Sunday, May 17, 2009


I sometimes work in pub, a faded old Victorian pile of decaying grandeur on a lane immortalised by Paul McCartney, it no longer has a barbershop but, rather topically, boasts a centre for paranormal study at one end.

It was during a night shift last Thursday night that a series of unusual events took place, which have since prompted me to reconsider the state of my spiritual health. Having sent my colleague, Amy, home after her boyfriend dumped her in a text message, I was working on my own when a couple approached the bar. The man was strangely forgettable, his companion, on the other hand, made an immediate and strong impression, asking if there were any bedrooms for hire. She was, as she proudly announced for everyone to hear, in desperate need of sex and subsequently went on to explain that she was a psychic healer and introduced herself as Rose.

After cleansing a few auras by the bar, Rose and her beau sat down at a secluded table and I forgot about them for a couple of hours as the pub filled up. Later, when I found a rare moment to clear some tables, I found Rose sitting on her own looking rather forlorn. I approached her, but before I had a chance to say anything, she demanded that I go and look for her companion in the men’s toilets. I don’t like men’s toilets at the best of times, and considering the ilk of some of the patrons that evening, I would have rather gauged my own eyes out with a teaspoon than go in there. Rose did not respond well at all to my refusal, so I rang a robust Irish fellow who lives locally and requested his imminent attendance, being Irish I assumed that he would take sozzled mystics in his stride. He arrived moments later with his good lady wife, both of them suffering all manner of abuse, spells and curses cast upon them as they patiently led Rose outside.

After last orders I popped my head out the door and saw Rose performing the aura cleansing routine on my friends wife. Before I had a chance to return to the relative safety of the bar, Rose spotted me and insisted she re-align my chakras. I was, and still am, more than hesitant towards having my spiritual configuration messed with, but was even more unwilling to face another spate of Roses wrath. So with an immeasurable amount of trepidation I submitted myself to the procedure.

She began by running her hands over my aura without comment, but with some difficulty, as Rose is very short indeed and I am sniffing 5 feet 9 inches. Then she knelt down on the ground and took hold of my feet, which were clad in a pair of converse all stars that possibly had a higher alcohol content than Rose, so ale sodden were they after countless trips to the beer cellar. However, she didn’t seem to mind and continued upwards, commenting only on the pitiful state of my lower back. Somewhere around my solar plexus she exclaimed Hes not the one, you think he is, but he’s not! Who’s not the one? I thought, not knowing anyone I believe to be the one, or ever having known anyone I believed to be the one, quite frankly.

As she reached my heart chakra she stopped and looked me straight in the eye, as though shed suddenly sobered up, and shrieked. She looked genuinely upset as she collected her belongings off the floor and announced that she had to stop because it was making her feel sick, my heart chakra made her feel sick, and she ran away into the night.
Although I know that Roses nausea had more to do with her small frame and vast alcohol intake and was pleased that she had finally left, the whole episode has left me wondering whether it might be possible that I am, in fact, pure evil and beyond any redemption.

Mia Tagg 2009®

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