Thursday, July 18, 2013
In Brighton, where I have been intensely occupied listening to seagulls. They have been in full voice here, even at midnight, when the ululation bears no resemblance to the cat's mew or querulous chatter one sometimes hears in the day.
Attending to these has not really left room for much else, but yesterday I found myself (don't ask) sitting in a white room with a psychic medium who claimed to have a message for me from a dead relative whose name began with B. If there were any possibility of finding a connection I would have done so, even with going into second and last names, but of B there was no-one I could bring to mind, nor of the colour orange and pots of marmalade which were manifesting somewhere in the astrality. I would very much like to have heard from my communist/atheist father-in-law who made a promise that when he passed over and if the possibility ever presented itself then he would communicate, with a very particular message that we agreed on. But his name began with O and we never touched on the subject of marmalade, though he did eat it on toast every morning for breakfast. There was another message for me - not from B but a different entity - which was a suggestion that I take my aged mater to tea. Joke? Mater did actually ring me a couple of days ago to say that her deranged spouse ("he's nuts") had gone out and so the coast was clear for a visit - but there wouldn't have been time for me to get there before his return. The seagulls have been talking endlessly about all this, debating between themselves about the best way to proceed, but so far there has been no consensus.
Went to my first ever proper wine-tasting last week - arranged by the Signs children as a post-birthday treat for their dad. I am not a wine sophisticate. All I ask is that my whites are crisp and clean and my reds are smooth and mellow, and I seem to miss the subtler 'notes'. Perhaps it is something like being colour-blind or tone-deaf, I just don't get the essence of berry, leather or earth that the others picked up. The exception is perhaps Rioja, which to my mind tastes of my dad because it was his favourite wine. I couldn't drink much and didn't feel like availing myself of the spittoon, so took a couple of sips and shared the rest out - apart from the dessert wine, which I loved because it tasted of honey. Even so it was enjoyable hearing our Guide talk us through the various wines. I love an Enthusiast and it almost doesn't matter what the subject is, though tasting as one goes along does give substance to it.
The real question, when all is said and done, he said as we neared the end of our session, is: does this wine make my life better?
A first response might be that this is a big ask of a bottle of wine. But what a fabulous question. And how might it be if one applied this to almost everything? Obviously the morning cup of coffee would get an unequivocal thumbs up, but the cigarette begins to get complicated. Yes - but then again possibly no. And when applied to human relationships - where to begin? There are, as I am sure the psychic medium would agree, a whole tangle of karmic as well as emotional cords that bind us to each other and every grown-up fule kno that "life isn't all ha ha hee hee".
I am prepared to compromise. If not actually life-enhancing, then at least it has to be quaffable or at any rate not downright unpleasant. Anything sour and toxic? Spit it out and don't have any more of it. And finish up with something that brings a taste of honey.