I Am Me, No One Special

‘P’ for Positive

As the Queen of Procrastination, the ‘P’ word is one I dislike intensely. Yet true to form umming and aaaaahing about whether or not to write this particular type of book I faffed around like an adrenaline fuelled ferret but why? Writing fills my soul with passion and all things spiritual are as much a part of me as my heartbeat, therefore it will be easy to share spiritual experiences with you. So changing the ‘P’ word to Positive my aim is to comfort and reassure those of you curious but new to the intriguing world of spirit and angels. This book has been a long time coming, yet in the grand scheme of things especially related to spirit there is order, that in mind the timing is spot on and it feels right. With rapidly growing interest in the afterlife and angelic realm, scepticism is being replaced by intrigue, trust and belief. It is no longer a taboo subject; spirituality is being wholeheartedly embraced, previously scornful doubters becoming faithful believers. From a very early age I have for whatever reason been able to connect with spirit bringing forth amazing experiences but not knowing anything different I never considered then that this was a very special gift to be blessed with because I Am Me, No One Special.

It all seemed normal and I often giggled when my mother spoke of Grandma Willis, the seventh child of a seventh child whose weird and wonderful behaviour was classed as eccentricity but was in fact powerful clairvoyance. Tales of Grandma Willis made me love her dearly even though she had passed long before my early morning entrance to the world had occurred, almost head first into the toilet bowl to be precise. Bless her heart, I have always felt an affinity and even though Grandma was lovingly referred to as a tadge batty she and I would no doubt have been kindred spirits. Sharing a few of my stories will be a huge pleasure and hopefully you will take something good from each one to help you along the sometimes very harsh highway of life. They are randomly picked from a massive library of events stored in my memory. I must warn you though that remembering dates isn’t my forte and not forward seeing the need to remember, I rarely scribbled notes. Daft really not to know in advance, something so obvious with such an accessible gift but in the grand scheme of things not vital. There is some semblance of order, and I hope to show you clearly, how family and friends in spirit and loving angels have been a guiding light throughout life, enabling me to help people. Everything always seemed to sit right, regardless of when, where and how.

CHAPTER TWO

Babies Have Memories Too

This first story may seem rather far- fetched, indeed had someone related it to me I would probably have found difficulty in believing it. Simply because when this event happened, I was a baby of around five months old, too young at the time to make more than a few simple sounds in lieu of words. Definitely unable to relate at the time what I had witnessed, yet astonishingly several years later was able to tell the story with total recall, describing events with such accurate detail that my mother could not stop shaking. That was perhaps my earliest recall of anything as significant as this happening to other people.

The pram that I was in felt soothingly bouncy and as we spoke about that day years later my mother told me that the pram was a beautiful Silver Cross classic design with spring suspension. Evidently the Rolls Royce of prams in those days and her face positively glowed with pride as she described it, our mother was always ‘Mummy’ the loving mummy whose children were her world and just about everything had to be perfect for us.

In those days, bearing in mind that I am now happy Granny Lipstick to a wonderful little brood, mothers didn’t have any qualms about leaving their baby parked outside a shop in the pram. Thus, I was duly parked next to a sloping path that zig zagged up to a grey stone building with a wooden hand rail all along the left hand wall. My mother was wearing maroon red high heels and I watched as she disappeared into the building that I later learned was a Post Office. Kicking off my left shoe and sock, a chubby bare foot crept from under the pram covers to paddle in the rain water collected on the outer waterproof cover. Soon after, my mother tucked the stray foot back beneath the covers before playfully telling me off.

I clearly remembered a lady approaching her; they hugged and chatted before she was invited to go home with us. The pram was wheeled into our big welcoming kitchen and I watched with curious interest as my mother made a pot of tea for her guest. Of course, it was all done properly back then with lovely china tea sets and biscuits that were arranged nicely on doilies to dress the plates. Following tea, the next act of kindness was to pack up a huge bag of groceries and home baking plus tokens to exchange for milk and fresh orange juice. Tokens were given to new mothers for post birth nourishment; Mum gave hers to the lady without hesitation or thought for her own health. My mother then went upstairs to find a warm coat for the lady and I watched the lady open Mum’s handbag taking out several folded ten shilling notes before furtively stuffing them into her own pockets. The sad thing is that had this ‘so called’ friend asked for money it would have been given to her with love. Instead when my brother Peter came home we watched Mum sob as though her heart would break when she discovered the cold callous theft from right under her nose. Peter is three years older than me and being unable to help or comfort our kind beautiful mother during her sadness was awful for him, our father was overseas in the Royal Air Force. Years later when I relived the whole scenario in clear detail to my mother she told me that everything I saw that day as a baby happened as described, even down to what she and the lady were wearing.

CHAPTER THREE

Banished Shamefully To My Bedroom

When I was a very small child my mother had discovered the unusual gift bestowed upon me for no apparent reason and was fully accepting of it. That was when she decided to tell me about Grandma Willis, there was obviously good reasoning behind Mummy telling me about her great grandmother and the significance became clearer as the years passed by. Being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter is very powerful spiritually and Grandma Willis was extremely gifted, this was at a time when such things were taboo and not mentioned, mainly because they were scorned as work of the Devil. I truly believe that I was being given permission by my mother to be myself and it was her way of saying it was okay to be different. Grandma stories were comforting, and as far as spiritual events go were a big influence. In fact, Grandma Jane Eleanor in spirit changed the whole direction of my life and has guided me ever since as you will see later, it was a profound event that made me see without a scrap of doubt what I was meant to do. I Am Me, No One Special, but I do have a special gift that makes me forever grateful.

The kitchen was warm and smelled of freshly baked jam tarts, cinnamon apple pies and fruity scones. Mum and I were up to our necks in baking paraphernalia with clouds of flour swirling as she dusted down the smaller baking board in front of me. My contribution to the bake fest was to be gingerbread men, at last I could get my hands on the lovely squidgy pastry mixture. Both parents attempted to equip us with simple cookery skills but as children our culinary offerings were not the most appetising. Still, moments like that were loved and cherished, more happy memories for my mental library. Mum was singing along to the radio, I was happy because life was good, and Peter appeared equally happy as he tucked into the broken bits of biscuit mix. He was making roads for his Dinky cars while nibbling and humming at the same time, we felt loved without any doubt our home was a haven of happiness. Sharon, our sister one year younger than me had woken from her nap in the cat’s basket and was gratefully accepting bits of biscuit from Peter, our hero. The secure bliss of that moment was about to change, rolling out the by then grubby piece of pastry I reached for the man shaped cutter, collected currants to form eyes then froze on the spot.

Staring at Mum I calmly stated ‘Mummy, Grandma Daisy just died, she came and said hello to me’. ‘Valerie!!! go to your room this minute, that was a cruel and horrible thing to say’ she said crossly. My mother’s beautifully arched eyebrows rose with dramatic effect, her expression had changed from that of shock to anger as she had uttered her command with force. Protesting loudly, I climbed down from the stool and walked from the kitchen, muttering under the cross glare following each laboured step. ‘She did die Mummy’ I retorted, it fell on deaf ears, I was banished shamefully, and happy baking time was over. Cross mother, rumbling tummy not surprisingly from hunger but the lost expectation of crumbly delicious baking to nibble.

Why? I wondered, was it so wrong to tell Mum what Grandma Daisy had told me to say, I was an honest little girl and was puzzled by how cross our gentle kind mother was. It wasn’t quite midday, I had dressed at least twenty of the vast collection of dolls sharing my room and decided to wander downstairs, surely my outburst was forgiven, after all it wasn’t that bad was it? My mother’s unyielding expression of disappointment spoke volumes, her eyes could perform a whole play without a word being spoken, Mum had perfected ‘the look’. Fortunately, we were not the usual