The Shared Diary of a Novice Paranormal Investigator, aged 52 and Three Quar

When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer.

(Stevie Wonder)

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.


Ri fol ri fol tol de riddle dee.


The End

Scrawling yourself as the main character in your own story is possibly the most self-indulgent hobby available to humankind.   There is no more narcissistic way of spending one’s time; no other context in which every fart, twitch and stammer can be accorded such status.  I have had a wonderful time. 

I promised myself a year.  I took a little longer: it has been fourteen months since I missed my first meeting with the spirit fans, just before last Halloween.  We are now looking the turn of the year in the eye. 

I did not get what I expected.  I did get bonus results.  My driving has improved.  I have become an internet fan.  I started taking photographs.  I learned how to dowse. 

When we know nothing, we do not know how much there is know.  I have uncovered all kinds of communication channels and sources of information about the world of the weird, but all I really know is that there is much more to find out.

It is strange for me now to look back and remember how little I understood about this field fourteen months ago, and yet the seeds of my eventual conclusion were there in myself all the time. I had expected to end the year doing something new and different.  Oddly, the change has been less visible.  I feel different.  Not new, but better organised inside. 

Poking about in the paranormal is about making choices about what beliefs a person may develop.

When we make such choices, we are choosing which world we think we live in.  I think I live in a world characterised by the interaction of subtle energies, where everything feels alive.
We also make choices about how we want our world to be.  I want a world full of stories, myths and legends. 
Lastly, I like to hear about the worlds other people have chosen; what stories they are telling, why they cling to them and why they tell them.

So, after 14 months, I understand who and what I am these days, now that I can be myself.

I could be described as a Fortean fan, which means that I am in it for the craic.  That is my silliest and most shallow level, and I am not ashamed. 

I am a person who loves mythology, including the modern stuff which we do not always realise is mythology at all. 

Lastly, in a deep corner of my being, some kind of soul exists, and it is nourished when I feed it.  I will learn how to be proud of that.  In a busy, hard-nosed world, where people do not suffer fools at all, I have given myself permission to admit I have a spirituality, and I am currently feeding my soul.

That is it.  The end of the project.  I am sorry to let you go, dear diary.  I am also glad, though.  When an important chunk of your leisure time is actually a secret to all but your very closest friends, you do tend to run out of small talk.   When you meet new people, and find yourself all the time wondering whether or not to write about them, it makes for uneasy relationships.

Goodbye, dear diary.  Onward, ever onward (but quietly, now).  There is still Stuff to find out.

..and that is where we leave Rifol, forever in January of 2010, poor thing, it was not nice.  

Of course, the world keeps turning and everything changes and grows.  More has happened; we all keep learning and doing, there are always more adventures, but there is no more Rifol and no more diary, there is just me now.  

I thank you for letting me share this with you, and I hope you will go on to share it with others who might like it.  I am leaving it here, like a little fossil for people to stumble across.    

Goodbye, and stay Chipsy,



My dowsing rods have for some weeks been languishing in a corner, no doubt yearning for those heady glory days of midsummer, when we swung around picturesque remnants of the Neolithic world.  I was happy to put away the pendulum.  The rods are different.  They have a much stronger resonance for me.  I like to be outside, I like archaeology and I like stories.  Rods fit in with all of that, and they feel right to me.

Some might think I have taken leave of my senses when I stop hiding my rods and become an out dowser.  I do not care.  My year’s journey has introduced me to some people and some beliefs wacky beyond tolerance.  Observing the enormous range of wackiness and kookiness on offer has given me the confidence to make this choice.  I felt something working when I dowsed those locations.  It is my little subjective view, and my own experience.  The rods moved.  Now I just need to work out why.

 I cannot separate the influence of a subtle force from the work of my imagination or from the natural effects of walking over rough ground.  I decided to get help from the dowsers’ on line forum.  I can find my way around a forum, now.  At the start of this project, I was hardly aware such things existed.

I do like the dowsers.  They represent an interesting tea and scones conformity against a background of outlandish individualism.  I first received kind replies to my post, all urging me to keep trying to learn my own way, but maybe to find some support from a more experienced dowser. 

These were followed by some more detailed postings, which told me more about the complexities what some dowsers in this field believe.  One answer led me to a site where a dowser had painstakingly drawn a diagram of lines he had traced at a stone circle.  My findings at the same circle looked like a half-finished version of his; I had lines in the same places, but he followed them for longer, and they ended in little spirals.  Finding that picture was like opening a gift.  Start the party!  Bring on the balloons!  Something went right!

There is no orthodoxy, no party line among the dowsers.  There is pottiness at the extreme edges.  At times, there are echoes of Spouter, I am afraid.  All corners of the offbeat world are tainted by people who inflate their personal experiences into dogma.  I need to proceed with caution and choose with care.

So that is it.  I am not tying off this particular thread.  I know that something is working for me there, and I know I can have guidance from good, Spouter-free sources if I am careful who I mix with.  Dowsing is going with me.


Psychometry and a Precious Ring

Back near the beginning, my friend Chief Moral Support lent me a ring.  I knew nothing of the ring’s history, and CMS put the details in a sealed envelope, which I then lost for a long time.  We were planning to give it to a medium to find out if he could truly gather information from it, or if he was just picking up clues from appearances.  I was curious to know if psychometry was really happening.

I did not have an opportunity to try this out.  When the mediums are working the crowds, not all the punters get a chance.  My friend asked for her ring to be returned before I had a useful face-to-face encounter.  As a ruse, I was cooling to the idea anyway.  I could see some mediums were obviously fakes.  Others seemed to be doing something, but I was not sure what.  The experiment was not going to happen.  I gave up on the idea and bought a cake instead. 

 Before my friend arrived, for tea, cake and property return, I went upstairs and fished out the ring.  Just as I had been instructed, I took the ring in my left hand, closed my eyes, then dropped it into my right hand.  Very quickly, before I could think about it properly or forget any of it, I scribbled down the words in my head.  It did not really make sense:

 Brown man-y damp boat a little bit dirty quiet blue jumper
Then I left the piece of paper in a little box and went downstairs to put the kettle on.  That was about three months ago.

 Today, cleaning up the pre-Christmas detritus of lists, receipts and crumpled gift tags, I found it again.  From another box, in a different room, I retrieved the sealed envelope.

 Inside the envelope was an old photo of my friend standing next to a man in a blue jersey shirt and a brown jacket.  He was her deceased father, and it had been his ring.  I had never met him.  There was lots of information in the accompanying letter.  There were dates, there were details of his employment, and there was a little description of his character.  It told me how he liked to spend his leisure time, how he had passed away and, finally, what had happened to his ring since then.   

 So, did I get anything right?  Not bad for a chipsy person, I would say.  Brown, tick.  Blue, tick.  Boat, tick.  Man, tick.  Quiet, tick.  Damp?  A little bit dirty?  A possible beach reference there. 

 On the other hand – it looked like a man’s ring.  I have long known there was a boat connection in the family.  They all like boats.  If I had written ‘tax inspector’, then that would have been impressive.  If I had mentioned cryptic crosswords or carpentry as well, then that would have really been something.

 I have seen self-proclaimed mediums take applause for providing information in a similar league to mine. 

 There is probably nothing special about any of us, but I want you to know that at least I have cheekbones.  Case closed.  Another thread tied off


Unexpected Feminism

Perhaps the most positive result from this year’s adventure is that now, equipped with my little water bottle, an emergency apple and my trusty satnav I can hurl myself up and down motorways without a second thought.  Before I started this project, I regarded any drive of over five miles as a major undertaking, to be agonised over for several days, and then avoided if at all possible by any means fair or foul.  Once a year, I would announce I was Going On A Trip and, starting out at five in the morning, when I hoped everyone else would still be in bed, I would drive at a steady forty miles an hour until I reached my destination.  Whoever I was visiting would be astounded that I had managed to arrive there in only ten hours, and it would take me three days to recover.  Those days are gone.  I am experienced now.

So it was with only a moderate amount of trepidation that I faced the long, long drive to my latest adventure.  I had been waiting for this the whole year.  Two days of training run by National Rational.  Playing with the Big Kids at last.  Time to talk to People who Know Stuff.  I was excited.

I decided to arrive the evening before the training, taking the opportunity to visit Old Chum.  It rained relentlessly for the first two hours of my journey.  The motorway was like a paddling pool and quite terrifying.  So much for developing motoring confidence.  We had our usual chummy chat (‘So what the **** is it you are up to, you nutter?’) and a very good cake.

The next morning, satnav delivered me bright and early to a small huddle of houses in sodden farmland.  I drove around a couple of times, parked in the grounds of the largest building I could find, decided it was a private house, ran away and drove around again.  This time, I found the venue, and after only two or three attempts, I managed to park quite neatly. 

We were to be housed in an outdoor pursuits centre; a building mostly accustomed to witnessing ten year olds drawing willies and tearing their waterproofs.  There were brightly coloured posters on the walls and we had dorms with bunk beds to sleep in!  I had an urge to play at Mallory Towers.  It was quite charming, but the classroom was freezing cold.  I guess most people using it would not be sitting still for as long as we did.  By eleven o’clock, I had to apply an extra layer of clothing.  The pashmina is by far the best fruit of civilisation.  Forget cats’ eyes, forget medicine, forget the microchip; I am voting for the big scarf.

I was surprised and disconcerted to find that my fellow trainees were all more experienced.  Mostly, they were members of active groups from different parts of the country, but they were smugly bingo-free.  There were about thirty of us, from a variety of backgrounds and a good mix of ages and accents.  All rather white and anglo-looking, however.  I understand that this fascination with the unseen is more common in murky Northern Europe than it is in brighter latitudes, so these damp, foggy islands are good spawning ground for Paranormal fans. 

As a cohort, we spanned the sartorial continuum from slightly bohemian, through sensible sweaters, right across to urban sharp.  For me, it was a Weird Fish weekend.  I liked to think of myself as outdoor elegant.  Appearances and backgrounds apart, we all had in common an intellectual curiosity, as opposed to the experience-seeking focus I had met previously when out with the Spirit Fans.

It was a joy to hear at last some lucid discussion.  Over morning coffee, slightly over-stimulated, I found myself chatting with strangers about whether or not Science was a religion.  Over afternoon tea, I heard the hilarious tale of how a medium had been observed having a long conversation with a rustling plastic bag.

Some people do argue that Science is a religion.  In National Rational, Science is a deity.  We were instructed to use stringent logical measures when investigating reported phenomena, and only to report on that which can be accurately measured and documented.  The silly fingers on the glass routine, the dowsing rods and the medium are all to be discarded from the investigation site because you cannot use something unproven or unreliable to explore something else which is also an unknown. 

The kind of behaviour I had witnessed when out and about with the Spirit Fans, where mediums led punters in a story-making exercise, would never happen with National Rational.  Nor would they wave around the bizarre equipment carried by some groups; measuring damp, dandruff, compost content and tea bag fluctuation, all for the sake of looking technical.   If they investigate a location, they form a plan based solely on whatever has been reported, trying to uncover the details and, if possible, establish an explanation.  Therefore, if the witness complains of a ghostly draft, they will only investigate the movement of air.  If a witness has heard ghostly moans, they will only investigate sources of sound.  Spirit fans, on the other hand, would pile into any location with their whole repertoire of mediums, gadgets and gizmos to see what might turn up.

We were told that we might one day investigate a location in response to tales about or complaints of paranormal activity. On the other hand, we might choose a project, in which we could investigate one particular aspect of the paranormal world, such as, for example, a wizard who perhaps claims the ability to summon mysterious showers of lentils.

 We were introduced to the basics of how to interview witnesses, and we had a crash course in the psychology of warped perceptions.  We were given careful instruction in health and safety and in the ethical and legal guidelines which we must follow if we ever want to claim we are operating as a part of that organisation.  It was like a complicated version of common sense.  Once the paperwork is done, there seems to be a severely limited field of activity left for the Strictly Scientific Investigator.  I will explain.

Suppose you were investigating a report that every time Mrs Periwinkle switched off her TV at 11.00, she felt a ghostly hand touch hers.  After producing all the correct documentation and having a long chat with Mrs P, you would observe her night time ritual.  According to National Rational’s worldview, you would most likely discover that Mrs P has failed to notice that her voile curtain is charged with static electricity and that it clings to her hand as she stands near it.  This is the kind of result they predict for 99.9% of domestic investigations, and it would indeed be an excellent outcome for the beleaguered Mrs P, who would be able to change her soft furnishings and then operate her TV with confidence.

I am delighted for all the Mrs Ps out there, and proud to be connected, however loosely, to the kind of people who are able to help them.  I agree wholeheartedly that ghostly experiences most often have a mundane source, and that having this made clear is both healthy and desirable.  I still, however, have reservations:

National Rational suggests that natural explanations can be found by listening to the witnesses then examining the environment sensibly.  That presupposes that all phenomena can be easily described or observed.  How would they cope with my Agnes?  Agnes jumped into my head on my first ever night out with the Spirit Fans.  I knew she was there, but it was my individual experience.  Nobody could have seen it or measured it.  Many would not have believed it.  How would they cope with that Nasty Thing still mooching around in my childhood home?  I know, because I have experienced them, that some events do not produce a physical trace we can observe and measure.  I also know that the very act of observation changes the environment we are observing.  If investigators for National Rational only collect tangible, measurable data then they will have many, many successes, but they will also exclude themselves from poking about in a whole raft of other, more subjective phenomena.  Nobody could have put this better than Mrs Essex, who, towards the end of Saturday afternoon exclaimed, ‘So what exactly can we do then?  It looks like we can’t do anything except just sit there watching!’

 All year, I have felt the tension between conflicting world views.  In one world nothing needs to be proven; there are mystical layers of a Spirit World, Mr Spouter and all the little Spouters interpret the unseen for us with unchallenged authority and naughty young men secretly push upturned glasses around scratched tabletops.  It is a world full of wonder and hope for its fun-loving inhabitants. 

In the other, rational world, the atmosphere is congenial.  Jokes are funnier; the conversation is more interesting.  Apparently paranormal effects generally have natural causes.   The only authority is that which resides in empirical Science.  Unknown entities and ethereal energies may or may not exist, but, whichever way, if they cannot be observed and measured, they just do not count.

At this point I hear an echo from History Land.  Here, the lives of active females over a few thousand years may have been vivid and important, but, until comparatively recently, they just did not count.  If the acts and creations of the females could not meet the criteria of the male context then they were automatically invisible or worthless.  What an odd connection to make.  I did not expect that.

So, there are two starkly different worlds.  I do not want to live completely in either of them.  Talking with some of the Para-types on the course, I started to realise that they did not want this, either.  They were independent thinkers.  Everyone I spoke to had other interests and experiences which went beyond the purist parameters of National Rational’s world view.  They inhabited a middle ground, using empiricist methods when required by circumstances.

 Empiricism is like a motorway system.  It is fast and straight and it goes a long way.  There are, however, whole stretches of Geography quite far away from the motorway.  Sometimes, a b-road is the only route; you just might want to be choosy about which ones you use.
I would like to continue with National Rational.  The weekend taught me that their contribution is a method, not a philosophy.  Methods, you have to learn, then use or not use.  Philosophies, you just have to figure out for yourself.


I Wonder Where the Monster Went?

As we re-traced the steps of my monster walk, I earnestly explained my mission to LSS.  He listened with the air of gentle puzzlement he reserves matters unrelated to football.  Now I came to share it with someone else, it did seem a silly tale, after all.   

I had kept in my head an image of a remote spot, with eerie trees hiding a sinister creature.
The path had a quite different appearance today, and it was difficult to remember where my scalp had first prickled.  It was somewhere between the last building and the gate, but these were not as far apart as I had remembered.  I thought it was a distance of a hundred yards or more, but they were very close together.  I must have been within sight of the house the whole time. 

The bank above the path was not nearly as steep as it was in my memory, and there were hardly any trees.   Why had I remembered trees?  In my head, the path had been isolated, running under a steep, wooded bank.  In truth, it ran between two scrubby fields, close to some houses.  No wonder the World of the Weird has such a bad reputation; I was not trying to impress or scare anyone but my story was still full of lies.  

Ho hum.  We stood around awkwardly, trying to look like monster bait.  We both took a couple of photos.  We chatted a bit.  I guessed that a person might be less likely to have an Experience strolling along in good company, nattering about what to cook for dinner and poking fun at the government.  Actually, I suspect LSS would only have noticed a monster if it had leapt out kicking a football.  If it had carried a bottle of beer as well, he would probably have chased it.  Untroubled by supernatural beings, we had leisure, as we continued down the hill, to consider why the path and the valley beyond it might give rise to frights and fantasies.

LSS had not heard the theory that some so-called paranormal experiences may be induced by physical causes, such as electro magnetic fields or infra-sound.  I still do not know, of course, how much credence these ideas may have among people who actually know something about electro magnetic fields and infrasound.  At any rate, the whole valley is packed full of pylons and the energy fields must be jostling for space down there, treading on each other’s toes and tripping up over handbags all the way along.  People sensitive to fields generated by electric wires would be crossing in and out of their influence, organs and brainwaves lightly toasted en route, possibly giving rise to juicy stories as they pass.

We also considered what uses people made of  this valley.  Most of it is a suburban country park.  Country parks are there for all of us.  That includes people who feel at home in the countryside, but also people who might be more accustomed to spending their free time in neatly tamed town parks, or, maybe, indoors.   

There is no problem at all with this, of course.  Nobody would claim that hill walkers occupy any moral high ground.  Nor would anyone suggest that ignorance of which way up to hold a map would imply that a person had an irrational fear of sheep.  I do think it likely, however, that, once in a while, a stranger to the outdoors might be thoroughly and blamelessly spooked by the noises of nature.  Startled by an owl.  Scared of rustlings in the bushes.  God knows, after thirty years of walking the Pennines, curlews still give me the creeps, and wild geese sound like the souls of the damned.

It is easy to think you saw something, heard something or felt something when you are in an unfamiliar place, it is growing dark and your blood sugar is a bit low.  If you add to that the probability that some evenings there will be lively groups of marauding young people, enjoying a giggle, or possibly a chemically altered state of consciousness…

The thing about country parks is that they are used by people who live in towns.  Often, people who live in the town next to the country park, who then go back, pop into the co-op, run into a mate and tell great stories about what happened in the country park.  Local legends are born all the time.

We returned home with no great stories to tell, but we had enjoyed another happy wild goose chase, and I closed off another section of my project, resloved as far as such matters ever are resolved.


Back to the Haunted Path

Rifol is back, and hopes some readers are back, too.  She is trying to pull together the loose threads of her year-long exploration...

Way back near the start of this journey, before I had learned anything at all, I walked alone to spot associated with a local legend.  Before I reached that place, I had an uncanny experience; a feeling that something nasty was watching me.  It seems a long time ago.

I now receive newsletters from an Anomalous Phenomena group.  I like them because they seem to have a broader range of interests, and nobody has mentioned Bingo to me yet.  They appear to do plenty of business by e-mail, with pictures. 

The second newsletter I received contained an article about the valley near the place where I felt the presence.  I read thrilling new stories about some kind of dangerous entity menacing people in that area.  The AP group had taken a prowl around one evening, but had met nothing.  After only two months of thinking about doing it, I e-mailed the editor with my tale.  He took no interest, so I carried on anyway.

Then I looked for stories about the place on the Paranormal Database.  Last year, I knew nothing about these networks or these sources of information.  Today, I can find out what stories other people are telling.  There was no story of other people feeling glared at on the path, but people have claimed the site is haunted by the ghost of a child with black hair, and some say they have heard disembodied voices.  Wonderful.  Oddly enough, I have still found no mention of that first story I had heard, long before I started this project.  It was something about a phantom piper.  Where did I hear it?  What is happening in that little area, that it should give rise to so many different tales?  Is it something in the air?  Is it radioactive rock?  Local mushrooms?  Are there other places like it?  I will have to go back.  As I think I pointed out before, that valley is less than fascinating to look at.  If I felt inclined to invent spooky stories, I could choose a dozen more convincing locations within a short moorland mile or two.  Time for a walk.

Yes, Possibly (..the Worst Medium in the World)

Rifol is still a little put out.

 At the start of this project, I vowed to treat everyone with the respect they deserved.  I am still doing that, but nobody is getting more than they deserve.

 My third club investigation proved to be a dreadful disappointment.  I had assumed that it would be the best one, because this was the most well known, long established group.  Wrong again.  The rot set in from the start, when we found the team leaders in the car park, eating chips and amusing themselves by putting on comic Irish accents.  They moved on to poo jokes after a while.  The fart jokes they saved for later.

The whole group was in fine high spirits, anticipating an exciting evening’s entertainment.  We had only an hour and a half of waiting around, in the car park and the foyer, while the club officials carefully put batteries into a few hand-held instruments.  Then we were split into two teams.   Working with our team was the only obvious, see though fake medium I have met in the entire year.  This man made up stories which made no sense at all because he knew nothing at all.  Insufferably arrogant, he produced a torrent of ‘sensed’ balderdash, all of which exposed his ignorance of History, plays and the theatre. The criminal even pushed in front of us when we queued up for tea.   Lying to punters is naughty enough, but tea is tea, for heaven’s sake.

We visited several locations during that long, dark night of the intellect.  I enjoyed having a private tour of the theatre, especially backstage, where we could see some of the mechanisms and structures used to create the set.  I felt like a naughty child, exploring the posh boxes and sitting on any chair that took my fancy.   We even went in one of the subterranean dressing rooms, and sat in the chairs where actors put on make up.  Moving between the faded plush of the public areas and the functional concrete of the actors’ workplace provided an interesting contrast.  In every room, however, Mr Spouter treated us to the same meaningless fantasies.  Nothing else was allowed to happen.  If a punter suggested anything, Spouter changed the subject.

In the circle, I did see a blurred, shadowy figure moving quickly towards the aisle, but I was the only one.  It could have been a ghost; it could have been astigmatism.   When, from time to time, something of interest did happen, Mr Spouter and the Team Leader took care to ignore it, in case it interfered with the story telling.  Early on, the tinny little electro-magnetic field meter shot right up to red when held over a table in the bar.  Mr Spouter wisely took it away, just in case there was a danger of anyone gaining information from it. EC later told me her mobile phone had set it off.  Having an engineer in tow on an investigation is a very good idea, even if ‘mediums’ are not keen on them.  Later on, Spouter proudly showed everyone an anomalous photo he had taken.  He was not able to tell anyone where he had been standing when he took it, of course, so we could not return to that spot and do anything silly, like working out why it had happened. 

There was a floor length mirror in the corridor outside the dressing rooms, and there were greasy smudges on it.  The team leader gleefully claimed this to be proof that spirits were with us. 

The punters had a lovely time.  Sometimes, they had a turn at contributing to the stories spun by Spouter or Trainee Spouter.  Women’s magazines with lurid covers seemed to have had a very strong influence on their suggestions.  We heard about jealous lovers, nasty accidents, malicious plots and a secret love child.  It made a change.  In the breaks, we had chocolate biscuits.   Sometimes, there were jokes and fits of giggles.  They enjoyed their big night out.   We enjoyed some of it.

EC and I let ourselves out at about three thirty.  I felt I had done my time.  I asked EC if she would like to go again one day, but she said she would rather lick a toilet seat.  Children can be so cruel.

So that was the ignoble end to my short but expensive career as a punter with the clubs.  I met kind and friendly people each time.  Each time, I had an experience I could not easily explain.  I have learned why the clubs are popular with the regulars.  I have noticed, (and who could not have noticed?) that a lot of money is changing hands in the paranormal community.  I have formed my suspicion that some people running clubs may well be up to all kinds of interesting antics, possibly well considered, methodical antics at that, when the punters are not there.  As a punter, I have not been on anything that could truly be called an investigation; all three were Jolly Nights Out, especially for the regulars.

 I will have to wait for National Rational to help me to find the serious and systematic procedures I am looking for.  It is comforting to give up on the clubs – to know that I will no longer have to lurch clumsily around cold buildings in the middle of the night, debilitated by sleep deprivation, listening to mediums telling me stories.   I am in no position to say that some mediums may be honest, eerily skilled people or that they are all charlatans, every last one.  It was an entertaining experience, and apart from Mr Spouter, with his unruly tea-related behaviour and his outrageously bad performance, I will have fond memories of the spirit fans, but I cannot say with honesty that I regret leaving them behind on my journey.  Goodbye, spirits, spirit fans, mediums and punters, and good luck with the whole industry thing.

Rifol will be back, possibly in a better mood, on 30th October.  Until then, stay chipsy.


Because it took place in a theatre, Rifol decided to write up her third investigation in dramatic form!  (You may detect a slight note of dissatisfaction)

                      ‘A Night with the Spirit Fans’ (excerpt from a farce)

Scene 2
 Inside a dark, deserted theatre.  Enter assorted punters, led by Team Leader, and closely followed by Spouter.  All observed by unseen spirits.

TL:  Follow me, please.
Spouter:  (immediately starts speaking in loud, hectoring voice) I’m sensing a cleaner named Ada, a feisty young actress named Scarlett, a comic named Arthur, a dog named Boo…

(punters look bewildered and wander around like pinballs)

Spirit #1:  I’ve no idea who he’s talking about, have you?
Spirit #2:  I’ve told him twice to get lost but he takes no notice.

Spouter:  … a cub reporter called Jimmy, a horse with no name, a weatherman called Frost, Georgie Fame…
Spirit #2:  You know, I don’t think he’s dead.
Spirit #1: Hoi, Mr Spouter… Mr Spouter.. he’s not dead, Georgie Fame.  I am, though!  Dead as a doornail.  All made out of ectoplasm.  Mr Spouter!  Oh my word!  Did you see that?  He walked straight through me.
Spirit #2:  How rude!  Of course, he’s chipsy.

(exuent spirits, in huff)

Spouter: A stage manager called Mac, a detective called Dick, Alice…

Scene 3
Inside the dark, deserted auditorium.  Team Leader and punters sit waiting. Spouter stands declaiming.  Spirits lean against wall, ethereal arms folded.

Spouter:  Marlon Brando in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ in 1955..
Spirit #1:  Played a lot of Shakespeare in the provinces during the 50s, Brando.
Spirit #2:  Yes, his Bottom was a wonder to behold.

Spouter:  Someone called Jerry, who used to work as a bell boy…
Spirit #1:  A bell boy?  In a theatre?
Spirit #2:  (loudly) Mr Spouter, bell boys work in posh hotels.  We don’t have them in theatres.  (sighs)  He can’t hear me.  Mutt and Geoff.
Spirit #1:  You know, I don’t think he’s been in a theatre before.
Spouter:  Serafina Pekkala, Semolina Pilchard…

Two punters nod off.  Another produces a luminous yoyo and starts to amuse himself. 

Scene 3:
Backstage.  It is dark and deserted.  Punters stand around a table, each with one finger on a planchette.  Spirits sit on the high catwalk, swinging their legs.  It is trainee Spouter’s turn.  She barely stops to draw breath.

Trainee Spouter:  … an angry singer called Dolores, looking for her daughter,  Caitlin.  Caitlin was a ballerina, here for an audition, in a pantomime called ‘The Nutcracker’, in 1947.
Spirit #1: Wasn’t this building a cinema in 1947?
Spirit #2: That’s right.
Spirit #1: I expect they had pantos called ‘Swan Lake’ and ‘Les Sylphides’ as well.
Spirit #2: Yup!  I remember ‘Sylphides’ well, it was a roaring success.  Ended with a comic dance.  ‘Swan Lake’ was a bit wet, though.

Punter: I’ve got an itchy ear.
Old punter:  That’s sure to be a spirit.  I’ve got an itchy ear too!
Other punter: I’ve got a really itchy ear.

Trainee Spouter:  I can hear tinkly ballerina music.
Spirit #1: That’ll be for the sand dance in ‘King Lear.’
Me:  (Thinks: Dolores, for heaven’s sake!) So what about Dolores?  Is that a stage name?
Team leader:  Dolores is an Irish name.

Spirit #1:  Why do these people make up rubbish about stuff they know nothing about?
Spirit #2:  You know, if this lot are going to be here all night, why don’t we slope off?
Spirit #1:  Yeah, they can stand in for us.  

(spirits exuent)

Trainee Spouter:  Oohh!  Dolores is cross with me, she’s growling in my ear, but my spirit guide will protect me!

The end


How Chipsy are You?

Find out about yourself by trying this personality quiz!
NB: If you do not know what 'chipsy' means, go back one.

  1. As soon as you enter your home:
a)     You instinctively know who is there and how they are feeling, so you discuss their spiritual needs immediately. 
b)     You reach for the teapot.
c)     You want to run away again.

2.                  Which of these sums up your feelings about your home environment ?
           a) The gentle influence of angels enables you to create a perfect space for nurturing yourself and others. 
b) What?
c) I am sure it is your turn to clean the bathroom.

  1. How would you define ‘Most Haunted’?
a)     A brave team of dedicated researchers, leading the way for all of us.
b)     A comedy. 
c)     A fascinatingly clever mix of branding and characterisation, they must be rolling in it.

  1. If you sense a spirit do you:
a)     Use the ouija board so you can add it to your friends on facebook.
b)     Drink it. 
c)     Ignore it and continue with the crossword.

  1. When you are troubled you :
a)     Consult a psychic.
b)     Kick up a fuss. 
c)     Sulk in the bath/gym/pub/shed until you feel better.

  1. When you need to make a decision you :
a)     Cast runes. 
b)     Avoid it. 
c)     Weigh everything up carefully, go with your gut feeling, then forget what you decided the next day.

  1. At work are you:
a)     The still hub of a busy world, a spiritual influence on your colleagues.
b)     Hiding in the toilet.
c)     Underpaid

  1. When it is a full moon you:
a)     Light a special candle in the window and tell your neighbours all about it.
b)     Howl. 
c)     Sleep.

  1. When someone talks to you :
a)     You sense the real message behind the chat and you give them the full benefit of your understanding.
b)     You wait for your turn to say something.
c)     They are usually asking you for money.

Understanding your answers:

Mostly ‘a’: You are almost certainly chipsy, but you have not yet learned to embrace your true nature.  Try some simple exercises to awaken your chipsiness.  Watch the News on TV, for example, or visit a museum.

Mostly ‘b’: You are probably very young, a man, or both.  Stop it.  The good news is that you are definitely chipsy.

Mostly ‘c’: Congratulations, you are thoroughly chipsy.  Do not become complacent, however.  When you have intuitions, act on them without fuss.  Continue to develop your own spirituality quietly without allowing others to turn it into an industry or a carnival.

Join The Chipsy For Life Association

Join us now as we spread our message of chipsy joy!  Learn to understand and appreciate your own chipsiness!  Stand arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder with your chipsy peers to face the bright dawn of a new era!

Simply send none of your cash to us, and in return we will give you absolutely nothing.  Yes, nothing.  We will not clutter your shelves with books, ornaments, potions or gadgets.  We will not require you to attend any events at all and you will not be involved in any kind of ritual. 

Sign the chipsy pledge now:

  • I promise not to pretend that I am more sensitive than any other human beings.
  • I promise to recognise my intuitions as a normal part of human nature, not to be devalued or over valued.
  • I promise not to interpret my own experiences through shreds of old mythology and then try to pass it all on to other people as a mysterious truth.

The Chipsy for Life Association – because we have brains.


Psychic? No, Chipsy!

I was so fed up that I went to Kefalonia.

I returned refreshed and full of resolve; firstly to complete my horrible dowsing project as quickly and as sensibly as possible, and then to find at last a really good recipe for melitzanosalata.

Day 5: 8 correct swings out of a total of 16 swings.
Day 6: 5 correct swings out of a total of 14 swings.
Day 7: 8 correct swings out of a total of 16 swings.
Day 8: 7 correct swings out of a total of 14 swings.
Day 9: 6 correct swings out of a total of 16 swings.
Day 10: 9 correct swings out of a total of 19 swings.

This makes a total of 79 correct swings out of a total of 163 swings.
If I had a one in two chance of getting the right answer, I could have got, by chance, half of 163.  That is 81 or 82.  I scored a little bit less than chance.  Small wonder it was a depressing experience.

Counting only ‘yes’ swings, I scored a total of 27 correct swings out of a total of 67 swings.  Much less than half.  That is useless.  I am the opposite of psychic.  What would be the word for that, I wonder?  We are in need of such a word.  Could it be chipsy?    I can imagine the coffee breaks at future conferences: ‘Oh, you must meet Doris.  Her spirit name is Running Tallow.  She’s chipsy, of course.  It’s a wild talent, they say.’

I have discovered, fairly scientifically, that I cannot identify a hidden card using a pendulum.  No doubt the results were depressed by my attitude towards the task, but I will not be taking that into account. If a skill is going to count as a real, usable skill, I have got to be able to use it even when I am out of sorts.  Otherwise, it is not a skill, but something like a lucky guess; a by-product of feeling chipper, something like beginner’s luck.  You can notice it as a feature, but you cannot use it or depend on it at need.  I can still drive a car safely through a hazardous town even if I am in ten kinds of nasty temper.  That is a skill.  Being lucky when I am feeling lucky; that is just something which happens from time to time, even to the chipsy.

So that is how Science put paid to my pendulum.  A shame, as I liked the dowsers, and they all seemed rather keen on pendulums. 

On a more positive note: the secret to making a good melitzanosalata is to bake the aubergine until it is well cooked, then season it thoroughly with salt, pepper and cumin.  The addition of a little Greek yoghurt improves the texture.  You need less oil than you might think


Scientific Dowsing

This section is dangerously tedious.
If you are sensitive to tedium, or easily offended by arithmetic, please look away now.

Some time ago, dear diary, I undertook to perform a proper experiment in something approximating the manner of a Scientist.  I started counting how often I could find one particular card out of three just by dowsing with a pendulum.  I recorded a set of ten tries, repeated daily until I grew too irritated to continue.  The undertaking was deadly boring.  It involved hunching over playing cards, shuffling them and turning them over time after time after time.  The repetition was so mindless that just thinking of it makes me twitch.  Add to that a certain tension: every time the pendulum was correct, I felt pleased, because it had worked, but then I dreaded the next swing in case I could not do it twice.  Every time the pendulum was wrong, my heart sank because I thought the mistake was all mine and not the pendulum’s fault at all.  I felt my ineptitude was destroying the efficiency of a perfectly innocent pendulum.  I convinced myself that by getting a swing right, I was storing up mistakes for the future, and that by getting a swing wrong, I was increasing the likelihood that I would make more mistakes.  That was how this task proved both tedious and nerve-racking at the same time. 

The results did not support any faith in the power of the pendulum; I would have scored as highly just by chance.

Then, damn this work ethic, I realised that if I counted only the times when I had found the queen, I was discounting correct swings the pendulum made when it told me which card was not the queen.  I knew then I had cursed myself to another ten boring days of looking for the queen ten boring times.   As a rational adult, I turned over the page, steeled myself, girded my loins and kept to schedule for three whole days.  Then, as a rational adult with quite an enjoyable life, I found myself just too busy and forgetful for a good, long time. 

Eventually, being a self-hating girly swot, I did complete my ten sets of ten.  The results, the interpretation of the results and the implications of the results open up a whole new dimension of boredom: boredom of a richness usually only accessible to adolescents on a February Sunday.  Each day required thirty swings.  Sometimes, I knew in advance whether or not the card was the queen, sometimes I did not.

Day 1:  correct swings: 18.  correct swings, unknown card: 6  incorrect swings, known card: 3.  Number of times the queen came up first: 6. 
Day 2:  correct swings, unknown card: 11.  Correct swings, known card: 11.  Incorrect swings, known card: 1.  Incorrect swings, unknown card: 6.  Accidents: 1
Day 3:  Correct swings, unknown card: 10.  Incorrect swings, unknown card, 7.  Correct swings, known card, 11.  Incorrect swings, known card: 2.  (Interrupted by fruit of loins, two swings missing)
Day 4:  3 wrong swings, pendulum reversed its normal ‘yes’ and ‘no’.  Put pendulum away for a while, out of temper.
Day 4 mk 2:  Correct swings, unknown card: 5.  Total number of correct swings: 20.
Day 5:  Correct swings, unknown card: 11.  Total number of correct swings: 22.
Day 6:  Correct swings, unknown card: 10.  Total number of correct swings:  21.  Yearnings for new furniture instead of concentrating: a few.
Day 7:  Correct swings, unknown card:  9.  Total number of correct swings: 22.  Sulks:  15.
Day 8:  Number of interruptions: 7.  Correct swings, unknown card: 7.  Total number of correct swings: 19.  New patterns of pendulum movement which could mean absolutely anything or nothing: 2.
Day 9:  Number of correct swings, unknown card: 7.  Total number of correct swings:  21.  Cups of tea during session: 1 (needed to calm nerves).
Day 10:  Number of correct swings, unknown card:  7.  Total number of correct swings: 21.  Cups of tea during session: 1, with chocolate biscuit.

So, what does that prove?
 I can force myself to do things I do not want to do.
 The worse my temper grew, the fewer correct swings the pendulum made. 
Nothing else, dear diary.  Had I still been endowed with a functioning brain cell, I would have spotted my mistake straight away.   As it was, I did not grasp it until about day 8.  Then, damn this determination, I thought it too late to give up.

The number of unknown swings is not a constant.  Sometimes, the queen is the first card.  Then there is only one unknown swing per turn.  If the queen is the second card, or the third card, there are two unknown swings per turn.  Therefore, every day, the potential number of correct swings when the card is unknown can be anything between 10 and 20. 
I know, damn this honesty, that I can influence the swing of the pendulum, and that I have grown quite good at doing that.  I do have incorrect swings on a known card sometimes, possibly because my thinking mind has fled to a more entertaining location, but this happens less and less all the time.  I can no longer count swings on known cards as viable data.

Damn this damnation, I will have to start all over again.  This time, I will only count correct swings on unknown cards.  Scientists have a tough life.

Day 1: 12 correct swings out of a total of 18 swings.

Day 2:  6 correct swings out of a total of 14 swings.

This is killing me.  Each time I lay the cards out, I understand there is a one in three chance that each card might be the Queen.  Each time I swing the pendulum, I understand it has a one in two chance of being right. 

Each swing can be a yes or a no.  That is two variables.
Each swing can be correct or wrong.  That is two variables.
However, there are two cards in the set of three which could produce a correct ‘no’ and only one which produces a correct ‘yes’.  A correct ‘no’ by mere chance is therefore more likely to happen than a correct ‘yes’.  Does that mean that I should give a correct ‘yes’ answer more weight than a correct ‘no’ answer?  Should I have a scoring system?  One for a correct ‘no’ and two for a correct ‘yes’?

If that is the case, should I also give more weight to correct answers achieved at times when I am especially dispirited, or troubled by the unreasonable demands of a senile cat?  Hard day at work – three points for every correct answer.  Crisis of self-confidence; five points and a neck massage?

If there are ten chances of finding the queen, and each time the queen might be in one of three positions, and the pendulum has two answers, what is the square root of minus one and how many men does it take to empty a bath?

Day 3:  8 correct swings out of a total of 16 swings.

Day 4:  10 correct swings out of a total of 16 swings.



The Medium, the Buffet and the Hat

One last, grudging, diet coke, one last wilted buffet, one last hundred year long quiz. 

EC and I dragged ourselves to one final club meeting in order to ensure our tickets for the investigation of the theatre.  This was my third club.  No matter how many of these I attended, I knew I would never like them.  This group meets in an unattractive pub with ugly carpets and nasty tables.  I forced EC to come with me, as a punishment for having bright eyes and glossy hair.  She was slightly grumpy about wasting an entire evening and I did not blame her, so we were late on purpose and I agreed we could sneak out half an hour before the end.  Once inside, we buddied up with a retired couple to form the inevitable quiz team.  ‘Name a continent where you might find a vampire bat’ was the question.  ‘Transylvania’, he wrote.  His wife chewed her lip a bit and we changed the subject.

‘Did you find your hat?’ I asked.  EC had lost her hat some days earlier, and, messy thing, she found it hard to accept that she had probably just dropped it behind the sofa while distracted by something bright and shiny.  She glumly shook her head, and I sympathised.  It was a nice hat.
‘Ask the medium’ suggested Mrs Retired. ‘He found my keys for me not long ago.  He said they were underneath something green and I found them under the recycling bin.’
‘If I was going to ask for help finding anything, it would be my Tuareg necklace,’ replied EC.  She had lost this as well.  She really is very untidy.  I knew EC would never go to the medium, so I stopped paying attention.   Club nights can send me into a horrified trance-like state.  That is why I had not noticed that the medium was passing close to our table, no doubt sensing the proximity of a toxic sausage roll.  Suddenly, Mrs Retired jumped up and called him over.  ‘This young lady has lost her necklace’ she told him.  ‘Can you help her find it?’
Without ceremony, he reached past me, grabbed EC’s hand and then stood very still, apparently concentrating.  I felt almost assaulted by strong waves of heat coming from him, and when we later talked about what had happened, I discovered EC had felt this too.  After about half a minute, he spoke.  ‘It’s not in your house,’ he said.  ‘I can see a terrace with stairs up the middle?  I think you have the front bedroom?  Who’s Paul? It’s in a house with a very heavy old wardrobe, with thick legs.’  This was a mixture of almost-facts, all of which could be interpreted as connected to EC in some way. 

He did not have a clear answer.  If we were going to be believers, we might say he had struggled to understand where EC lived.  We might add this was because she has moved house so often that she doesn’t know where she lives anymore, and right now, she is staying at home with us as a stop-gap.

If we wanted to believe, we would be happy to record the truth he spoke: two of her homes were terraces with stairs up the middle.  She had the front bedroom in one of them, but that was before she bought the necklace.  Paul lives in a house with heavy furniture. 

We did not know what to think.  Standing with us, exuding blasts of heat, this man had produced a jumble of images with some relevance to EC’s roving life story.  If we did not want to believe, we would have to admit that some of those images were fairly generic.  Most people in these parts would have some connection with a terraced house.  However … unusual heavy furniture with thick legs?  That was specific.  We could not wait to get home and phone Furniture Paul.  EC was looking forward to being reunited with her necklace, and it sounded like she might have left it there. 

We escaped from the meeting while the club members were watching a DVD of themselves standing around in the dark.  On entering the house, before even taking off her coat, EC turned straight to the small, lightweight cupboard which stands by our front door.  She opened it, reached in, put her hand under a pile of her usual untidy detritus and drew out her necklace.  She had no idea what made her do that.  She was as surprised as I was.

Later, she worked out an explanation.  She decided that the medium had somehow picked images of different places from inside her head, and her engineer’s brain had been so horrified by the invasive experience that it had processed and reviewed all existing information relating to the necklace without telling her.  As soon as she was indoors, her arm received a direct command to retrieve the thing before she did any more weird stuff.

That makes as much sense as anything does in the world of the paranormal.

Can her brain take action without her permission?  Apparently it can.   A brief visit to Biology Land produces an interesting overview of what is lodged inside our skulls and what tricks it can perform.

The sections of the brain have wonderful evocative names.  Some of them sound sci-fi, some of them remind me of mythological creatures and some of them are surely just kitchen ingredients.  ‘Medula, queen of Cerebellum, was complaining that there was not enough thalamus in the stew, when suddenly, an Amygdala attacked and nutted her in the pons.’

The parts of the brain have evolved at different times.  The newest part is the cortex.  This is what makes us think, talk and imagine.  Only the very cleverest animals have one of these, and we human beings have the best.  It is such a shame we just waste it on watching soap operas and brooding over interior d├ęcor.
Hiding underneath this is an older part, linked up by a series of pathways called the limbic system.  A lot of animals also have a limbic system.  The limbic system links the parts of the brain concerned with the practicalities of being in a body and living the world.  It is about emotions, sensations, hunger, thirst, sex and then sleepiness.  This part of the brain decides what you will remember and what is not important. 

Right at the back is the very oldest part of the brain, the brain stem.  This controls the vital, automatic tasks a body has to do, such as breathing, heartbeat and the choice of correct footwear to match an outfit. The cerebellum (the wheat of war?) is in this region.  It controls our balance and movement.  Animals need a cerebellum, or they just fall over.  Young people lose these on Saturday nights.

As I have found so often when poking about for the purposes of this project, different sources contradict each other.  This leads me to believe that these facts are not cut and dried.   I started to suspect that, if there are psychic skills anywhere, they might be sited inside that old part of the brain served by the limbic system.  I chose this because the flashes of unexplained information I have experienced and observed by-pass the logic and language found in that sensible, businesslike modern cortex.  If that suspicion is something near the truth, I would add that the psychic skills may have atrophied because they are so much less useful than logic and language.   

That does not mean that they are not interesting.