Get ready to rock that bottom.
“SO how long have you known you’re a white witch?” the psychic asks me over her shoulder as we hurry through the pub for my 10-minute sesh in a back room. As opening lines go I reckon it’s up there with “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me”.
One archangel, a medieval past-life and a recommendation that I sit star-shaped in grass later, I’m moving on to the tarot reader. She bears an unnerving resemblance to Jacki Weaver in Animal Kingdom as she pins me with a stare and says: “You think you’ve reached rock bottom already, but you haven’t.”
Predicting a spell in rehab and a short-lived career selling drugs for bikers, she doesn’t pull her punches. What’s more, she seems to be almost imperceptibly vibrating her head as she cranes closer, giving off a weird strobe effect. Although my friends didn’t report the same.
“You’ve had two abortions … no … miscarriages … no … you can’t have children because of all the drugs … no … you don’t WANT children!” she finishes triumphantly as I finally give a weary nod.
“You think men are only good for one minute; you tend to flip either way [for the record, I’m quite particular about only flipping one way] and you’re fed up of being told to just get over it.” She fixes me an extra beady one. “I hate the way the English treat their children; you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
Jeez, when psychics see your tattoos they usually just deduce you’re “creative”. Someone’s been watching too much Underbelly, I’d wager. ‘Jacki’ did nail my upbringing with further detail, but then, I can immediately sniff out someone with a story like mine, too – you don’t have to be a psychic, or a grifter.
Keeper? I’m kicking myself for not asking the psychics what I picked off the menu. Dinner was nice though, and the combination of the coffee and being told I was soon to gorge myself on hard drugs left me buzzing.
Hey man, now you're really living 
brilliant! (the experience, not the predictions)