I went to see a psychic.
Purely for research purposes.
No. Whilst it is true that my new book does have a psychic girl in it and I wanted to quiz a psychic on concepts of free will and destiny (like if you tell me that I’m going to die when I’m 62 in a car crash is there anything I can do to avoid that or should I just merrily accept my fate?) I did also have a curiosity about what the future might hold (car accidents and all).
And apparently it holds success, fame, a boy child (AHHHHHHHHHH), a few years in Bali, a move to Australia or possibly Colorado, a big party at which I wave coloured flags and parade to a waterfall with lots of children (the point at which even my well trained eyebrows quivered in skepticism). Still I liked the bits about success, fame, books and – err that’s about it, so I think this psychic was spot on and now I’m wondering about where I can buy coloured scarves in town and which waterfall I can arrange a trip to for Alula’s class.
What the psychic however failed to see was the PUPPY that bounded into our lives that very evening. Maybe she’s long sighted. The psychic, not the puppy.
The puppy is the most perfect piece of canine heaven you’ve ever encountered. There is puppy love and then there is the love I have for this puppy. My family is complete. Alula has a sibling. John has his first pet. The boy child is unnecessary. I have a creature that adores me, and that doesn’t cry or answer back. Ok, she shits on the mat and eats the shoes, but I didn’t have to go through labour so that’s ok.
Please welcome Lily Bo to the can we live here adventure.