hard beneath the table top and I freeze in horror as the table rocks with its force. In what seems like slow
motion the crystal ball rolls towards me, twisting and turning and heading for the edge of the table.
“Jesus!” I manage to grab it just before it rolls off, clutching it without a millisecond to spare and holding it tightly to my chest.
I watch as her face changes from a ghostly panic to utter relief. It looked like the old dear was a goner for a moment.
She prises the ball from my perspiring hands, frantically examines it and heads to the open case where she pulls out the soft cloth. She wipes the ball with soothing, loving strokes.
“I’m so sorry . . . it . . . it was an accident,” I implore. “My heel got caught on the cloth.”
But she ignores me, still wiping the ball. Caressing it with affection.
It’s a bloody piece of glass, for God’s sake. Nothing more than a big marble.
She stares at me. A look of repugnance crosses her face. “This ball is made from quartz crystal,” she scolds. “And I simply cannot practice without it.”
Okay – once is coincidental. Twice is plain spooky.
I stand to go, no longer feeling the need to hear more. Enough damage has been done for one day.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I mutter in embarrassment. I turn to go, looking for the break in the canvas drapes. “Again, I’m really sorry.”
“Tina.” Her voice is lowered and calm as she hobbles towards me, giving the impression of being concerned. “I no longer have a connection to continue.” She inhales deeply
and with much effort. “But I must warn you that you truly need to learn to trust yourself. ” Her eyes, although worn and bloodshot, are filled with wisdom and compassion.
“Only you know who and what is right for you and things are not always as they seem.”
I’ve heard that before.
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Everything happens for a reason, my dear,” she answers gently.
“Not this,” I retort, angry at myself.
“Let this not be a wasted experience for you.”
I find the break in the curtains with relief and am as desperate to run back out as I was to run in.
“Tina!” she calls to me and I stop to look back at her elderly face and stooped posture. Her distorted hands are dry and craggy.
“You know . . .” She pauses. “It is okay to be less than your dreams.”
I stand there just staring as her tired red eyes pierce through my soul, washing me out and leaving me with a feeling of great unease.
Maybe. But is it okay to be less than others’ dreams for you?
Stopping off at the office, I deactivate the alarm and tear up the stairs to grab a bottle of champagne.
Every year we receive a case of this wonderful stuff from the solicitors across the street. The conveyancing staff over there are so efficient and thorough, and with their close proximity we
recommend them whenever we can. Keep it in the community, as they say. It certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by them and they reciprocate in any way possible. It’s usually on a social level
which is right up our street. Chantelle and I get invited to their Christmas bash, and every year we stagger home with enough post-bash gossip to last us through the following year. It’s
generally who’s shagging who, the ongoing sexual-harassment case against the senior partner, and the dirt on underhand transactions and who is doing them. Illegal as they are, they happen,
believe me. Alcohol does wonderful things to you, doesn’t it? It loosens the tongue, lubricates the imagination and releases all your inhibitions. Oh, and makes you think you can sing karaoke
better than anyone else in the universe.
Our office parties are extremely quiet by comparison. Besides Chantelle and myself, I employ Heather, the SAGE accountant, for two mornings a week, and Trisha, the singing cleaner, or
‘domestic’ in politically correct terms. She cleans
motion the crystal ball rolls towards me, twisting and turning and heading for the edge of the table.
“Jesus!” I manage to grab it just before it rolls off, clutching it without a millisecond to spare and holding it tightly to my chest.
I watch as her face changes from a ghostly panic to utter relief. It looked like the old dear was a goner for a moment.
She prises the ball from my perspiring hands, frantically examines it and heads to the open case where she pulls out the soft cloth. She wipes the ball with soothing, loving strokes.
“I’m so sorry . . . it . . . it was an accident,” I implore. “My heel got caught on the cloth.”
But she ignores me, still wiping the ball. Caressing it with affection.
It’s a bloody piece of glass, for God’s sake. Nothing more than a big marble.
She stares at me. A look of repugnance crosses her face. “This ball is made from quartz crystal,” she scolds. “And I simply cannot practice without it.”
Okay – once is coincidental. Twice is plain spooky.
I stand to go, no longer feeling the need to hear more. Enough damage has been done for one day.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I mutter in embarrassment. I turn to go, looking for the break in the canvas drapes. “Again, I’m really sorry.”
“Tina.” Her voice is lowered and calm as she hobbles towards me, giving the impression of being concerned. “I no longer have a connection to continue.” She inhales deeply
and with much effort. “But I must warn you that you truly need to learn to trust yourself. ” Her eyes, although worn and bloodshot, are filled with wisdom and compassion.
“Only you know who and what is right for you and things are not always as they seem.”
I’ve heard that before.
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Everything happens for a reason, my dear,” she answers gently.
“Not this,” I retort, angry at myself.
“Let this not be a wasted experience for you.”
I find the break in the curtains with relief and am as desperate to run back out as I was to run in.
“Tina!” she calls to me and I stop to look back at her elderly face and stooped posture. Her distorted hands are dry and craggy.
“You know . . .” She pauses. “It is okay to be less than your dreams.”
I stand there just staring as her tired red eyes pierce through my soul, washing me out and leaving me with a feeling of great unease.
Maybe. But is it okay to be less than others’ dreams for you?
Stopping off at the office, I deactivate the alarm and tear up the stairs to grab a bottle of champagne.
Every year we receive a case of this wonderful stuff from the solicitors across the street. The conveyancing staff over there are so efficient and thorough, and with their close proximity we
recommend them whenever we can. Keep it in the community, as they say. It certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by them and they reciprocate in any way possible. It’s usually on a social level
which is right up our street. Chantelle and I get invited to their Christmas bash, and every year we stagger home with enough post-bash gossip to last us through the following year. It’s
generally who’s shagging who, the ongoing sexual-harassment case against the senior partner, and the dirt on underhand transactions and who is doing them. Illegal as they are, they happen,
believe me. Alcohol does wonderful things to you, doesn’t it? It loosens the tongue, lubricates the imagination and releases all your inhibitions. Oh, and makes you think you can sing karaoke
better than anyone else in the universe.
Our office parties are extremely quiet by comparison. Besides Chantelle and myself, I employ Heather, the SAGE accountant, for two mornings a week, and Trisha, the singing cleaner, or
‘domestic’ in politically correct terms. She cleans
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