|Best tea bags in the world but hopeless for fortune telling|
My mother used to read the tea leaves for friends, neighbours and a few paying clients. The family income dived when tea bags came in. Such is the cruel shrug of progress. I am only mildly superstitious except for anything to do with shoes on tables, harming of spiders,greeting of magpies, ladders, saying the word rabbits on the first of the month, spilling of salt, breaking mirrors, umbrellas indoors, changing a garment if inside out, my supernatural connection with rooks and general odd persons carrying scythes. I think I’m in the normal range.
|blessed by a winged messenger|
Of course, there are always the omens. My whole family needed a healthy daily dose of soothsaying omens. My mother and her sister would often see shapes in clouds or interpret the cluck of a chicken or growl of a dog as a guiding word. Richer people had psychoanalysts and stockbrokers to advise them. My aunt was once struck by a huge squirt of pigeon poo as she walked into the Bingo Hall. She won the regional jackpot that night and bought a colour television. She loved it so much she hardly left the house again. Needless to say, the winged excremental messenger never chose her again.
|The hand of the Universe strokes me|
Imagine my feelings today as these memories flood back. As I walked to the shops a sight greeted me from the pavement. It was a supernatural and inexplicable omen. There on the pavement was a dice, face up showing a score of six. Come on guys – tell me that is not an omen! How did the bloody thing get there?
I picked up the dice and of course it will always be with me. I needed to cross the road and for once there was no traffic. As I scampered across the tarmac a great dollop of bird shit splattered on my tracksuit bottoms.Tell me that the Universe has not twisted itself into position to show me these omens. I just know that in the next little while something astounding is going to happen. Perhaps I’ll sell a book or someone who isn’t a spammer will read this blog. If this be not an omen, never was there fate nor no bird ever shat. (Apologies to the bard’s sonnet 116).
Emma Thinx: Before you chance your arm – arm your chances.