her. “It was just a shock, that’s all.”
“I told you I see the kids”, he stormed. “What do you want me to do with HER…make her sit in the car? Ignore her? Give her a good hiding? You’re making a mountain out of a fucking mole hill!”
“I’m sorry…I just didn’t expect to see you there, with them. I thought you were at work. I don’t know how I imagined things to be….but it wasn’t that. You looked so happy together…”.
“For fuck’s sake, are you checking up on me now? Do I have to keep you informed of every move I make? I wasn’t at work because the computers were down and I couldn’t DO anything. Alright? And I’ve had enough of THAT bag of skin constantly getting on my case, without you joining in. If you think I’m such a fucking liar, you can fuck off and find some other sucker to bleed dry.”
Mike slammed his foot on the brake, throwing Becki forward, almost hitting her head against the windscreen. 
“Get out!”, he seethed. “I’ve got better things to do than sit here and listen to this shit!”
“Mike, please…I’m sorry”, Becki covered her face with her hands, sobbing tears that trickled through her shaking fingers. 
“I SAID get out!” Leaning across her, he opened the door, unfastened her seat belt, and pushed her. “Out, NOW!”
Becki fumbled for her bag, stumbling from the already moving vehicle, jumping back as the car door slammed shut. The screech of tyres and the smell of burning rubber caused passers – by to stop and stare, first after the rapidly disappearing BMW, and then at the crumpled, tearful woman hurrying away, shoulders shaking, head down.

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Mike called her two long, painful, lonely days later. He apologised, explaining that he’d been under a huge amount of stress, and was struggling to cope with everything. She was so relieved to hear from him, he could have been speaking in tongues. It didn’t matter what he said, as long as she heard from him and everything was okay. Sorry was absolutely enough. He showed up with flowers and wine, and they headed for the bedroom, where they stayed until he left at 6am. But everything was different, and it never went back to the way it was before that fateful day at McDonald’s. He became less and less attentive, and increasingly too busy to see her. The sexy texts, the gifts and the compliments became fewer, but still they’d have sex, two or three times per week…sometimes only once. And here she was, quietly letting herself out of the apartment that was a perfect match for soulless, black and white man, snoring the day away in his sex – stinking man – cave, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

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Sandra Beasley was pretty sure her husband was screwing around. Technically they were separated (not her choice), but he was in touch everyday, and he often called round for his tea, helping to settle the kids in bed. And then they’d make love, quickly, quietly either in the lounge, or in the bedroom. He’d creep out, so as not to disturb the children….didn’t want to give them false hope. She knew she’d pushed him away after the birth of their son, sinking into depression, and putting on weight. Simeon was now seven, and Rosie eleven, and she still wasn’t right. She couldn’t blame Mike entirely, although in her darkest moments she did. She couldn’t think about the future right now. He wasn’t a bad dad, though he was snappy and moody at times. She just took one day at a time, and hoped that sooner or later Mike would move back in, and they’d all be happy again.

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Before she followed him, Becki had already decided to end the painful, self – destructive shit that passed as a relationship with Mike. She knew about Sandra, of course, but wasn’t sure if Sandra knew about her. Becki had also done a bit of research, a bit of sneaky asking – around. She discovered that Sandra was a decent enough woman, living in hope that Mike would move back in with them. She herself knew how it felt to try and hang onto that man, and she was embarrassed and sorry. She felt as if she had awoken from a weird, dark dream, and as a completely different person. If she was going to end this, she wanted answers, and she wanted closure, and she was going to do it properly.

Becki hired a car, on a 24 hour basis, and parked a few yards away from Mike’s apartment. She also wore a wig….shoulder length honey blonde….and a pair of blue tinted glasses. Mike would instantly recognise her little old rattly BMG, and she didn’t want to take any chances. It was all very cloak and dagger, and one part of her couldn’t believe what she was doing…how low would she actually be prepared to stoop, where this fucking man was concerned? Another part wanted to know EXACTLY what he was up to….but even if she found out, she had no idea what to do with the info. What if he wasn’t up to anything? Would that change her mind about breaking up with him? What if she found he was helping out at a soup kitchen, or going to church meetings? She sniggered at the idea, actually hoping against it. She wanted to hate him with every ounce of her being, not see him in a different, better light.

Just before 9pm, Mike appeared, and Becki could almost smell the Dolce and Gabbana aftershave he favoured. Crisp white shirt, open at the neck, black jacket, dark grey trousers, black Paul Smith shoes…he was pulling out all the stops tonight. He looked confident, heading toward his beloved, newly polished car, with a spring in his step. Within seconds he was pulling away from the kerb, and Becki followed in his wake, trying to remain far enough behind to avoid being seen, but not so far that she’d lose sight of him.

Ten minutes later, Mike pulled into Sainsbury’s, parking in a bay close to the entrance. Fifteen minutes later he emerged, a big bunch of multi – coloured roses in one hand, and a gold coloured box of chocolates in the other. Becki doubted that they were for her, OR Sandra…but she figured she was soon going to discover the identity of the intended recipient.

Once more they were in transit, and Becki weaved in and out of the traffic, almost on autopilot, keeping track of the jet black BMW. She couldn’t believe she was trailing the man she once thought she loved more than anything. She didn’t know how she felt anymore….right now numb, and somehow lonely, but fucking determined.

Mike’s left indicator was blinking, and he pulled to a stop outside the Old Bell pub. Becki squeezed into a space several yards behind him, and watched as a tall, thin, amber coloured girl, teetering on six inch heels, wobbled towards the BMW, round fake boobs jutting high on her skinny rib cage. Mike leapt from the car, hurrying round to plant a facehugger of a kiss on plumped – up, scarlet lips, before ceremoniously whipping the door open, waiting until she had settled her no doubt pert arse and fastened her seatbelt, before clicking it shut. Becki’s heart ached as she caught the expression on Mike’s face…he looked as if all of his Christmases had come at once. He used to look like that when he was with her. And then she reminded herself of all the other stuff, and the ache subsided a little. Mike was pulling away from the kerb, but Becki had seen enough. She suddenly felt drained and flat…and a little old. That girl couldn’t have been more than 26/27. What was he thinking?

Becki had decided to just head for home, but then she remembered the key to Mike’s apartment. He hadn’t given her a key, and he didn’t know she had one. He’d lent her his key one day, so she could let herself in to do some cleaning and prepare a meal, but she was supposed to leave it on the table. No woman would ever be given free access to Mike’s life. And she HAD left it on the table…but only after having a copy made…just in case she needed it. She had no idea what she was going to do, but the decision to let herself in was made, and she turned the car around. She’d figure it out when she got there.

Mike’s apartment smelled of aftershave and bacon. There was a plate and a mug in the sink, and his dirty clothes were spread across the bathroom floor, a wet towel hanging off the basin. Becki wandered into the bedroom, and felt sad and sick. She sank onto the bed, remembering the good times….the nights when Mike couldn’t get enough of her, when she felt beautiful and sexy and desirable. She lifted his pillow, pressed her face into it and breathed deeply. The scent of his hair, his skin, his aftershave…a yearning overwhelmed her, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping onto the black and blue pillow case.

Suddenly, it was as if she was watching herself from a distance, and a wave of shock ran through her. “LOOK at you! WHAT are you doing?” Throwing the soggy pillow back onto the bed, she stood up, and stared at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She looked lost, tired and pale. “He’s dead”, she whispered. The Mike she thought she knew had died, and she was grieving the loss, as anyone would. The Mike she had experienced over the last few months was not the Mike she had fallen in love with…the Mike who didn’t actually exist, except in her imagination. It was always going to end in tears…it was inevitable. It was her own fault. She deserved this.

Becki wandered back into the living room, not sure what to do. And then it struck her that Mike had not actually ended their relationship. Technically, they were still together, even though he was two – timing her…AND Sandra. He didn’t know that she knew about Miss Fake Titties. She tried to work out what all of that meant to her. How could she use it to her advantage?

She decided to act as if everything was okay, to see what Mike would do next. Would he come clean, or would he try to juggle plates, ‘servicing’ three women? She laughed humorlessly at the idea of Mike sucked dry, reduced to a husk. It would be his own fault. He’d deserve it.

Becki absentmindedly tidied the bathroom, washed the plate and mug, and helped herself to a glass of wine (it didn’t click with her that Mike would wonder who had been in whilst he was out, bouncing on Miss Boney). It was unlikely that he would be back tonight, she reckoned, and so she might as well take her time. She settled down on the couch, flicked the tv on, and drained her glass. One more wouldn’t hurt. Except that, already being exhausted, the wine went straight to her head, and within minutes she was snoring away.

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“What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Becki awoke with a start, briefly confused and disoriented. Shit! Mike was back, and she was still here.
“Well? I’m waiting? How did you get in?”
“Erm, the door was open….I called round on the off chance, to see if you wanted to go for a drink, and….”
“Liar! You cut yourself a fucking key, didn’t you?”
Becki stood up, terrified Mike was going to lose his temper again, desperately looking around for her bag and coat. But he was laughing. Actually laughing.
“You sneaky little minx…I’ve got to hand it to you. I’d probably have done the same thing myself!”
Becki was unnerved. Something wasn’t right here. She scrutinised Mike’s face, trying to understand what was really going on. Maybe he was just being sarcastic, and the eruption was about to occur. She was surprised to see that he genuinely didn’t appear to give a fuck…and that he also looked a little grey in colour, washed out. 
“Are you okay Mike?”
“Yep…never been better! Just overdone it on the old foie gras and vino, but apart from that, I am fucking fantastic! In fact, I’m glad you’re here…I’ve got something to tell you, lying little Becki”.
Becki’s heart sank…here it comes, she thought. 
“Okay, go ahead, I’m listening”.
“All in good time. First I’m going for a piss, and then I’m going to get out of these clothes. Pour me a glass of that stuff…” He indicated her half empty glass. 
Numbly, Becki went into the kitchen, and sloshed red wine into a glass. “Looks like you’ve already had enough”, she muttered.
Mike was gone for some time, and Becki wondered if he’d fallen asleep, until she heard him whoop loudly, followed by “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” He was really behaving weirdly tonight, she thought, as she headed towards the bedroom, curious to know what the hell was going on now. He appeared, in his bathrobe, grinning from ear to ear, blocking her way. 
“No entry!” He sneered, placing his hand in the centre of her chest, pushing her backwards. “Those days are gone, my saggy old love!”
“Bastard!” Becki felt as if he’d punched her in the gut, and she shoved his hand away. “Don’t fucking push me!”
But Mike did push her, not hard, but insistently, until he had backed her into the living room. 
“Right, this is as far as you go….and this time next week you can do what the fuck you want. I will be far, far away, with the legs of a young, gorgeous, sexy goddess wrapped around my waist. I’ll even give you MY key…you can move in for all I care”.
“What…what are you talking about? I fucking saw you Mike….with HER! She’s young enough to be your daughter….you stinking bastard! And what about Sandra and the kids?”
“Well not quite, but she’s certainly younger than you”, he taunted. “And all of a sudden you’re concerned about my soon to be ex wife and kids….bit late, don’t you think?”
Becki felt crushed, humiliated and dirty. How could it have all come down to this? Mike was staring at her, coldly amused, arms folded across his chest. He still didn’t look right, but what did she care? She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had hurt her, how stupid and ashamed she felt. She would get her stuff and leave….and she would never, ever see or speak to him again. 
“Don’t worry, I’m going to scrub you and this place off my body, as soon as I get home. I only came round to tell you I was finished with you! I’m going to get my things together, and get the hell away from you, you disgusting bastard!”
“Liar liar, pants on fire!” Mike laughed, and knocked his wine back in one, coughing as it went down. 
“I hope you fucking choke”, Becki sobbed inwardly, as she collected her meagre bits and pieces from the bathroom. She remembered she had left her beloved Jimmy Choo’s in the bedroom, and despite Mike’s ban, pushed the door open and flicked the light switch. Her eyes lighted upon his phone, lying on the bedside table, and she was suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to get her hands on Miss Botox’s number or Facebook details. Hastily, she grabbed at the phone, intending to check out his most recent calls/texts, and realised that Mike had been using the phone only minutes earlier….to check his lottery numbers. The page was still open. She also noticed the lottery ticket, lying face up…..and she remembered Mike’s victorious whooping. Quickly scanning the numbers, Becki gasped, and dropped the phone onto the bed.
“Oh my God…..he’s won the lottery! Six numbers….he’s WON THE FUCKING LOTTERY!”

A loud crash, followed by a dull thud, made Becki jump with shock and fear. She waited, expecting to see Mike come thundering through the door and do God knows what, but there was silence. 
“Mike….Mike…are you okay?” She called out and waited. Nothing. Venturing into the hall, cringing, waiting for him to leap out and grab her, Becki was barely breathing. She reached the living room door, and listened. Still nothing. Stepping forward, tentatively, Becki thought that the room was empty….until she saw Mike lying on his back on the floor, shards of glass scattered across his face and chest. A dining chair was lying on its side, across his left leg.
“Mike!” Becki rushed forward….stopping when she realised that Mike was dead. Staring sightlessly at the ceiling, right arm stretched out, palm up, left arm draped across his chest. He was dead. A heart attack? Too much booze, too much food, too much sex….too much of everything.

Becki sank to her knees, and stared at the body of the man she had once loved, but who turned out to be a heartless, disgusting user. She couldn’t blame him entirely….she was a willing participant. She should phone for an ambulance, or the police…she should do something. Becki became aware that she was holding onto a piece of crumpled paper, and as if in a dream, she opened it up and smoothed it out. A winning lottery ticket. Six numbers. No use to Mike now. A thought suddenly crossed her mind, and she dragged herself up and made her way back to the bedroom. Retrieving the phone from the bed, she checked to see who Mike had communicated with, within the last hour. No – one. The last call was to a number unknown to her…probably his new girlfriend, at 8.30. So no – one knew he’d won the lottery. He’d obviously bought the ticket at Sainsbury’s, and checked the numbers when he arrived home. Nobody knew…except her.

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Sandra Beasley awoke, feeling more exhausted than when she’d gone to sleep. Sim was singing loudly in the bathroom, and Rosie was banging on the door, shouting “Shut up and hurry up, in that order!”
Sandra dragged herself out of bed, catching sight of herself in the dressing table mirror. Crumpled, baggy tee – shirt and greying, washed out knickers. She sighed and shook her head. She’d given up the fight…no point in doing anything else.
“Mum, there’s a letter here for you!” Rosie’s voice echoed up the stairs, and Sandra sighed again. Probably another bill. Bit early for the postman though. 
Rosie had left the letter on the third step from the bottom, and Sandra groaned as she bent down to scoop it up. The envelope was small, white and square. There was no address or stamp. Just her name, typed. She tore it open, anxious and unsettled…who could be writing to her, and why? Inside, she found a small piece of plain white paper, and the message was brief: “Look inside the shed. There is nothing to worry about”.

Sandra felt afraid, though she didn’t know why. She hesitated, wondering if it was someone’s sick idea of a joke, but she knew that if she didn’t check the shed she’d be worrying all day. Pulling a coat on, she quietly slipped out of the front door and headed round to the back garden. The shed was at the bottom, on the right, and she tiptoed barefoot through the damp grass. At the shed door she hesitated again, before quickly pulling at the door handle….she didn’t know what to expect. Maybe the shed would explode (Mike’s way of getting rid of her), or someone would be waiting with a knife or a gun (still Mike’s way of getting rid of her). Instead, all she found was a suitcase. Medium sized, dark brown, a bit scratched. There was another small, white square envelope, lying on top of the case. Hand shaking, she reached out, picked it up, and tore it open. Another printed message: “Don’t ask any questions, and don’t tell anyone or phone the police. No one will be coming looking for this…you are safe. You have earned this and you deserve it. Have a good life”. And it was signed “A well wisher. PS, it IS real!”

Sandra breathed heavily, and stared at the suitcase. She had no idea what was going on…maybe she would wake up soon and find that it was all a dream. She reached out and touched the scuffed leather…and then she released the catches…and then she lifted the lid. 
“Oh my God….oh my God….oh my God!”

Sandra Beasley sank to her knees, scraping them on the rough concrete floor of the old shed. She didn’t feel a thing. The suitcase was full of money….bundle after bundle after bundle of notes. She couldn’t begin to guess how much was there. Was it Mike…? No, somehow, she doubted it. She hadn’t heard from him for almost two weeks…no – one had. Obviously off on one of his jaunts again. She continued to kneel, unaware that her knees were becoming numb, staring at the money, reaching out every now and then to stroke it, until Sim’s voice broke the spell.
“Mum, mum, where are you? There’s no milk…”
“No milk?” She whispered. “Son, I’ll buy you a bloody herd of cows….”

********************************************************

The smell eventually became so bad, Mike’s neighbours alerted the council. None of them really knew him…they kept themselves to themselves, in April House. However, the dusty BMW, covered in bird shit, rang alarm bells….what they did know was that the guy in apartment 19 kept his car in an absolutely pristine condition. Something wasn’t right.

********************************************************

Becki was struggling to relax, waiting for the hand on her shoulder. She glanced around, guiltily, sure she was receiving disapproving glances from those who actually belonged there. 
“More champagne, Madam?”
Becki stared up into the smiling, slightly amused face of an attractive dark haired air hostess, and nodded. “Erm, yes please. In fact, could I have two?”
“Absolutely!” 
Flying first class was a new experience to Becki, but one that she was sure she’d get used to. After all, she HAD won 2.4 million pounds….well, a half share, at least. She lifted her glass, admiring the pale bubbles, and raised it above her head. “This one’s for you, Sandra…you earned it”. Lifting the second glass, she stared into its sparkling contents for a few seconds, as if lost in thought. “And this one’s for you Mike…”.

The End.

This story has already been featured on my Facebook page (see link below):

 

Online bulls**t! Don’t fall for it, and don’t get sucked in!

I recently realised I was sick to the back teeth of online bulls**t, and all of the motivational, entrepreneurial and digital marketing ‘experts’. I had reached overload, and could not stomach one more word from any of them.

I am not denying that the world of self – help has been of massive help to me. I have worked hard over the years to enlighten and educate myself, and find it difficult to comprehend how so many human beings manage to get through life without ever picking up a self – help book, or listening to a motivational recording. On the other hand, I am aware that self – help can become addictive, and have witnessed many, many individuals becoming junkies…..one seminar, podcast, book, video and audio recording after another and another….without actually doing very much at all with their newly acquired awareness and knowledge. The seeking BECOMES the goal, rather than a means to the goal.

And I have definitely made use of tons and tons of free info, learning how to do technical stuff I could not afford to pay someone else to do for me. I am genuinely grateful for that.

However, all of this can lead to great dissatisfaction, not to mention insanity. On one hand you are told that you need to be strong and powerful, to never give up, to fight for your dreams and your beliefs….to shape, form and create your own future. On the other, you are told that you need to be at peace, to not want or need anything, to only desire it, and let it go. To believe that everything you desire is already yours, and to calmly and happily get on with your life, without giving any of it another thought…and if you do so, it will all become manifest.

On one hand you are told that thought – intention alone is not enough…you have to MAKE things happen. On the other you are told that too much action is interference, and is coming from a place of strain and lack of faith. 

And everyone is now a life coach, a marketing expert, an online millionaire in the making. Unless you have the right kind of ‘landing page’, and an emailing list that contains a zillion names, and unless you are putting out webinars, and selling online courses for a couple of thousand dollars/pounds, to a thousand customers, you are nowhere. Unless you know all about social media advertising, and if you aren’t working 20 hours per day on your ‘dream’, you can never be successful. Unless you join the right social networking groups, run by the ‘solopreneurs’ who rub shoulders with the marketing/motivational elite, you aren’t even on the bottom rung.

What is it all really about? Sales, baby. Money. And there is nothing wrong with that. I have worked for years on my own dysfunctional, unrewarding relationship with money and opportunity, a quest in which I have definitely been assisted by massively – paid gurus. I am in business, and I do my best to promote and sell my services to the world. I have big plans that require chunks of cash, and I have the same dreams that other people have….to help my children financially, and to give more to charity. And I want to continue to work on becoming the best possible version of myself. I am just sick to death of being bull – pooped to within an inch of my life! No wonder people don’t enter into this stuff….I almost wish, at times, I had never started (only almost…I wouldn’t really want to lose all of my hard – earned realisations!). The more brown stuff they pile on you, the more they want your cash. The more they schmooze you, the more you know that they need YOU more than you need THEM. The more they harass you, the less they actually care about whether or not their service/product is of any real use to you. The more they tell you about what you need to know, do, be and achieve, and that THEY have the one and only solution (for a hefty fee), the more you know that a million others are queuing up to supply you with exactly the same solution (for an equally hefty fee).

The truth is, the world is a buyer’s market, NOT a seller’s market. The power lies in the hands of the person with a spare few quid, never mind a million. 

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I don’t mind being sold to, and I do believe in advertising. How else would I know what is out there? People say “If I want a service, I will go out and look for it myself”. This is partly true, but not wholly. Most people don’t have the time, will or energy to really do the research. Motivational/educational self – help IS incredibly important, for anyone who doesn’t just want to survive life, and who wants to develop ongoing self – awareness, and to understand how to live up to their own potential. Online business IS the way to go, in this modern age, but so many are operating from a now completely saturated market. Would – be online zillionaires, who have paid thousands to learn how to sell to other would – be online zillionaires, are so desperate to be heard above the rest, they are drowning in the bulls**t swamp…and many will never emerge again.

Don’t join them. Learn from them. If you are one of the many I have come across who has lost yourself in the wonderful but illusive world of self – help and enlightenment, and yet still feel as if you are struggling, and still seeking, maybe it is time to recognise that you probably know enough right now, and let yourself off the hook. Dip back in every now and then, or stick with one or two people who generally inspire you, without causing you to feel dependent. 

And if you are one of the many, many hopeful, but fearful and disheartened ‘trainee’ entrepreneurs I have come across, aspiring to be like your mega – successful heroes or heroines, and secretly feeling as if you are failing horribly, and that you will never know enough, or be enough, or earn enough….get a bull – dozer in, clear the mountain of bulls**t you are struggling to scale, go back to basics, and be yourself. You CAN be successful in YOUR way, and at YOUR speed, and without 90% of the crap you have been told you absolutely NEED to buy! Keep it simple, honest and true, and be consistent….and you will come up smelling of roses, not the other stuff! 

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3 reasons I do NOT call myself a psychic!

Every human being has intuitive capacity! Every single one of us will experience our own intuition at play, many, many times before we leave this world. However, many people still live their lives unaware of this fact, and others write it off as coincidence. Our intuitive capacity remains largely misunderstood, but as the centuries go by, and the human race continues to evolve, this will change!

There are a number of reasons to explain why I do not call myself a psychic. I used to use the term, some years ago, but I was never comfortable with it. I decided that ‘intuitive consultant’ was a much better fit, and more accurate, in line with the service I offer.  

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Reason 1 is that there is an awful lot wrong with the so – called psychic world (though of course it isn’t all bad), and the way in which is understood and approached. Many times I have been insulted on the internet, by people I have never met or had any communication with, being called a con – artist, a shammer, or one who “preys on the vulnerable”. This is because of the reputation my line of work has attracted, which sadly, isn’t always without cause.

Having worked within the intuitive arena for over 20 years, and having had a wide range of experiences, I am more than aware of the kind of stuff that goes on! I started in the days before the internet played a role in everyday life, and telephone psychics were big business. Every woman’s magazine ran ads for telephone readings, and they were not cheap! Most were £1.50 per minute, charged to the telephone bill, and because there was no upfront payment, a lot of unhappy people were tempted to call and call again, using the service as a emotional crutch, running up massive phone bills in the process. 

I really did not enjoy working for these companies, and admit that I did it for the money, eventually quitting for good, when a woman called from a home for abused women, asking not about herself and her children, but her love life. I could no longer validate or encourage self – destructive behaviour, under the guise of ‘psychic’ readings. I became increasingly concerned about the number of people who appeared to be dependent upon the service, and the number of so – called readers who were just not good enough to be employed, or who were out and out con – artists. There were some decent readers, of course, but they were few and far between. Nowadays, the internet has replaced those small ads and those companies, which is a good thing, on the whole.

I have performed hundreds of stage demonstrations, been featured in publications, appeared on radio, and I travelled out to give consultations to groups of customers, several times a week, over a 20 year period. In other words, I have been around the block and back, where my work is concerned!

I retired from travelling out, or giving group bookings, around two years ago. I was becoming increasingly defensive and angry, before I’d even arrived, and so I knew it was time to quit!

And this leads me to reason 2. 

I met a lot of really lovely people, who treated me very well. However, I also found myself in some very uncomfortable situations, and at the mercy of some pretty dubious behaviour! On one occasion, as I walked up the path to the front door, I had to pick my way through a bunch of unfriendly women, sitting on the ground, smoking. Not one acknowledged me, or returned my greeting. They were difficult, negative and resistant, throughout their consultations, and because they swapped the cigs for vodka, they were constantly walking backwards and forwards to the toilet, whilst I was trying to work. One of them claimed her mother had paid for her, in advance (not true), and getting my money from the others was difficult. I felt so intimidated, I secretly called my daughter, and kept the phone by my side, until I could get out! The problem was, I really needed the money, and so had to stick it out, leaving myself feeling grubby and violated. 

Alcohol was a major issue, where group bookings were concerned. Often it was seen as a ‘girls’ night in’, and the noise would escalate to unreasonable levels. Also, half of the customers would be drunk by the time it was their turn to see me, and impossible to work with! One arrogant young woman stropped in, wine glass in hand, announcing that every psychic she’d seen had told her that if she didn’t like the consultation, she didn’t have to pay….and she assumed the same applied to me. Hell no! This had been a booking for 6 people, but when I arrived I was informed that 3 had dropped out, though no – one had thought to let me know in advance. I had already given two consultations, and of course was not going to agree to give another with no guarantee of being paid….and so I left! I had travelled some distance, and paid for fuel, for the sake of two customers, and to be treated as if I was of no consequence whatsoever. I have a long list of similar horror stories, enough to lead me to begin to dread those journeys, becoming, as I say, reactive and defensive before I had even arrived! Not good.

I also found that a number of those who attended group bookings (not everyone, of course), were of a particular mindset. They were there because their friend had the ‘psychic’ in, and they wanted to see what I could pick up about them. As one woman said, as she plonked herself down in front of me, arms folded across her chest, “Every psychic I’ve ever seen has been able to tell me how many kids I’ve got…can you?” These are not the kind of people who would go to the trouble of booking an appointment with me, and then travel to my home, or pay for an online or phone consultation. They were there for entertainment, and because all they had to do was walk up the road! Reason 2 is that my line of work is often seen as nothing more than entertainment, and completely disrespected. If I called myself a psychic, I was more likely to attract this kind of business, which was soul – destroying. I was really relieved to finally quit the group bookings, and realised that actually, it isn’t an appropriate environment or approach for intuitive guidance. As I said, I met some really lovely people, and I will always be grateful to them. But the loss of income was worth the loss of those who really just wanted a fortune teller, and something to do for fun!

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Reason 3 is that there is a tendency for psychics to describe themselves as having a gift of a sixth sense, which suggests that they have something others don’t have. As I said earlier, every human being has intuitive capacity, although that doesn’t mean that everyone can or will become a professional reader/consultant. There is more to being an effective intuitive consultant than initially meets the eye. I have invested years of my life in the development of my intuitive and coaching skills, in self – study, and in the study of the human spirit, emotions and mind. I am still learning, and will be until I take my last breath. An intuitive consultant needs to be able to ‘read’ the customer from the inside out, and not the other way round. They need to be able to highlight the stuff that is hurting or holding the customer back, to be able to outline the different pathways that lie ahead, and to explain why certain things are being expressed. Insight is almost more important than the predictions, in some ways. I have an excellent track record for accurate long – term prediction, but the fact still remains that if we do A one thing will happen, and if we do B another thing will happen. The power of choice always lies in the customer’s hands.  

There are those who only want the services of a fortune teller. They don’t want to hear about the potential choices, or the things they probably need to change. They just want to hear something they like the sound of, or doesn’t demand too much from them. That is absolutely fine, of course. However, I have worked hard to prevent myself from being tarred with this brush, as it does not represent the service I offer.

There are those who use science as an argument against the validity of intuitive work, but I believe that a true scientist has an open, massively curious mind, rather than one that is closed. There is so much that science is still trying to figure out, and if you check out YouTube videos on stuff like string theory and black holes, you’ll view and hear about things that are way more outrageous and mind – blowing than any boring old intuitive could come up with! And we didn’t even really know that there was a universe, until 1925, according to a science show I recently listened to on radio 4. I was gobsmacked, and looked it up on the internet. Of course, it wasn’t as simple as saying “Oh, look, there’s the universe”, but still, we learned something huge, less than 100 years ago, that we didn’t know before…..and that is something that is going to happen again and again, thankfully!

There are those who say things like “I only believe what I can see”….well good for you, is my response. I can’t wait to spend time with you, having some great, inspirational conversations…not.

There are those who have never invested one second in the research of the subjects they have so many opinions about, including intuition. They are usually the ones on Facebook For Sale sites, leaving what they believe to be ground – breaking, never – heard – before, caustic comments, after my ads. Oh, we’ll all listen to you, and be influenced by your uneducated views on subjects you have not researched or experienced, and about people you have never met or spoken with…not. And I think that about covers everything I wanted to say, today, on the subject of intuitive work!  

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