...The Extraordinary

In the absence of Christmas and New Year tales (which will come soon, I am awaiting photos of the stunning snow made from soap that was showered upon us at midnight on New Year's Eve) I want to tell you about a disturbing experience I had today when I was persuaded by curiousity and confusion to call a psychic. I have always been open to the existence of strange phenomena, even before my teenage crush on David Duchovny. My Sven-finding friend Jeanna and I used to fill our pre-university mornings feasting upon a cheap television series hosted by a bald guy in a trench coat. It was called "...The Extraordinary" (pronounced pause The ExtRORdinaryyy). We sat glued to our ancient tv set, feasting on strong coffee and chocolate-digestive biscuits. We were thrilled to hear tales of hauntings and coincidences, our personal favourite being when Telly Savalas (aka Kojak) found himself in the limousine of a falsetto-voiced ghost driver, inspiring many a drunken exclamation of "IIIII'LLLL give you a ride!".

The problem is, no matter how much I want to believe, I remain unconvinced, and after today, a bit stressed. Last year a psychic told me that Australia was merely a place to recharge my batteries, but my spiritual home was in Europe. That I should go to Europe and rekindle a lost love, and that I would look out a window here and know when I'd found "home". (She also told me that she'd send me a pack of tarot cards, and never did. That should have rung a ghostly alarm bell).

Today I rang someone recommended by a friend. She told me that I had at least two friendly helpers on the Other Side, including a 25 year old guy with fair hair who'd died in a car crash who was keen to help me. I told her I didn't know anyone who'd died in a car crash, apart from my university friend who died in a taxi in London at age 17. She had dark hair and er...was female. The psychic told me a few things that could be true I suppose - my motherly instincts (check, despite years of denial), my tendency to choose boys intsead of men (check check check), my need to sort things out with my family - especially the roles of women in my family (check) and ... that I needed to move back to Australia. Now, you could say that to pretty much any expatriate Australian, except me. I've been there done that. I went home to put down roots, spent far too much money on a stainless steel fridge and a nice cutlery set, and could right now be working in a cosy job as a web producer in a funky urban Sydney agency. But call me a snob, the day that The Australian, our only national newspaper, put the headline "ATM FEES GO UP TO $2" rather than "HAMAS ELECTED IN PALESTINE" I decided to cut my losses and head off for my ill-fated adventure in Tokyo.

Anyway, with me writhing in horror, the psychic went on to say that home is where the family is (her opinion, not necessarily anyone on the Other Side). While I miss my family, I don't think living in their immediate vicinity is necessary to belong to them. Not to mention it being physically impossible - my mother is in China, my father in Brisbane, my sister in Sydney, my grandparents and aunts sprinkled between Darwin, North Queensland and the Gold Coast.

It got worse. I have to be more needy and ladylike or men won't feel appreciated by me. But I am apparently to end up with an Australian man, something which challenges my entire view of myself -- I'm not sure I can even handle Australian vowels any more, let alone men. What happened to the tall valiant Viking who was supposed to come and rescue me? (If pushed, I would however accept Hugh Jackman as a substitute).

And I am supposedly going to give up work and have at least three kids. For a girl who's had only one long-term relationship and is currently being ignored by Mr Unrequited, this came as something of a shock. Why oh why didn't I stick with the bald guy and Telly Savalas for my supernatural fix?

As I discussed this on the balcony with I. over chocolate cake (which she sweetly baked since she figured I might need it), I suddenly remembered something that will give the EXTRAORDINARY guy a run for his money. When I was about 5, I was running mischievously around a hospital while my poor baby sister was being treated for a bowel problem. I remember pulling back a curtain and seeing a ... 25 year old fair haired guy lying there covered in red stitches after being in a car accident. He smiled at me and so did the doctor. The doctor seemed to think it was cute that I was there to cheer up the accident victim. He seemed like he would survive, but the image was burned in my memory forever. Could he be my spirit guide? Or is he in a pub in Brisbane having a pint of VB in a pair of stubbies* and maseur sandals?

So I'm not sure how I feel. Will my horror at this become a self-fulfilling prophesy? Or should I just take the key elements: there'll be some kind of happy ending but I need to deal with my feelings towards motherhood and culturally confused Australia first. And that I need a man instead of a boy. I'm leaning towards that, unless some noble Viking drags me by the hair onto a Qantas flight bound for Sydney.

*stubbies - Australian for very short shorts.