The Psychic Dutchman

Yesterday, Veronica, Suzan and I embarked on a quest to unlock the mysteries of the universe, with a psychic reading. Obviously this required a pre- and post-psychic pint where we could compare notes.

My opinion on psychics is hopelessly contradictory. On the one hand I realise a lot of amateur psychology is involved. I mean, what woman in her early 30s isn't probably struggling with career and/or romance if they have chosen to talk to a psychic? You're hardly going to go in there and say "actually everything's fine, I just felt like paying 35 quid for you to tell me all my concerns are completely unfounded" are you?

On the other hand, I have always been somehow convinced that there is more to life than what we can see, even if it's quantum physics or biology.

So, when Veronica and I met up this week to share our woes over a vodka cranberry, we decided now was the time.

When I went in to see my psychic, the first thing I thought was the rather unspiritual, "haha, I think he's Dutch". Considering my experiences in Holland were less than brilliant and much of last weekend was spent with my ex-boyfriend constructing a "GERMAN BORDER POLICE DUTCH IDENTIFICATION PROGRAM", this was funny in itself, and seemed oddly like some sort of sign.

But I've come out of there even more confused than when I went in. The kindly Dutchman tried, but I suspect he sugar-coated what looked like a pretty painful set of tarot-cards. It looks to me like I am destined for a bunch of pain and heartache, not as bad as I had before though, but will meet my soulmate within the next two years (who is most likely someone new, or could be at least a new situation with someone I already know - but in any case it will definitely be a new start.) Even then though there will be struggle, and I will have to stand up for myself and fight for it. He said in the next two years I'll transform my life. He also said there could be something there with an ex but asked if I wanted to pursue it.

Now if we apply a bit of BBC-standard journalistic analysis to this, it seems to me that that is pretty much standard advice that could apply to absolutely any situation, anyone and their ex, and anyone and their future. In fact Veronica, Suzan and I all got pretty similar advice really, when you get down to it (although only Veronica's going to be raking in the cash. And at least I wasn't told that my ex-boyfriend is evil, unlike someone who shall remain nameless!)

So in short, I'm not sure what the hell to do next. This kind of thing is also dangerously addictive - "just one more reading then I'll believe that one..." It's taken a lot of willpower to not whip out the (banned) credit card and send off for an online reading from a random woman in Australia.

I think rather than trust in psychics, I'm going to apply the advice of Dr Emmett Brown in Back To The Future III, when Marty says, "But what does it MEAN, Doc?" And good old Dr Brown replies: "Your future hasn't been written yet, no-one's has - your future is whatever you make it!" Sorry Psychic Dutchman, I'm sure there was a lot of truth in what you said, but there is also a lot of truth in the words of a fictional scientist with an awesome DeLorean.

Budget.

I have come to the conclusion that there is no-one in the world worse at budgeting than me. Puzzlingly, budgeting is part of my job. When I'm at work, it all seems to go fine (probably because it's someone else's money, so I can remove myself from the emotional turmoil and don't get heart palpitations when I go to open spreadsheets).

But at home, it's another story.

No matter how many well-meaning spreadsheets I create, iPhone apps I download, meal-planner supermarket shops I painstakingly devise or credit cards I hide from myself, I have come to accept that I am terminally, utterly hopeless. I know people who earn a lot less than me who seem to flit endlessly around the planet without a care in the world: which means it's all my fault.

It's very depressing. I think I need a husband to manage my salary and only give me an allowance every month.

The current potential solutions are:

1 - Become a millionaire
This would be, on the face of it, the ideal solution. I'd rather not rely on someone else, so having my own million in the bank would work. Obviously, the question is how to bring about this state of affairs, unless the million is referring to rupees or monopoly money.

2 - Marry a millionaire
While not as satisfying as being a millionaire in my own right, still an acceptable solution. Probably more likely to actually maintain the millionaire status as well.

3 - Marry an accountant
This would possibly help me to remain solvent, if not quite a millionaire. However, no offence to accountants, but I suspect it wouldn't exactly be an exciting marriage defined by unbridled passion and a common love for adventure. So it probably wouldn't last very long, and would leave me back at square 1.

4 - Turn our dog into a cashcow
This has been an idea kicking around for a while. Our dog, Chad, manages to incite people to pull faces in the street, and consider starting their own charities or robbing their grandmothers to secure the cash to buy an identical dog. We have even been asked to breed or clone him, something along the lines of a "dog factory" (sadly, since the canine in question can't reproduce, this isn't an option). So far however, Chad has failed to provide for us, other than procuring some free chicken bones from the security guard downstairs.

5 - Reject the actual concept of money-based value
Since all previous options have failed, perhaps a life as a hippy on the streets of Delhi or as a monk in Tibet may hold the answer. But since a nomadic hippy lifestyle probably doesn't include a new Macbook Pro, satisfying career prospects or regular visits to my beloved friends in Stockholm, I'm not sure it's a realistic answer. Plus a girl needs new shoes every now and then.

I think constantly failing at this aspect of life also causes me to fail at others - for instance marrying anyone, let alone a millionaire. So perhaps defining myself by anything to do with money is a fatal mistake. Money can't buy everything after all.