cool and I’ll see you later!’
She’s probably right. It was only one blip. One small, barely noticeable, teeny-weeny blip. Perceptible only to the select few who know me intimately. Hopefully. With a bit of luck.
I’m sure it was just my nerves playing up and that I’ll be back to normal and getting my usual hit rate of flashes in no time. And no, I won’t end up jobless, unemployed and sleeping rough under a bridge with a cardboard sign saying, ‘I used to be psychic but mysteriously lost it all, please give generously.’
Come on, Cassie, pull it together. If you imagine the worst, then that’s what you’ll create
.
Right. Nice, deep, soothing breath.
I hang up the phone and turn to the taxi driver.
Brainwave
. I’ll get him talking and see if I can see anything about his life. Dublin taxi drivers are well known for loving the chat, aren’t they? I mean, I’ve had times when a ten-minute taxi ride ends up taking half an hour because I’d get into such a deep conversation with the driver; they end up telling me their innermost secrets and I get flashes to beat the band. And the last time I got into a big conversation with one, I accurately predicted that he’d get five numbers on the Lotto that Saturday night. He even sent me a bunch of flowers care of the magazine as a thank you and I was only raging that I didn’t think of asking him what the numbers actually were, so I could have made a few extra quid on the side myself.
‘Ehh, sorry about that. Had to take that call,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at him and sitting forward, all set for a good chin-wag.
‘No worries, love.’
‘So. How are things with you then?’
‘Grand.’
‘Busy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you married then? With . . . emm . . . kids, maybe?’
‘Ehh . . . no.’
‘Oh, right.’
A pause.
‘So, no holidays planned or anything?’
‘No. Sorry.’
OK, now he’s looking at me through the rear-view mirror as if I’m some sort of pathetic saddo that’s desperately trying to pick him up. We drive the rest of the way in total silence.
Shit, shit, shit. Just my luck to land the only non-talkative taxi driver in the whole of the greater Dublin area.
When I finally get to the office, I grab the lift, jump out at the fifth floor, Arts and Features (yes, I know a psychic column doesn’t strictly fall into either category, but that’s just where my desk happens to be), and – you won’t believe this – get a big round of applause from everyone who’s there.
‘Heartiest congratulations on a sterling performance, Cassandra my dear,’ says Bob Thornton, the social diarist, coming over and pecking me elegantly on each cheek. ‘Caught the show on the old telly-box just now and may I just say, you were the absolute epitome of grace under pressure.’
‘Oh, thanks . . . emm . . . Bob,’ I mutter, mortified at everyone looking at me and feeling, as I always do, cheeky for even calling him by his first name.
Bob, I should point out, is actually Sir Bob, although he doesn’t use his full title as he considers it vulgar ever since, as he puts it, the Queen started knighting supermarket barons and soap stars. He’s wearing a beautifully cut, slightly crumpled white linen suit today, with a pink hankie just peeping out of the top of his breast pocket. In short, he looks as if he just stepped off the set of a Merchant Ivory movie and is having a nice little breather before he goes back to governing India with the rest of his pals from the Raj. All the girls in the office think he’s adorably sweet and cuddly, which, as we all know, is girl-code for: ‘Hmm, very nice guy, absolutely lovely, but let’s face it, probably gay.’
‘May I offer you a refreshing cup of peppermint tea after your ordeal, my dear? I’ve just infused some.’
That’s the other thing about Sir Bob – sorry, I mean Bob. He categorically refuses to go to Starbucks downstairs like the rest of us because he feels it’s tasteless and crude to
She’s probably right. It was only one blip. One small, barely noticeable, teeny-weeny blip. Perceptible only to the select few who know me intimately. Hopefully. With a bit of luck.
I’m sure it was just my nerves playing up and that I’ll be back to normal and getting my usual hit rate of flashes in no time. And no, I won’t end up jobless, unemployed and sleeping rough under a bridge with a cardboard sign saying, ‘I used to be psychic but mysteriously lost it all, please give generously.’
Come on, Cassie, pull it together. If you imagine the worst, then that’s what you’ll create
.
Right. Nice, deep, soothing breath.
I hang up the phone and turn to the taxi driver.
Brainwave
. I’ll get him talking and see if I can see anything about his life. Dublin taxi drivers are well known for loving the chat, aren’t they? I mean, I’ve had times when a ten-minute taxi ride ends up taking half an hour because I’d get into such a deep conversation with the driver; they end up telling me their innermost secrets and I get flashes to beat the band. And the last time I got into a big conversation with one, I accurately predicted that he’d get five numbers on the Lotto that Saturday night. He even sent me a bunch of flowers care of the magazine as a thank you and I was only raging that I didn’t think of asking him what the numbers actually were, so I could have made a few extra quid on the side myself.
‘Ehh, sorry about that. Had to take that call,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at him and sitting forward, all set for a good chin-wag.
‘No worries, love.’
‘So. How are things with you then?’
‘Grand.’
‘Busy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you married then? With . . . emm . . . kids, maybe?’
‘Ehh . . . no.’
‘Oh, right.’
A pause.
‘So, no holidays planned or anything?’
‘No. Sorry.’
OK, now he’s looking at me through the rear-view mirror as if I’m some sort of pathetic saddo that’s desperately trying to pick him up. We drive the rest of the way in total silence.
Shit, shit, shit. Just my luck to land the only non-talkative taxi driver in the whole of the greater Dublin area.
When I finally get to the office, I grab the lift, jump out at the fifth floor, Arts and Features (yes, I know a psychic column doesn’t strictly fall into either category, but that’s just where my desk happens to be), and – you won’t believe this – get a big round of applause from everyone who’s there.
‘Heartiest congratulations on a sterling performance, Cassandra my dear,’ says Bob Thornton, the social diarist, coming over and pecking me elegantly on each cheek. ‘Caught the show on the old telly-box just now and may I just say, you were the absolute epitome of grace under pressure.’
‘Oh, thanks . . . emm . . . Bob,’ I mutter, mortified at everyone looking at me and feeling, as I always do, cheeky for even calling him by his first name.
Bob, I should point out, is actually Sir Bob, although he doesn’t use his full title as he considers it vulgar ever since, as he puts it, the Queen started knighting supermarket barons and soap stars. He’s wearing a beautifully cut, slightly crumpled white linen suit today, with a pink hankie just peeping out of the top of his breast pocket. In short, he looks as if he just stepped off the set of a Merchant Ivory movie and is having a nice little breather before he goes back to governing India with the rest of his pals from the Raj. All the girls in the office think he’s adorably sweet and cuddly, which, as we all know, is girl-code for: ‘Hmm, very nice guy, absolutely lovely, but let’s face it, probably gay.’
‘May I offer you a refreshing cup of peppermint tea after your ordeal, my dear? I’ve just infused some.’
That’s the other thing about Sir Bob – sorry, I mean Bob. He categorically refuses to go to Starbucks downstairs like the rest of us because he feels it’s tasteless and crude to
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