At work, reading aloud the horoscopes in our daily paper often gives us fuel for a really good laugh. But on a more serious note….
Years ago, prompted by a colleague, I visited an astrologer. Garth Carpenter. At the time he was a much-published columnist with the Evening Post and other national dailies. I went along to my reading feeling ever so sceptical but open to change. My colleague had had her stars read with Garth Carpenter and her experience, awful as it was, had piqued my interest.
When I made my appointment, the only question asked of me was my date and time of birth.
Two weeks later I went along for my reading.
It was quite unnerving. After about listening to my reading for about 45 minutes, Garth asked me to estimate his accuracy up to that point. He said that my answer would determine whether his prediction for my life over the next two years was on track. I remember saying that he was 99.9 percent correct – and I’m not talking generalisations here. Some of what he mentioned were deeply personal things known to no-one but myself. The only fact he has got wrong (hence the 99.9 percent) was the month I was intending to travel.
He even predicted the tragic deaths of my uncle and my brother – in close succession.
He told me that my horoscope was one of the best he’d read.
I left his office with a 42-page typed report.
I was reminded of my visit yesterday by a call from my brother. He’s been going through very tough times over the past couple of years and had recently sought the help of an astrologer. His experience was remarkably similar – not in the things he heard, but in the accuracy of his reading.
As he got up to leave the room he was asked if our mother’s name was Margaret. It was. He was told that her spirit had been in the room and that she wanted him to know she’s watching over him.
It’s been on my mind all day.