Psychic Cycles

I had a dream last night that I was one of those psychics, you know the type... the ones that take money off the gullible and then tell them stuff that they want to hear, about stuff they already know!

Anyway, in this dream, given that I’d discovered I might be psychic, I decided to have my own show. I even advertised its time and place in the local paper thus demonstrating my new found powers of prediction and being able to see into the future.

I took the stage on my first night as ‘Mystic Paddy’ and I have to say I was nervous - but I knew I would be. The crowd numbered well over 150, which means... there were nearer 200. I started my routine by dimming the light... well, I didn’t, the stage electrician did but the crowd loved it as I raised my hand in a signal to him and somehow they thought I had done something spooky already. They were up for spooky! Immediately I knew I was on a winner.

I then said, “I’m getting a letter... the letter ‘F’. Yes... the letter ‘F’ and there’s a dog... yes, a dog running down a path and there’s... “A simple everyday occurrence. Somebody had to bite. They did. 

Immediately a voice called out, “I’ve got a dog. Fido... he’s called Fido.”

It crossed my mind that this was too easy. People were willing to tell me stuff and pay me to hear it regurgitated back at them! I decided I had to make the performance more intriguing and suspenseful if it was that easy.

“Fido, you say? No... I’m not getting Fido. Definitely an ‘F’ though, and... wait, yes, an ‘E’ as well.”

Another voice from the audience. “My mother’s dog... Fergie... he died in a plane crash over two years ago. Is it....?”

“A plane crash?” A tad unusual for a dog, I thought.

“Yes... he was chasing sheep in a field in Australia when the flying doctor was trying to land and clipped him with a wheel.”

I took a deep breath and then paused for dramatic effect and said, “No, it’s not Fergie... " I raised my arms in the air and spread my hands wide as if embracing the audience. “Wait... yes, I hear something... "  The audience hushed. “... it’s an Irish accent... I closed my eyes tight and began to speak, as if in ‘tongues'... “Feck... get off that feckin postman yer fecker."

The audience was silent. I glanced to my left. One of the stage hands was making a drink sign with his hand.

“A tea,” I said, before I realised I hadn’t muted the mic.

“My uncle Tommy,” a woman’s voice shouted out. “He had an Irish wolfhound that was always attacking visitors. He passed on ten years ago. He was knocked down and run over by the postman.”

I jumped on the information straight away. “Ah, yes, I see him now. Laying there, his tongue hanging out as his last breath left him. A crowd around him, patting his shaggy grey coat -"

“It was summer,” the woman said. “Tommy never wore a coat in summer and sure I never remember him havin' a grey one anyway. And the bloody stupid dog was lickin' his face trying to get him to wake up.”

“Uh, yes... Tommy... " I had to style it out. “Tommy sends his love to you and your family and is glad the dog is well.”

The woman looked surprised. “Does he? I hated the bastard and I can tell you he was no family man. And I had the bloody stupid dog put down a week after the funeral. Sure if I hadn’t I’d never have seen any post again.”

I swallowed hard. “No, you’re right. It’s the dog that’s... yes, uh... sending his love and hopes you and the family are... you know, keeping well. Sometimes these messages get mixed when people and animals are close.”

I had to move on. “I feel a lot of energy in this room tonight.” I paused again. Then decided to proceed cautiously. “I’m getting a... the name Smith... yes, Smith. Is there anyone here by the name of Smith?” There wasn’t. “Wait... it’s definitely an ‘S’... Sue... Susanne... Sues... anne... ,” I said, which suddenly gave me three name options.

“Anne,” a voice said from near the front.

I wiped my brow and tried to focus. “Yes, Anne. I’m seeing... a mother... a father... they... "

Anne was nodding. She was around seventy-five years old so it was safe to assume her parents were not in the audience. “... they were close,” I said. I guess they had to have been at one time if they had a daughter.

Anne nodded again.

“Uh... a grandmother and grandfather...” I said, pushing it further. They definitely couldn’t be in the audience.

Anne smiled and nodded some more. I had a connection but needed to know what to do with it. “I see a bicycle... ". One of the family surely had to have had one. The connection spanned well over a hundred years which took us past the motor car. “Your parents or grandparents had a bicycle, Anne. I sense it. They are sending you energy and kindness.”

Anne wiped a tear away. “My father... he had a bicycle... for work.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes... I see him now. He loved his bike and used to ride it all -"

“But they took it away... when... when he was jailed,” Anne said.

“Err... jailed?”

“Jailed for running over a customer... he was a postman and... "

Her voice trailed off as she broke down.

I woke with a start. I don’t usually remember dreams that vividly!

(N.B. No dogs were hurt in the making of this dream. Stunt dogs were used. It should be said that no humans were hurt either.)