I’ll never know what ‘Luck’ my psychic protector had predicted
To click or not to click... that is the question, when it comes to some emails in your inbox.
He stared uneasily at me and then looked at the latest in the series of missives which have been arriving in my inbox from the Certified Medium, Authentic Tarologist and Adept in Sacred Magic who has designated herself my personal psychic medium and protector.
“How did this start?” he wanted to know. I didn’t exactly recall, I lied. In truth, shortly after Christmas while deleting junk emails, I came across a message from this person. Eh, maybe I was feeling a bit apprehensive about what 2023 would bring. Maybe some of those worrying predictions by Moore’s Almanac and so on had gotten under my skin. You know, all that stuff about a great financial re-set, a run on the banks, weird things that could be happening along the western seaboard, and even something about aliens.
“You must remember all that,” I said. “I told you about it at the time.”
Weird predictions are not my husband’s thing. He lives in the here and now. He stared at me. I sighed. It was not impossible that I could have sort of accidentally signed myself up, I admitted. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that I could have done that. The New Year is a funny time, I argued. He looked at me cautiously.
Em, yeah, I confessed, though I’d mostly only given them a quick skim and then deleted them. There was never much in them, like - only stuff about miracles happening in my astral sky and enormous sums due to arrive in my bank account, and how I’m supposed to release my second astrological house, whatever that is.
“All of which have clearly happened,” he said sarcastically.
Then: “Did you click on any links?”
Oh no, I said, nervously, The last email was interesting though, I said, a bit desperately. She had good news for me, news which it emerged had mysteriously manifested during a visit to an old friend called “Patrick” who was a “druid” that my psychic medium and protector has apparently known for 20 years. Herself and Patrick had some very good news for me, she said.
“Yeah,” he observed, “as you’ve said. I thought you only gave them a quick skim.”
“Well,” I said defensively, “mostly. But we all like a bit of good news.”
Why, my husband asked, would this individual mention me, somebody in a different country whom she has never even met, to her wise old friend Patrick the Druid? The email, he noted, came from somewhere called Irish Place in Gibraltar. Was I losing it? he enquired. Had I suddenly become, for example, a few bricks shy of a load? I bridled.
“No need for that,” I said. We read on, him with increasing impatience, me with increasing embarrassment. Patrick the Druid, apparently, is a very good friend of this lady. He had, she revealed, “ultra-sensory abilities,” whose batteries he likes to recharge “in nature” and “particularly in the forest near to his home”.
Did Patrick the Druid live in Gibraltar too? This was not made clear. Did they even have forests in Gibraltar, I wondered. I had this idea that it was a big rock.
In the email, my self-appointed psychic protector explained that when she visits Patrick, they “have the habit of going together to this forest.” This time, the email reported they “did the same thing… and something incredible happened.”
Oooh, my husband said avidly.
“A bit of the old rumpy pumpy going on here, eh?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I snapped.
He sniggered. The two psychics had placed their hands at the same time on a tree, and experienced the same vision at the same moment! The vision, it emerged, was of me.
Patrick the Druid and my psychic protector saw me “smiling and happy” and both felt emboldened to declare aloud and in unison, my Christian name.
“Jesus,” said my husband, whose inbox is filled with emails from Tools Today about new router bits and discount deals from Fine Woodworking
We read on. When Patrick the Druid and my psychic protector looked more closely at the tree where their hands were still placed they saw a symbol engraved on the bark. It was a four-leafed clover!
“FFS” my husband said. After discovering this amazing Celtic symbol in this forest in some unknown part of the world near Patrick’s house, the duo deduced that I had entered an advantageous period of luck.
The altruistic Patrick immediately requested my psychic protector to provide me with a “Talisman of the Celtic Knot”. Thanks to this talisman, Patrick believed, Ailin could “fully prosper from this incredible and infinite Luck that’s holding its hand out.”
“Why are they writing luck with a capital L,” my husband inquired. He noted that I was offered the opportunity to click a link to see a recording of this mystic forest encounter.
“Did you?” he demanded.
“No,” I swore. “I swear I didn’t.”
We read on.
My psychic protector currently had this amazing talisman in her possession. All I had to do was – yes – ask her for it by clicking on another link.
“You didn’t – did you?” my husband said very anxiously, peering closely at the screen.
I swore I hadn’t and really, I hadn’t. I’m not that stupid.
“Look,” he said, “there’s a button where you can unsubscribe. Press it.”
“But then I won’t get any more emails about Luck with a capital ‘L’ and four-leaved shamrocks and mystic forest encounters and Talismans and Celtic Knots,” I protested.
My husband pressed the unsubscribe button and stamped off back to his shed. And, as yet, that’s the closest I’ve gotten to Gibraltar… or to any of it.
App?
