Updated: Apr 22, 2022
As a dear friend once said to me "2019 was a funny old year", I have to agree, looking back it's been a tad bit more than that.
2019 was my Annis Horribilus and it's also the year I promised my husband I would write my autobiography. Well, for those of you who know me, I hate talking about myself so to write an autobiography, well, seemed ludicrous. Not to mention really uncomfortable. It's now 2021, and still, I haven't worked out how to begin my autobiography.
I used to say to Glenn (my husband), 'who would be interested in me?' No one would want to read about me. Add to this, the thought of writing a book about myself was a really scary prospect, Glenn however, continued in his last few days before he died, asking me to promise I'd write my book. Such was his belief and love for me and spirit, and yet, the thought of writing about me filled me with dread. I did, however, promise him as he lay dying in my arms that I would write my book.
I don't think I didn't want to write an autobiography because I have dark secrets hiding somewhere. Nor is it because I'm afraid of ridicule or rejection.
"If you have critics, that's when you know you're famous - Sharon Osbourne.
I think it's because to write a true autobiography about yourself, you have to be willing to face yourself, warts and all and objectively look at and review your life thus far. I am sure there have been times when we have wanted the ground to open up and swallow us for one reason or another, so sharing your story with the world, well that's a completely different ball game. I mean you don't mind being a complete and utter prat and letting your friends know about some of your embarrassing moments, but the world? Ugh, God no!
I remember thinking about how to begin writing an autobiography. Talking with spirit is as natural as thinking, and I'm blessed that when I'm floundering, often words of wisdom or inspiration will be given to me as I'm about to fall asleep, or more often than not, I fall asleep and they wake me up to tell me something. Just what you want when you're shattered... Not!!
Not long after Glenn had passed, a memory of my old secondary school English teacher Mr D, came to my mind. He was an ex-military man who whilst teaching us English would simultaneously be practising his golf swing with his walking stick. He used to often say to us "A good essay, play or book must always have a beginning, a middle and an end. I couldn't think how to begin my story, what to put in the middle and how to close it either.
That evening, I was not pleased to be woken up hearing spirit say "How can you begin a story when in reality, there is no beginning, no end, there just is". Well isn't that just bloody marvellous I thought. It was one of those moments where yet again, I wondered if being psychic, intuitive, a nutjob, whatever you want to call it, was still a gift or a curse. However, that did get me thinking about what my first recollection of being intuitive was.
You see since I can remember, I've always seen people and animals that others around me didn't see. So it's never been about when did my intuitive skills begin, like spirit said, there wasn't really a beginning it just was.
Looking back, all of my life spirit has supported, guided and protected me. I suppose they have been the only 'real' constant in my life. I haven't always liked being intuitive, in fact, for the vast majority of my life, I often felt being intuitive was a curse.
One of my earliest recalls of seeing spirit was when I was about four or five years old. I was born into an average Yorkshire working-class family. We weren't religious, we were one of those typical British families who only went to church for Baptisms, Weddings and Funerals. Dad was a clerk at British Steel, my mother whilst I was young was a stay-at-home mum and she took care of me and my sister Susan. At night, dad had a second job, he was an entertainer/musician.
We lived in a Yorkshire village called Brinsworth and in the early 60's it was an upcoming small village. It was blessed with a grocer, chemist, butcher, post office, handyman's shop, newsagents, bank and its own fashion shop for women run by a woman called Anne.
It was a shop where you could put a little bit of money down and keep paying every week until you had paid for the items and then on final payment, you'd get your goods. Mum called it 'Laid Away Goods'. Christmas time at Anne's was one of the highlights for the women in the village. Anne was known to put out mince pies and serve Sherry to her customers, it was the nearest thing to the height of sophistication one could probably get in Brinsworth. It was also the only time men would go in the shop because free booze was on offer in the form of a whisky for men. Look back, you have to hand it to Anne, she really knew how to get people to shop in her store at Christmas. The more they shopped, the more drink they got.
Anyway I digress, Mum had gone to see what special offers were on and dragged me along with her. Mum was greeted at the door by one of the servers, handed a mince-pie and a glass of sherry whilst she 'perused' the counters and clothes rails. The owner Anne came to chat with my mother, so I was placed on a chair to sit patiently and wait until mum had finished her visit. As mum was chatting away, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man dressed rather oddly walk up behind the owner, peer over her shoulder and smile at me. He stood there for quite some time, I tugged on my mum's coat and when mum looked at me, I asked her why that man was wearing a dress. The owner Anne spun around looking around her and my mum asked me what I meant.
I described the man to my mum and the dress he had on. At that point, the man smiled and said to me 'tell her it's Harold and I just want her to know I'm here and I'm fine." Anne went as white as a sheet, clutched the garment rail and through gritted teeth said to my mum, "You ought to teach your child not to say such wicked things." she then turned on her heels and went into the back of the shop.
I looked at my mum and asked what I had done wrong. I felt very bad. My mum hugged me and said not to worry I hadn't done a bad thing. The man was still there and he said 'Don't get upset love, she isn't ready yet, that's all." I turned back to tell my mum what Harold had said and when I looked back he'd gone.
When we got home, It appears Harold was a relative of Anne's and he had died during an operation the week before. The dress I had seen was in fact, a hospital gown. according to my dad.
I felt very blessed that my parents never put down my spiritual experiences as just being an over-active imagination. Dad used to ask if I was doing my voodoo stuff, or consulting the dearly-departed, he didn't really believe in spirit, but thanks to mum, he learnt to accept it, which was good because according to my mum and dad, I would often be found chatting away to invisible friends. My parents didn't seem to mind except for one particular spirit we came to name as 'the grey lady'.
To be continued....
Note to Readers - So guys, should I continue writing my autobiography? Share your thoughts, comments, below if you'd like to read more...