Remotely interested… and with nothing to lose (well £60 but that’s debateable)

When an offer to assist in the shovelling comes along (remember readers I’m in a rut) it would be fatuous to decline. And so it came to be a fortnight ago that I was sat perched on the edge of my seat peering at the small screen on my iPhone as it balanced precariously wedged between a coffee mug and pen holder.

At the appointed hour, my Skype caller appeared to me. An innocuous-looking lady with a disarming smile introduced herself. While she could do Angel readings, I would not be receiving a celestial forecast. I was there for the colour healing/unblocking. I’ll have you know, as I had her know, that this was not my first encounter with chakras. Many years ago, totally lost and desolate at the end of a long relationship, I sought out the services of a colour healer. I knew I needed help but couldn’t bear voicing how I was feeling. I was weary from wearing my pain every day, from waking to it each morning. My only release came with sleep. Until I visited a lady in a Dublin suburb, said little, lay on her treatment bed and got lost in the sounds of wood pipes. An hour later I floated out of her home and back to my life full of hope, no sign of woe. There were no relapses just steady progress as I regained my form and more.

Once again, I’ve felt the need of a healer.  Time has moved on and with it mediums I suppose. It did feel a little odd that we wouldn’t be meeting in person. She tried to make me comfortable in my own home. “Get yourself in a relaxed position. If you’d prefer to lie on your sofa or on the floor, please do.”  Well, I don’t do ‘at ease’ so we agreed to proceed with me still perched on the edge of my seat. Colette could see, metaphorically speaking, that I was cowering in a  heavy grey blanket. This is not good. Black would have been a funeral shroud so this grey hue is not good at all. It was icy cold to boot, a sign that it had been around me for some time.

While we spoke Colette’s arms flagged wildly like she was wading through sugar cane with a machete.  I was to try to ignore this. As I was unpeeled in this fashion, I spoke about what was on my mind. I talked about my future.  About the crossroad I find myself at again as my son settles comfortably into his reception class . I jumped from one half-baked business idea to another hair-brained scheme, from one fear to another hope. Colette can call on clairvoyance and this was channelled too. I must have mentioned to her that I viewed my redundancy as a blessing, a gift. She recited this back to me and I do want to hold on to that thought. My redundancy IS a gift. She suggested I would become a portfolio person -the jack of all trades I’ve channelled before.  I’ve seen this as a weakness, it would become my strength. I would not get my income from a single source but from many. I need not choose or dismiss one interest but mine several strands.

When she felt she had unravelled all those layers of grey and set my chakras spinning  again, she started to wind up our session.Was that all or was there anything else she could fix? Did I mention that Colette dabbles in regression therapy? She’s a midwife too but I wouldn’t be requiring those services in the near or distant future. I told her I felt I had an issue around money. A healer had said as much to me before. Negative associations I have about money are stopping me from making much of my own. Like thinking that rich people are mean and too much money is vulgar. So Colette thought about my money admissions and said it was little wonder.  In a past life I lived in a bourgeoisie family in France. My parents wanted me to wed a very wealthy landowner. He was old and ugly. I was 15. I refused and lived out my days as a nun in a convent instead. Colette prescribed a combination of chin tapping and affirmations or EMT (Emotional Freedom Technique) to the initiated. And for the next five minutes I did as she instructed.

My consultation was over. Colette told me I could transfer her fee online and hopefully over the next few weeks feel the benefits of all this healing.

And do I feel the lift? I think so. At any rate I feel no worse, though I am £60 worse-off.  Mind you if I keep up the tapping and mantras I should recoup this, right?


If only mine was signposted

From damsel in distress to damsel in this dress…

An indicator of the passing of time is the tailing-off of wedding invitations. This ‘slow-down’ started about a decade ago and was welcomed at first. I’d served my time as bridesmaid, witness and escort. I’ve sat at top tables and on the perimeters at ‘acquaintance’ ones. I’ve danced til dawn and hailed carriages before midnight. Little wonder I developed wedding-fatigue. And hen night horror. By the time I’d get to look at store gift lists there were just the white goods left (expensive). I’ve only been to one wedding local enough that I could get a cab home. All old concerns now. They preceded a dearth of invites during a lengthy hiatus. These days wedding invitations are a novelty. A rarity. So when a BFF names her day and it’s to take place in France this summer, there’s great excitement.

When the bride-to-be asks if I’d help her choose her dress, it’s a real honour. And an adventure because she happens to live in Belgium so that’s where we’d to shop.With great power comes great responsibility. Voltaire wasn’t talking about shopping for a wedding gown but he could well have been.  I was relieved when I found out the responsibility would be shared. She’d tasked another pal too.

Our bride is pretty and slim – the perfect clothes horse. In fact we correctly predicted that she’d look stunning in many of the dresses. Good ankles, knees and collarbone, there’d  be no need for cover-ups. For a steer I checked out a few wedding blogs and bought one of those doorstop wedding magazines to take over with me. This one showcased 745 dresses within the covers.

Easter week I left from Euston on Eurostar. I’d cobbled together childcare with DH agreeing to work from home. My return ticket was for 3 days later. I’d never been through the Eurotunnel before. What a revelation. I wish the world was connected by a series of burrows. There’s something terribly civilised and terrifically emancipating about travelling by train.  In a little over two hours I was in my pal’s car en route to her beautiful home. It wasn’t just driving on the wrong (i.e.right) side of the road that announced my arrival in Europe. It was that je ne sais quoi. In London if I run out of milk I dash to my corner shop – Costcutters – where I distract my kids from grabbing garish toffees and detach them from the latest edition of Moshi monsters magazine.  In Brussels, she saunters to the Sardinian delicatessen whose stylish striped awning we can see from her kitchen. The proprietor humours her toddlers and rewards them with salted cracker samples. We are the ones tempted – by oils and cheeses and fine wines.

When I meet my pals for coffees in England, I’m sure to get my loyalty card stamped and how I revel in that free coffee, ten drinks on. In Belgium a coffee order will come with a truffle or miniature eclair or muffin on a saucer. Gratis. I love it!

With the children dropped off at nursery, we hit the bridal stores. Our bride set up these appointments days in advance.  We knew what we didn’t want and when THE dress appeared we knew straight away that it was the one. From a bridal emporium we visited in Antwerp. On day one. But we stuck to our schedule and fulfilled the other consultations before returning to Antwerp the morning we were to depart for London.

Lovely but not lovely enough

Hoping the dress (with bride in) was as we’d first viewed it. It didn’t disappoint. Group hug and a tray with champagne and glasses to toast the choice. She looks beautiful in the frock and with a little more tinkering (alterations, starching and a bespoke corset) will look even more so at the chateau in Lyon. Elegant, classy, sophisticated, dazzling, svelte. As we toasted our bride, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Huge relief. Fait accompli.