EVER SINCE CHILDHOOD, I’ve had an interest in all things otherworldly.
I loved ghost stories, read my horoscope religiously, planned seances in my home – my mam shut that one down fairly swift – and was particularly superstitious for someone who had yet to learn how to spell the word.
And as an adult, I haven’t changed much, if at all.
While I might only read my horoscope once a year if that, I have a fascination with traits and characteristics attributed to starsigns.
I’m still wildly superstitious and will do my level best not to incur the wrath of the universe by saluting magpies, knocking on wood and throwing salt over my shoulder.
And while I no longer think holding a seance in my home is appropriate, that didn’t stop me from visiting a psychic based in the midlands during my final year in college.
I’d heard good things about this bloke.
I’d heard he’d read your aura as soon as look at you. I’d been told he’d know your mam’s name within five seconds of meeting you. And I had it on good authority that a friend’s mam’s co-worker nearly nosedived after the session such was the intensity of it.
And he only charged €40 for the privilege.
€40 to be told my mam’s name was Doreen and I might crack my head off a barstool upon leaving? I mean, where did I sign?
So, on a particularly grim winter’s evening about six years ago, myself and my friend drove 50 miles from our home, determined we’d return with everything we needed to know about our respective futures.
On the journey, we reminded ourselves of the praise which had been heaped upon this bloke by friends of friends of friends.
And since when did friends of friends of friends get it wrong?
Circling the town for the guts of 20 minutes, we finally located the pub, pushed the door open and were met by one lone man sitting at the bar, flicking desultorily through a red-top.
He glanced up briefly, and then returned his gaze to the paper.
Christ alone knows how he managed to read it; the lighting in the pub was about as dim as it gets before you reach ‘dining in the dark’ territory.
Shuffling awkwardly at the door, myself and my friend silently urged each other to step forward, but never moved more than an inch from where we were standing.
Instead, we jostled with each other and ended up looking like a pair of toddlers who needed to wee, but didn’t want to tell anyone.
Now that we were there, we felt like a pair of eejits.
I didn’t want this lad at the bar to know I had any truck with fortune-telling; but I did have two crisp €20 notes in my bag, and for weeks I knew how I wanted to spend them.
I didn’t want to go, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay either.
Thankfully, someone appeared behind the bar at that moment, and we awkwardly fell on them, hissing the name of the psychic we knew was lurking in the back room.
Without batting an eyelid, she pointed us in the direction of a booth at the back of a pub.
Squinting we made our way towards it, sat down, and smiled tightly at one another.
This was it, lads.
My time to be told my mother’s name and then swiftly get a concussion was finally upon us, and I was ready.
My name was called, I rose from my seat, walked towards a door to the back, took a step down, turned left, took a step up and was summoned into a small room.
Mother of Jaysus, it was the infamous ‘backroom’. I was finally in the ‘backroom’.
I sat down and instantly felt like an utter gobshite.
While I wasn’t exactly expecting crystal balls, headscarves and dry ice, I was hoping for a little more… well… theatrics.
It had been so dark in the pub, I couldn’t be sure whether the old lad propping up the bar and reading about wardrobe sales when we arrived was now sitting in front of me claiming he could tell my future.
My mind ran to the poor unfortunate who lost her footing after her reading, and I wondered whether she was simply hoping to create a little drama.
My reading was, as I’m sure you can now tell, underwhelming.
He said ONE thing which resonated with me, but without giving away too much away, it could have been applied to any Irish family. And no, it wasn’t about the immersion.
Aside from that, he threw out generic remarks regarding my life, my future and my relationships.
And I didn’t collapse.
Well, to be fair, I came close when parting with my €40, but I maintained my last shred of dignity, paid the man, rose from the table and walked stiffly from the backroom to the pub.
‘It didn’t really work for me,” I told my friend with a shrug of my shoulders on the journey home.
With no discernible bruises to her head, I knew it hadn’t really worked for her either.
Upon arriving home, I told my father where I had spent my evening.
“You pair need your heads examined,” he replied.
That’s the thing though, we didn’t.
