I’ve been revisiting my tarot cards quite a bit in the last few weeks. It started when my eye fell upon them (I would say, mysteriously, ‘quite by chance’, but actually, there is very little chance you could miss them when they are poked at your nose by a small and very curious girl) the other week, and, after years of abandonment on the shelves downstairs, I felt a pull to have a potter through them once more. I’ve had these cards for about twelve years, I suppose, and while I was all enthusiasm, gypsy caravans and wafts of incense when I first bought them, somehow I sort of lost interest when I realised I’d have to actually read an entire book to get to grips with them. See? Fickle, I am. Anyway, perhaps it’s no longer having to read swathes of literature so dull that one questions the usefulness of literacy in its entirety, but somehow I managed to rip through the book in only a few days, and my interest has been on the up ever since.

When I was about fourteen, I came across a well-established witch who read tarot cards with astonishing accuracy. At the time, I felt pulled between the assumption that he must have been cheating in some way, surely, and the equally strong desire to believe that We Just Don’t Understand Everything There Is. Over the years, I think I’ve come down on the latter side, for the most part. Yes, there are some charlatans out there (and various aspects of this person’s conduct are, shall we say, questionable, perhaps), but that doesn’t seem to mean that everything they stand for is rubbish.

I’ve been picking the cards up on nights when Quercus sleeps downstairs, and having a quick look at whatever comes out first. It’s sort of meditative, and at the same time renews my sense of connection. ‘Connection to what?’ I hear you cry (along with ‘good grief, woman – what incredible old bollocks’), and well you might (to both!), because I’ve got no idea what I’m on about, frankly. I was trying to explain to Quercus yesterday what I feel when things seem… witchier, somehow, and of course I fell over my feet, verbally, and ended up sounding like Madame Arcarty, which was, shall we say, not quite the effect for which I was aiming.

I think it’s something which requires some serious thought, at some point. I mean, what do I actually think? I think there is More. I have an enduring interest in witchcraft, which, for me, means an awareness of one’s surroundings, including but not limited to the seasons, the weather, the herbs, flowers, oils, spices and so on that can be used culinarily but also for purposes less well-known. I also have a strong feeling that the universe sometimes sends you what you need, even if it’s not what you wish for. Fate, I suppose. I think I might just believe that sometimes you can effect what you wish for yourself, but only if it’s vaguely in line with What Will Be anyway. But beyond that, I’m not sure what I think. I have had a few examples of things I couldn’t explain, and I have reason to wish for More, for sure, after my mother’s death. I’d also like to know why I feel so preoccupied by these questions just now, when there is no obvious prompt for them.

The inherited lunacy, by the by, is a reference to my grandmother’s conversations with her own grandmother, who had been dead for thirty years at the time. Apparently, I have two generations of mediums in my family, and my father has often demonstrated worrying foresight, once or twice in most unusual circumstances. That, coupled with my mother’s strong interest in witchcraft, speaks clear and loud (and apparently alliteratively, as we shall see) of as barking a bunch of beggars as one could hope to meet, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s something in the DNA.

In other news:

Why is my radio constantly wandering off its station, sometimes after a few seconds, sometimes after an hour?

Why, on the first weekday after I start thinking seriously about what I’m eating, is my office strewn with cake and biscuits?

Starsky or Hutch? I think my money is on Hutch (if only for the quirky vegetarianness)*, but this is subject to change.

Homemade apple pancakes – do they count as junk food?

Why is it impossible to get in touch with the Citizens’ Advice Bureau if you’re not in a position to walk through the door?

* This definition of vegetarianism is also something of a post in itself; I’m still going about the place “looking like a vegetarian”, according to colleagues. More on that anon.