Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!
I have a circle of ‘lady friends’ ranging in age from ‘old enough to know better’ to ‘bloody hell she’s out without a nurse again’. What binds us together is the love of a drink or two, the mistrust of politicians in all their shades of belief, and a sort of jaunty independence that moves us to stick up our middle fingers at life.
Until recently, I would have also said we were bonded by a broad streak of common sense. However.
That was until Beryl’s god-bedamned daughter-in-law bought her a ouija board for her birthday. A crowd of us descended on Dunshaggin – Beryl’s five-bed three-bath cottage off the high street – for a weej night.
I went along – hoping for plenty of booze, a buffet of belly-busting proportions, and a bloody good laugh at the silly game.
Got the first two. No problems. And the food, having been delivered from the local branch of the middle classes’ favourite supermarket was excellent. In fact, until the weejing started it was being a blast.
But then Beryl got the bloody thing out of its box and they all sat around it like hopeful sheep.
After rather a lot of jockeying for position, everyone had a finger on the wheelie doodad and Beryl dimmed the lights.
We were left with one spotlamp shining on the table and everything else as dim as the coal house on a December evening.
Even then I expected – or maybe I just hoped for – a bit of a laugh. Boy oh boy was I disappointed.
For a long time, nothing happened, except Brenda demanding to know if there was anybody out there and the occasional fitful jiggle of the wheelie thing.
After what felt like three hours of this, I got bored, and, somehow or another, wheelie sprung into action.
It was such a busy little doodad, scurrying about bringing messages from beyond to all and sundry. There were messages from departed loved ones (particularly touching were the words of love from pets who waited on the rainbow bridge), there was advice both emotional and financial (mostly of the ‘that’s a scam you silly old cow’ variety), and there was a sprinkling of rude jokes to leaven the pudding.
Oh how merrily we weejed. And oh how sad we’re we when mister wheelie launched himself off the table in a hissy fit.
And that, I rather hoped, would be that.
But of course it wasn’t.
Weej evenings became all the rage, although, sadly, nobody gets messages like that first night in Brenda’s house.
I don’t go any more. I have the perfect excuse.It was the message from my old dog, Susan, I explain. Warning me against any more contact across the great divide.