Happy Birthday on Hallowe'en

Before I begin today's post, I just want to share with you my annoyance at being unable to browse the many blogs I love to read. The reason for this is simple. B-bloody-T. We have a bad phone line. Lots of noise which is preventing Broadband from connecting. As I am totally untechnical (you know what I mean) I have to rely on B-bloody-T to sort it out. They have at least detected a fault which could be major and result in me paying a £116 call out charge should they need to fix anything here, at the farm. £116, they can shove where the sun refuses to shine. I hope normal service will resume soon and I apologise for not visiting your blog. I will, however, catch up in due course. Miss Understood, if you are reading this, thank you for visiting my blog today, I will pop over when I'm up and running and not having to use dial up.
Thank you!

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Once more I am distracted as I work. Words are forming easily in my mind as I type, excited at being able to write a little in my book. The window on my left looks out onto the garden with fields beyond. Without warning, someone has tried to open it. The latch lifts off and unlocks by unseen hands. Damn! My eyes missed it, but my ears heard it clearly. I stand up at the window and notice what has happened. There is no way this latch can detach itself unless lifted physically. A little butterfly in my stomach flutters slightly. Now, what does Spirit want.


I am describing a moment of paranormal experience as I write. Did I make a mistake? Am I being corrected? Without further ado, noises appear from the stairs. Someone has made their way up the staircase to join me. I think they may have closed a door somewhere. I stand at the top of the stairs. Will I ever get this page finished? Can Spirit not just guide me as I sit and write, like they do so often.


I am alone in the house. Amy and the farmer have gone for a walk leaving me to snatch an hour or so in front of a white screen. Now all I can think about is the time. I need to find a clock. Seldom do I wear a watch even though I possess several. I decide to investigate where Spirit have tread. Indeed, my suspicions are correct, a bedroom door has been closed. The same door which mysteriously opened the previous night. It is a heavy door. It does not close properly unless the handle is turned and the door is physically forced. It is the door to Jim's old bedroom.


"Dear Jim, we will count the remaining money in the next few weeks. Please rest assured I will take it all to the bank before Christmas. I know that is what you intend me to do. But you have to give me time. I have not forgotten. I have been too busy. When I continue to count the coins, I would love for you to help."


I am beginning to feel more strongly that Jim's soul is grounded within these walls. His energy seeps from each stone. Memories of his life fill each room. As I enter the spare room, I press the light switch. The bulb has drained, again. The room remains in darkness. I think I need to replace the bulb with an energy saving one, as regular bulbs do not last within this space. I close the door again. Properly. Perhaps I will be left to write, now that I have been made aware that I need to buy a new bulb due to the failure of light in the room which was once occupied by a man who was obsessed by time.


I return to my screen. I can no longer concentrate on the words that once flowed from my mind. All I can think about is the light. Darkness has crept upon the house as it now envelops the fields, surrounding the creatures which live in them. This time, I feel somewhat relieved when I hear the farmer and Amy talking in the yard, further orders to the dogs as they arrive at the back door cold and hungry. I abandon my screen. Words will not flow anyway and I feel it is time to feed my family as they pour into the kitchen, calling out my name.

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Being a paranormal enthusiast, in tune with all things unexplained, it came as no surprise to me when my lovely husband, the farmer, announced his birthday was the 31st of October. A Hallowe'en baby, born under a full moon and the influence of a guiding spirit, fifty eight years ago. Unlike me, he has never moved around and has spent his whole life living in one place; this farm. He has never complained. He has always appreciated his surroundings. He has always appreciated life. Two years before we got together, the farmer had a mild heart attack leaving him in pain while on the tractor one afternoon. He spent a week hooked up to machines, smiling at the nurses, seeing the positive side of his experience. He had lived to tell the tale. He would continue to live his life, not to the full, but in the way he had been accustomed to. It had been just twelve months previously that his beloved mum passed and I imagine Jim went through a very difficult few weeks as his eldest son nearly lost his earth life. In those days, two men lived on their own, getting used to a new dawn. Joyce (the farmer's mum) gave life to her son once more, then walked away as his heart resumed its existence.

The farmer has never known riches. He has never experienced extravagance. His love of the farm and his commitment to his work has always made him see the world from a different angle to that of my own. I knew I would find him one day. To have found him in this wonderful place has been a dream come true. For him to have found someone to share his life with, to love him and need him more than he could imagine has been the farmer's path to all the riches I believe he will ever need. Nothing makes us richer than the love of a family and good friends. I can confidently say the farmer and I, not to mention our beautiful daughter, Amy, are truly loaded.

So what is the Jigsaw household doing on Hallowe'en? A party has been planned, just a small one with friends who are visiting from Essex. Amy has a costume to wear, Harry the life size flourescent skeleton is waiting to be hung, apples are ready to be bobbed and someone is going to the Chinese. Tonight may bring some visiting souls, exploring new territory, making new contact. I usually lie in bed wide awake, listening to the radiators cooling down and the floor boards expanding wondering when my attention will be sought. They never disappoint.

Have a happy Hallowe'en, whatever you decide to do. I will look forward to meeting new friends and greeting old ones then I hope to be left to enjoy a good night's sleep. After the witching hour, that is.

An Extract For You

Below is by far the most courageous blog I have posted to date. It is a short extract taken from Chapter two in my novel about a client's visit to the main character of the book. I hope you will enjoy it and remember to keep an open mind throughout. If you wish to comment, please be honest!!

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My client arrived on a windswept Wednesday night, too many clouds in the cold night sky shading the moon from its silvery glow. It could have been a little more atmospheric as Teresa Tate closed her car door. I welcomed her into my home. The heat from the Aga beckoned her to remove a quilted jacket from her back.

“Tea?”

“Excellent!”

“Sugar?”

“No thanks.”

I could sense she was somewhat nervous as she watched tentatively while I filled the kettle. She was eager to get started. I needed to calm her, offer her a little psychological friendship. There was nothing worse than an over enthusiastic client, forever expecting Spirit to appear.

“Let’s sit down for a while,” I suggested, placing two mugs of hot tea on the kitchen table. Mrs Tate’s chair scraped across the tiled floor as she anxiously perched herself upon leather seat. I looked at her. Perhaps I should have offered her a brandy.

“Before we start the reading, I would ask you not to give me any names of family members, or indeed those departed. Should we be fortunate enough to connect with Spirit tonight, I shall give you confirmation of this by giving you information about them. But please don’t be disappointed if no one comes through. It doesn't always happen. We can not order the Spirits to connect, it is their wish only.”

I think she understood. It was time we moved into the reading room, my peaceful space where I would welcome Spirit into my home. This woman had come to me specifically to contact her husband. I knew this the moment we walked into that little room. He stood by the window. His hands stroked the velvet curtains in his bid for me to mention them. He had only eyes for his wife. I might not have been there but for my ability to communicate with him. I could not see his feet, his legs ended mid calf as he appeared to float several inches above the floor. A stocky man, tall and broad shouldered. Grey hair, a few strands of which lapped over his head. His eyes were kind. He wore a black suit and tie, typical funeral attire.

“Sit down, Teresa.”

"I'm a bit nervous," her voice almost gave way to a fraudulent laugh.

“I want to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

“Is he here?” Her sensational enthusiasm overwhelmed me as I tried hard to keep the connection. Trying to ignore her I continued.

“I feel you buried your husband in a velvet lined coffin."

“He’s here isn’t he? Please tell me he’s here.”

“I do believe he is. But please stay calm. Let me see if I can make a better connection.”

The Spirits could often be deterred by anxiousness. I so wanted Mrs Tate to go home that night, content that her husband had visited her and satisfied that the work I offered was legitimate. Sniggers and negativity no longer worried me. I had learned to live with it over the years of my mediumship, but I, like anyone, felt happier if my clients believed my power to communicate with the departed.

Mr Tate stepped forward. Cut off legs hovered above my Axminster carpet as the rest of his body moved to stand beside his wife. He continued to stare at her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shuddered.

“Your husband is at your side.” I psychically encouraged her not to move. He was ready to communicate.

I looked up at him. So did she. Her eyes scanning the corner of the room. She believed he was there, even though she could not see him. I knew I could communicate now, they were both ready.

His voice, strong and deep, emitted in my head. As his lips moved, the sound could only be heard by me, the sound of his breathing as he spoke. If he had not spoken I would have confirmed to his wife that he was happy and well. His eyes told me as much yet now I was hearing his words.

“Your husband wants you to know he is no longer suffering. The cancer has gone and his body feels young again.”

My client began to cry. I should have known she would. It can be a very traumatic time to know a loved one is still around, even though they have left the physical world.

“Teresa?” I asked, with care, my hand resting on her arm. “Why did you put the clock in the hall?”

“He bought me that, just before he died. I wanted to look at it every day so I moved it near the front door.”

“He wants you to replace it with a picture. He does not want you to be upset each time you use the front door.”

She looked disappointed. Perhaps a little annoyed. I begged this soul to relay more information. I needed something to make his wife smile again. Something she could tell her children when they asked about her reading with the medium. Spirit showed me a picture of their wedding day. A black and white photograph in which they looked blissfully happy. I gave her this information, at last making her lips turn up, her eyes sparkle. And then he showed me another photograph. Of a baby. Their baby. A daughter, born to them thirty years previously. I told her about the baby photograph. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“Why is he showing me this photograph?” I asked myself, silently. I did not want Mrs Tate to tell me, even though, as the question had appeared in my mind, I knew there was something sinister in her husband’s confirmation.

I looked at my client. Her face ashen, she looked at me. Her arms folded. Her legs crossed. Spirit took a step backwards. He no longer wanted to comfort his wife. He no longer wanted her to feel his surrounding energy. His eyes had become harsh and the answer was staring me in the face.

“I couldn’t tell him.” Mrs Tate sobbed as we made our way back to the kitchen. Spirit had left the room. Communication had ceased. The reading had drained my energy, taken my soul and used it to punish this woman who wanted so much to make contact with her departed husband.

“Would you like some more tea?”

“No, I need to go home. How much do I owe you?”

I did not read for an individual in order to take money from their trusting hands. It was not my way. I had given this poor woman only half an hour of my time and she stood before me with an open purse. I refused her money. And she changed her mind about the tea.

“It can sometimes be a relief to talk to strangers about your inner most feelings. Your husband will visit again, of that I am sure.”

“The child is not his.”

It was no surprise. The look on Spirit’s face as he backed away from his grieving wife told me why he had come to see her. As he left, he impressed thoughts upon me. Thoughts I was certain would cause more pain for Teresa Tate after she had obviously been through so much already. Had he not been away at sea those thirty years ago, his own brother would not have felt compelled to care for his sister-in-law. She may not have been tempted therefore, to conduct an affair with her brother-in-law of which resulted in the birth of a child. And of course, for three decades, Teresa Tate had allowed her own husband to live as the child’s true father. My vow never to judge remained and I sat down at the kitchen table that night, until 1am, listening to a total stranger reveal the truth about her life as Mrs Tate.

©Copyright CJ 2007

My Family and other Animals

Have you ever heard a sweet little bunny rabbit make a noise? I have. For the first time on Thursday afternoon. Enjoying an autumn walk through our farm fields, Molly suddenly made a desperate dash as if her life depended on it. The noise which interrupted my thoughts was a high pitched squeak, not dissimilar to that of a frightened mouse. A rustle of leaves as four legs skidded to an abrubt halt; target caught, butchered and wriggling for freedom. My heart missed a couple of beats as I pondered my next move. Almost losing my voice, I screamed at Molly to let go of her unfortunate victim then made my way down a rather steep embankment, covering myself with thorns and narrowly avoiding a missed step as leaves gave way beneath my wellies. Molly obediently backed away, Sparky stayed in my grasp on the other end of a very shortened lead. I reached the rabbit. Too late. I had a crazy idea, should it have been alive, to rescue it and carry it back to the house then play nurse. However, it had already been taken care of and I blessed it gently whilst ordering Amy to stay right where she was. Again, too late. My inquisitive daughter had made her way down the embankment to join me in order to give the rabbit a loving stroke, thinking her little hands would heal it and bring it back to life. Unfortunately, she got terribly upset as tears rolled down her rosy cheeks then gave Molly the bollocking of her life. I had to explain that rabbits often died of old age and this one had done just that. The one that Molly had almost eaten was safe and well and on its way back home to play scrabble. I think she bought it. As did the rabbit.

Since returning to what I class as normality, others may beg to differ, my husband, the farmer, has resumed his extra marital affair with the John Deere who roared into action as he took her into the stock field to trim down the thistles. Man and machine once more reunited. I of course, have been reunited with the kitchen sink. Not to mention the washing machine. I have tried to snatch moments on the computer but half term is always somewhat difficult as a hyper active dog and my watchful daughter have competed for my attention, making sure I do not disappear from their sight. I wish to thank all those who have taken the time to read my previous post and those who have commented. I never did get round to replying to my comments but rest assured, I have read each one and appreciate them all.

It has been brought to my attention that I have been meme'd by two fellow bloggers, Kaycie and Kelly (Domestic Godd-esque) and I hope the following paragraphs will cover the answer of which the question is, how did I commence blogging and why do I do it?

The first reason is simple. A very good friend introduced me to blogland, she promised me how rewarding it would be and I am now more than happy that I listened. I have made many cyber friends, some of whom I have met and others of whom I would love to meet. I have tried hard not to become addicted but it has been a challenge. I have neglected my dogs, my daughter, my cat, my husband, my hens and especially the housework. The latter of which is used to it. I have even stopped watching television in the evening unless something extremely worth watching is being shown. Amy has taken to drawing me more pictures which say "I love you" and writing me little notes which have a hint of "where the bloody hell are you, again?" and the farmer has taken to watching the adult channels on Sky. But as I said, I am not addicted.

There are a number of reasons why I blog but rather than bore the pants off you all I will cover just two of them: I am writing a novel. A book which involves ghosts, paranormal context, a little sex (have to be careful in case my mum reads it) and a twist. I love a twist. I have written many short stories and articles but this is the biggie. This is the one I really want to make a difference. Blogging has helped me to write. Reading other blogs, seeing different styles of writing has enhanced my confidence in composing my own work and if (I'd like to say when but better not tempt fate) my book is published, I will have a big dedication to all my blogging buddies who in their own unsuspecting way, have helped.

I also blog because I love to write about my paranormal experiences. Apart from the fact some of the posts I have written will be edited and included in my novel, I like to share the fact that I am a fortunate human being and ocassionally engage with those from an astral plane. To some it is bizarre. To others it is completely ludicrous. To me it is life. My life as I know it to be. I have wondered more often recently if Amy is experiencing a paranormal existence too. Only Wednesday night, five minutes after going to bed, she came into my room to tell me there was someone in her cupboard. "I think it's a monster," she said. "There are no monsters, sweetheart," I replied, partly smiling, partly fuming at the thought of a soul visiting my baby and scaring her. "Then it must be a ghost," she continued.

We checked her wardrobe. I wondered if something had fallen, it is rather full but no signs of any movement were visible. I checked behind the wardrobe, by the door, next to the dressing table. Nothing. She described the noise she had heard as if someone had knocked on her bedroom door. Then I was cross. After kissing her sweet cherry lips and reminding her how much she is loved, I pulled the door, leaving it slightly ajar and went back to my own bedroom, giving a right royal bollocking to the soul who had thought it funny to taunt my baby. The following morning, the bedroom door next to Amy's room was open. That bedroom had once been Jim's.

So there you have it. I talk to astral beings, I talk to myself and my husband talks to his tractor. On the whole, we are pretty normal. And I am not addicted.

A Scottish Tale

To say we have enjoyed our visit to Scotland would be an understatement. Four nights spent at the Hilton Dunkeld, a lavish 18th century manor house built by the Duke of Atholl for his Duchess, now extended and transformed into a luxurious hotel. Exquisite food, fine wine, gentle music played by a concert pianist on a Steinway Grand. Aging trees planted in bygone centuries, left to be admired by future lens; golden rustle falling softly to the ground amidst autumn colours, eyes transfixed as the gentle breeze carries each one on its journey. The River Tay flows proudly along side; salmon and trout occasionally startling as they shimmy upon the clear surface of ice cold water. The mountainous backdrop protects the valley as our dreams glide along after full days and lasting memories. Pine trees line the rock formations, hiding nature as it carries on through years of stillness and tranquillity.








We spent Saturday in the mountains. The Cairngorms National Park; an incredible range of scenery leaving me speechless, my thoughts having been taken over as I revelled in the beauty of the landscape which lay before me. Our journey up to Braemar took us through glens and along tiny streams which end at the road side, water spring fresh. Heather coarsely grows, overwhelming in some places where grouse rummage in silence, camouflaging themselves from a twelve-bore. We got out of the car at Glenshee ski lifts, a small car park which will be buzzing with keenness once the snow has lain its path. There were two cars parked. The silence of the mountain range almost haunted me as I looked around, my ears listened yet my heart was the only sound that I could hear.

We continued our drive through Braemar to a small area known as Invurey, a cluster of woods in which we searched desperately for Capercaillie. A shy bird, they kept their distance; our cameras distracted their peace, clicking, lenses opening and shutting in readiness to capture moving leaves or emitting sounds from behind protruding rocks. Our day was blessed with the mild temperatures and the added bonus of unobscured views. No clouds scattered the empty skies as we were able to splendour at the greatness of the mountains; their heights continually overwhelming us.

As we began our journey back to Dunkeld, the light was beginning to fade. The mountains were becoming silhouetted as we drove with a little more haste to get back to civilisation before darkness fully set in. My thoughts were once again my speech as I looked to my left, my eyes following the dusk upon the mountainside. As my eyes reached the top, the sight which met them left me breathless. The most magnificent creature stood in his prime, roaring to his herd, his antlers majestic in his stance. A Stag; my most favourite of all wild animals. My disappointment at not being graced by his presence earlier was washed away by my gratitude to the Stag for being on the top of that mountain just as I turned my head. He was meant to be there, just for me.

A planned visit was to be our Sunday taken care of. Meeting people for the first time after being cyber connected with them for the past few months. We drove along the opposite side of Perthshire, through more incredible mountain ranges, past Ben Lawers. We got lost of course, having no knowledge of the area and me having a problem with my lefts and rights. I never have been good at navigating and when instructions were given to me in a busy street in Pitlochry that same morning I was quite sure we would lose our way at some stage. However, our car drew up outside a beautiful white cottage, more breathtaking scenery capturing our hearts as we were greeted with open arms and smiling faces.

Our destination was of course to meet dear Westerwitch and her husband, Happy Snaper. Another bonus as Wizzard appeared in a puff of smoke, bright eyed and beaming with kindness. They could not have been more welcoming. We sat down to a delectable chicken dinner, excellent banter and wonderful company. Not forgetting Sassy, their adorable collie who has recently been involved in a most senseless incident and who rubbed herself against my legs asking for some attention of which she got plenty. I wanted to bring her home but they kept a close eye on her as we left, just to make sure we had not smuggled her into the back of the car. As we waved to them whilst driving away I knew it was just until the next time. For I am sure we will meet again, such lovely people can not be forgotten.

That night we had our final meal in the hotel whilst listening to the Ceilidh band play the most addictive Scottish music. The farmer and I having four left feet between us, we sat and watched as kilts and sporrans graced the dance floor with their beautiful wives. The Ceilidh ended at 11pm and we retired to bed, almost as exhausted as those who had entertained us with their expertise, and just as happy.

We got home on Monday afternoon. My little pigtailed princess came running out to me, her arms flinging in all directions through sheer excitement, her smile once more melting my heart. We hugged, we went through the “I’ve missed you’s” and then we got down to business; the present giving. More hugs, more I’ve missed you’s, followed by more hugs. I am glad we went away. We have had a wonderful time. Every minute of each day we have spent in Scotland has been momentous. We will reminisce about this holiday for many years to come. Meeting our friends, seeing my Stag, searching for Capercaillie, admiring the mountains, walking alongside the River Tay and witnessing a truly Scottish gathering whilst savouring luscious food and being treated like royalty in opulent surroundings. And the best bit? Seeing Amy’s face on our return.

See you soon

Well the Farmer and I are off on our travels tomorrow. Dunkeld here we come. Suitcase packed, pony's stable cleaned out, daughter bribed and corrupted. She was not too happy about us going away, I got the tears and the please stay's and the I'll miss you's. But I held my head up high and decided Grandma and Antony will be absolutely fine, they will look after her and most probably spoil her rotten. They seem to have everything sorted. Antony is quite excited at the prospect of being a farmer for five days, not sure my mum is excited at being a farmer's wife but I am sure she will cope.

We have not planned much, this is going to be a quiet break. One of those "if it happens, it happens" kind of holidays. I only hope the hotel is ready for the aroma of sheep. Not that they are coming too you understand, but the smell never leaves you.

When I say we have not planned much, I am of course fibbing. We are meeting up with a fellow blogger. And I am really excited. Possibly as excited as Antony is at playing farms. Maybe even as excited as the farmer will be. On Saturday night. When we have to sit through the Rugby. Our romantic break away, the first we have been on together since our honeymoon and I will be making friends with the mini-bar while the farmer jumps about in a frenzied fashion at the television, when he should be jumping about in a frenzied fashion with me. Not to worry. We are there for four nights.

So it's goodbye from me and it's goodbye from him. Till Monday then, be good.

Crystal xx

A Gift from Beyond

I knew it would be difficult for Jim to leave. He lived in this house for 82 years. He was born in this house. He brought his wife back here after they married and they went on to spend 49 years of marriage within these walls. Her energy seeps from the ancient stones, bringing with it various aromas of cooking and scents. I have met her several times in the six years I have lived here. She passed in February 1998. I always wondered if she waited for her husband, intending to take him onto another place where they would spend eternity together, their wedding vows forever promised. It came as no surprise therefore, when I spent the best part of Friday in Jim's old bedroom, hoovering the new carpet, wiping down walls and reflecting on the six years in which I knew him. I had to keep stopping my chores as Jim spoke to me once again, laughing at me as was his way. I placed an old chair outside the bedroom door while I hoovered, red velvet upholstery lining the seat. He used to enjoy watching me as I worked, my domestic interest was very minimal and it was somewhat of a novelty for him to see me cleaning. As I cleaned near the doorway, leaving the door open slightly, I saw a figure, standing in the hallway. My neck creaked as I turned my head in haste, desperate to catch the manifested spirit.


Jim left a few jars of spare change in his wardrobe. He had saved it for many years and always told me about it, asking me to help him sort it out should I ever find the time. When I first moved onto the farm, in the days when I laughed with Jim, we both sat at the kitchen table one afternoon and sorted through a container of copper coins. That was one of the nicest memories I have of Jim. We sat for three hours, talking and laughing; I told him about myself; he told me about himself. The money we counted came to about £35 and he insisted I keep it and spend it on Amy.


On Friday afternoon, after the cleaning had been done, I sat on the floor in Jim's old bedroom and emptied the coins onto the floor. Jim and I counted them together. We still have much to sort through but that simple chore brought back a rare beautiful memory. I asked Jim to find me another 20p. He did. I told him about the plans I have for his bedroom and how lucky he was to have spent 82 years living where I refer to as Heaven. He always said he never noticed the amazing panoramic views or the peacefulness of the surrounding landscape. As I counted that money, I decided I would spend it on a present for Amy. A gift from Jim. He would have liked that.


On Friday night, the farmer, Amy and myself were in my bedroom. We were talking and watching television at the same time. Spending quality family time together, a rare occurrence in the days of harvest. My daughter astounds me on a daily basis, however, she once more innocently divulged a gentle tale from nowhere, her mind wandering between colouring books and Sponge Bob. "Your mum is Joyce, isn't she, dad." It was a statement, not a question. We both looked at Amy with her head down, concentrating on her latest picture. "How do you know that?" I asked. "She told me," came the reply.


As I took Amy to bed that night I wondered if Joyce had been to see me that afternoon as I cleaned the new spare room. I wondered if it was her that I had seen at the doorway rather than Jim. And I wondered if she had been sat at the kitchen table with us nearly six years ago when Jim and I counted £35 in change. I feel Jim may be grounded in this house. I also feel Joyce may be too. It is quite sad that they feel they have to reside here, even in their life of freedom, but when the time comes, I ask myself, would I want to leave this wonderful place? This is, after all, Heaven.

Moan On

Anyone would think I was in a good mood. On Thursday I am going away for five days. I have the exciting task of packing to do; a shopping spree to buy new outfits for the rather grand hotel in which we are staying; the farmer's birthday at the end of the month; two trips to Manchester which already promise a good time; my sister coming to the farm to stay for a few days; my birthday in December; Christmas and finally Amy's birthday on 3rd January. And while typing that extraordinary long sentence, Sparky has eaten her way through a pair of my trousers which I left on the bed in order to put away for next Summer. Previous to that, my bank called me on the phone asking if I want a review of my finances, on a Saturday morning, when my branch is actually closed. They do this every month and I am now so fed up with them pestering me I am considering taking my accounts elsewhere. Apart from which, their rate of interest leaves a lot to be desired. What is it with banks? If you are overdrawn they leave you alone. You just receive the odd letter, when there is no postal strike, asking if you wish to take out a loan which you will not be able to pay off because you are overdrawn and which the bank will most probably refuse your application anyway on the grounds that the loan will never be paid. If you have some money burning a hole somewhere, they are suddenly your best friend. I have been "reviewed" three times this year alone and each time I heard the same old jargon. Complete foreign language to me. I smiled at the nice looking man across the desk for an hour while he tried his best to impress then I shook his hand and carried on with my shopping.

My mum has concerns about coming up on Wednesday. She is worried about how much hard work Sparky is. I must remember to stop telling her. Sparky is cute. She is young and active. She needs much more stimulation than that of an average dog. She wee's inside. She eats clothes. She eats pork pies. She steals food from the kitchen table. She can now jump over the yard wall and into the garden, following the path to the drive gate and towards the holiday cottages. She goes inside the cottages when kind (and unthinking) people feed her. Okay, she is bloody hard work.

I have a meeting on Monday morning. I have been advised that now is the time I have to determine Amy's middle school. She is currently in year 3. Therefore she will not start middle school until 2009. A lot can happen in that time. Especially for Amy. For any child, I am sure. I have two schools in mind in the area and if I am not impressed by either I will have to consider private education. But my decision will not be made before the Transition Review meeting on 3rd December in which I assume will be attended by various members of authority, some of whom I have never met, yet seem to think they have a right to tell me what is best for my child. The reason this decision has to be made at such an early stage is because provisions have to be put in place for Amy's special needs. Support workers have to be employed and requirements have to be adhered to should any special requirements be necessary. I have also been advised by a friend who has been through this twice with her own children that I do not have to make such a huge decision at this time. My friend's decision was made just months before her youngest child moved on. Admittedly, her child's special needs are somewhat more severe than Amy's but I will not be "bullied" into making a decision of this magnitude until I feel comfortable to do so.

I am very much looking forward to going away on Thursday. I have no worries. I am sane. I am not in a bad mood. I am in a good mood. My name is Crystal Jigsaw and I am calm.

The Joys of the Countryside

I really need to move my desk. I sit with my back to the door, an open doorway which never feels empty. I can hear someone walking up the stairs. I can hear shuffling about in the room below. Someone keeps tapping on the wall near the blocked up fireplace and it is driving me mad. If they want my attention that much, I wish they would just turn off the computer. I think if I put my desk in the middle of the stock field I would get more peace. Just the commuters would be able to see me as they race up and down the train track, drinking coffee and sending texts.

I have so much to do. The list is growing rapidly as I think about something else to add before my mum arrives next week. The farmer and I are going away for a few days. My mum and her friend are coming up to stay in order to look after the farm and Amy, of course. I do hope they will not be terrorised by chains and aroma's as they try desperately to get through the list of things I will leave for them to do.

My mum and Antony are townie's through and through. They enjoy being in the country but always make it obvious that this life would never do as stimulation for their busy lives. Northumberland might well be on the moon, as my mum feels so far away from home when she is here that she needs to watch Coronation Street fanatically just to remember that Manchester really does exist. Antony is a builder. A very professional "jack of all trades" and in Antony's case, "master of them all." I save all the odd jobs for him to do when I know they will be visiting. For example, one of the toilet seats broke three weeks ago. We have all been balancing about in a desperate need to save a trundle up to the bathroom. I have bought a new seat but both the farmer and I are incapable of fitting it and so have left it in the box waiting for Antony to arrive next week. I usually walk around the house, making a list of things that Antony could do but this time I have kept it to just the toilet seat. His main job on the farm will be the sheep. Going round the fields twice a day on the quad bike to check all our stock are fit and well. None are lying up or have heads stuck through fences. He will most probably have the job of letting the hens out every morning and shutting them in each evening. Then there is the pony, she needs feeding at lunch time and she needs to be let out for grazing at five o'clock. And of course Molly and Sparky will need tending to. They have to be exercised, let onto the lawn, fed. Both my mum and Antony are used to looking after dogs so that should not be a problem. However, we also have a cat, Jess. I know cats are independent, but they also need looking after. Jess will only go to the farmer or me. She runs away from Amy and will probably not entertain mum or Antony. And as my mum admitted last time she was here that she had forgotten we have a cat I did wonder whether I might find Jess withering away in a barn somewhere upon our return.



Mum and Antony had planned days out during their time up here. There idea of getting Amy off to school then clearing off to somewhere in the Borders, even Edinburgh, was totally scrapped when I told them what their responsibilities would be during the five days of being in charge. It is not all walks in the countryside and picking brambles. It is jolly hard work. As they are going to find out next week. However, we are of course tremendously grateful for their help as there is no way a five day break would even be contemplated should they not have agreed to stay.



They sleep in the guest room. The one with the rocking horse. The one with the door which is closed by unseen hands. My mum has experienced the door closing by itself as I have many times. What she has not experienced however, is the rocking horse moving as spirit children play. That room has such a calm and gentle atmosphere. It is the perfect place to close your eyes and drift into a world of the unknown. Or in my mum's case, Northumberland.







Sparky was a very greedy puppy on Wednesday. She stole 5 Melton Mowbray pork pies off the kitchen table, ready for the farmer's lunch. I put her outside with the sick bucket. Molly was playing 'mum'.

Is there anybody there?

I sat at my desk, staring at the computer screen. Blank. My mind seemed to resemble the white space in front of me. My fingers rested over the keyboard. Still. Motionless. Paralysed by a paused signal. The crystal rotated, a prism of light circling the walls, bright colours shading my thoughts. I sat back, my arms resting. I could not think of anything to write. Concentration was failing. Reaching to my side, a sudden thought impressed upon me, I realised my mind was needed elsewhere. I had waited for his support, yet had almost given up invoking my astral guide. I wondered if he felt I did not need him, if he wanted me to handle my latest contender by myself. He had always encouraged me to be independent. All my life, I had known his support would always be there should I ever need to call on it, whilst at the same time, making every last attempt to solve life's turmoils alone.

His presence now stood by my side. I could feel his eyes boring into mine, his smile telling me all I needed to know; he was with me; he would always be with me. I smiled back at him, thanking him once again for his love.

******************

In 1992, I made my first visit to a medium. It was in Aylesbury during the four years I lived there with my first husband. Mrs Taylor was in her fifties. She was a kind woman, gentle and softly spoken. My first impression of her 1970's semi was how ordinary it looked. I am not sure what I expected but I felt comfortable as soon as I walked through the glass front door. She took me into a room at the front. There was a round table covered with a lacey table cloth, a few chairs and a side board with a huge mirror tempting me to look into. She asked me to sit down at the table while she "tuned in" to me. I was armed with a tape recorder and a blank cassette, ready to record Mrs Taylor's every word and hopefully that of a visiting spirit.

Mrs Taylor handed me a crystal ball. She told me to hold the crystal in both my hands until she was ready to start the reading, meanwhile she closed her eyes and looked as though she was going to fall asleep. In those days I was still a little sceptical. Having had no experiences of any unexplainable phenomena myself, apart from a vague one when I was ten years old, I did wonder if I would have been better sitting in a caravan on Blackpool prom with an old lady reading my tea leaves. However, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. She had a great reputation and I was eager to delve into the paranormal.

She started the reading off by telling me various pieces of information about my personal life of which confirmed her psychic ability. She told me she could see me walking over a bridge with 2 humps. She also told me, rather worryingly, that she could see two pregnancies, yet one child. She confirmed that my husband to be was indeed a wonderful man, of which I still say is true and she said she could see me changing jobs quite often before finding the one I would settle into.

It was about half an hour into the reading when Mrs Taylor suddenly put her hand gently onto my arm. "Is your grandmother a spirit?" she asked quietly. My eyes welled up with tears. My grandmother had passed just two years since and I thought about her everyday. I talked to her also, never realising then that she had been listening and answering in her way. "Yes," I eventually answered. "She is here with us now," replied Mrs Taylor.

It was at that very moment that the tape recorder stopped. The play and record button which had been pressed were now unused. The tape inside the machine had come to an abrupt halt. I tried desperately to make it work again but it would not. My grandmother's energy had obviously drained the batteries. "Your grandfather has joined us too," Mrs Taylor announced. She then described to me how my grandma was sat in the chair next to me whilst my granddad stood over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. My grandma's hands were relaxed on her knees, one hand over the other. "Your grandmother says she watched you baking yesterday. She says you should have made a better job, your oven is much better than the one she had." Mrs Taylor's words will never leave my head, for the previous day I had been in my kitchen in my flat in Aylesbury, baking little cakes to take into work. I had thought they were passable at the time but would never have compared them to my grandma's. "Your grandfather says you need to get the tap fixed on the bath." Correct. "He also says get that piece of carpet nailed down in your bedroom before you fall over it." Again, correct. Mrs Taylor and I were complete strangers.

Mrs Taylor continued to tell me that my dad needed to see a doctor as he was suffering with pains in his abdomen area. This I could not understand. I had never known my dad to see a doctor and I was quite sure that he would not want to. As my grandma and granddad left, Mrs Taylor felt it was time to wrap up the reading. She complained of a headache, saying she needed to rest. Before she closed the front door after I had said goodbye, she told me one thing I will take to my grave and beyond; "you're gifted." I did not understand this at the time either.

Some months later, my future husband and I went for a day trip to the Cotswolds. We walked over a bridge with 2 humps, without realising until we were on our journey home. I was currently employed with a temping agency and had moved about from job to job each week, however, I had been looking for permanent employment of which came the following year when I got a job at Rothmans International. In early 1993, my dad was admitted to hospital following a doctor's appointment. He had a stomach ulcer. And in 1995, I had a miscarriage. I now have, as you know, one child.

We fixed the bath tap that following weekend and nailed the piece of carpet down in the bedroom. I bought a new oven soon after. Unfortunately, it did not help my culinary skills. When I got home that night, I replaced the batteries in the tape recorder. I listened to the first half hour of my reading and noticed that the sound became quite distorted as Mrs Taylor had kindly asked if my grandmother was a spirit. Then the tape stopped. But the memories will always remain.

Deal or No Deal

After the clear up from the awards ceremony of which one or more should have been presented to everyone, I feel rather tired and a little deflated now that the excitement has gone flat. It goes without saying that I am a keen blogger, I love to read and catch up on all my blogs on the side of this page and I make time to read all the blogs which have been announced daily on the Purple Coo site of which I am an avid fan. I would like to think that I have not upset any one by missing them out and that they will accept my apologies if I have. You should all consider yourselves worthy of awards, in all categories. If I have had the honour of being presented with them, then you all deserve that honour too. So, like I said, please forgive me if I missed you out. It was not intentional. And remember, even though it is a great feeling to receive an award of any kind, they are not BAFTA's. They are fun.



I saw a magpie today. I don't see many here and if I do they generally come in droves. However, one flew by and landed on a hedge in my view. What's a girl to do! Wait until I get home to find sorrow upon me? Stop the car and hope another one joins it, sooner rather than later? I can not remember who kindly advised me on the etiquette of magpie introductions, but I was determined not to ask said magpie how his wife was, or spit in my car. Instead I told it simply to "bugger off". And when I got home, Molly had done just that; buggered off. She has a terrible if not annoying habit of following the tractor and when she realises the tractor is in a field, she moves up into high gear. Amy and I spent twenty minutes shouting and screaming for her to come back, our wandering around the farm being a total waste of time, when it suddenly struck me that she would be with the farmer. Thankfully she was. And so was Sparky. Both had not a care in the world as they peered at me through the glass door and I then realised that the malevolent magpie had sought it's revenge upon my rather flippant request of "bugger off".


Sitting in the car park at school today, a good friend by my side, I told her my exciting news. Exciting for me at least, some think it is a joke, others think it is barmy but she was happy for me and has encouraged me to keep going. My exciting news? I have found the ending to my novel. I have decided how I want it to end. That means I have something positive and solid to work towards. I am happy with my decision about an ending and it has given me other ideas of how to get there. My inspiration came as I listened to one of my favourite pieces of music; Adagio by Tomaso Albinoni. I just have to figure out the bit in between now.


I have also had lots of encouragement towards achieving my novel from cyber friends. Getting to know some of you who already have published novels under your belts has been nothing less than inspiring. My family will me on, perhaps a little biased but it helps and my friends at home are all so supportive. Even the farmer seems proud that his wife is actually doing something when sat "relaxing" at the computer, she is not just browsing or blogging. Although to him it might seem that way. When it comes to the paranormal, my husband's belief's are somewhat different to mine. His father was the same and so are most of his friends. I do not expect to share every thing with my husband, some things a girl has to keep to herself, but occasionally I would like his approval. Sometimes I would like him to just peer over my shoulder and say, "wow!" even if he did think it was bollocks.


But what is bollocks to one is the dogs to another. And so I will continue. I have only myself to blame if this novel goes belly-up. I have only myself to blame when money becomes so tight we send Amy and Sparky out to beg on the streets of Alnwick.. But right now, I am excited. I have ideas tearing around my head at break neck speed and a note pad quickly filling up. And what if it does flop. I can always try again. And again. And I will.

The C.J. Awards

My regular blog followers may have noticed the growing selection of awards of which have been presented to me by various appreciating readers. I have thanked them all on their comments pages and take this opportunity to thank them all again for their kindness and generosity.

I have recently confessed that I have never taken the trouble to bestow these awards on fellow bloggers and for this I hope you will forgive me. However, I am dedicating this blog to my own award ceremony, The Crystal Jigsaw Awards. Of course, it goes without saying that all of you deserve awards, no two blogs are the same and each one is always meticulously composed. But rather than present awards to bloggers who are already inundated with speeches, I shall do my best to balance them out. After your name has been read out, please feel free to collect your award from the side of my blog page. They are very well deserved. It is a difficult task, as you can imagine, so here goes:

Thoughtful Blogger:

Camilla

Faith

Poetess

Bodacious Blog

Little Brown Dog

Whitterer on Autism

Exmoorjane

Un Peu Loufoque

Nice Matters

dgibbs

Blossomcottage

Casdok

You Make Me Smile

Merry Daze

Elizabethd

DJ Kirkby

Blogging Star

Country Craft Angel

Chrish

Cait

Blogging That Hits The Mark

Kaycie

Muddyboots

Kittyb

Rockin' Blogger

Cathy

Wakeupandsmellthecoffee

Suffolkmum

Awesome (Dude) Blogger

Deep Thinker

Withy Brook

Stay at home dad

Blogging Community Involvement

Flowerpot

Westerwitch

Mootia

Congratulations and best wishes, Crystal xx

The Photo Shoot

Both well turned out collies enjoyed some free time on Sunday afternoon. There was a glimpse of some sheep at one point but Amy soon got them back, fur still unruffled ready for their portfolio. You have to agree, they are quite photogenic! Enjoy the following pictures.

Crystal xx

"I love you, Molly."

"Paws off, this one's mine."

"Throw it to me."

"Watch me, mum, I'm a levitating pup."

"Anyone for a cuppa?"

"Aren't we gorgeous!"