Six years ago, I tagged along with a friend to a psychic seminar. It was held in a dowdy old church hall, with around 50 people sitting in rows of chairs, each of us told we could be put in touch with the dead. I wasn’t looking for answers myself – I only wanted to support my friend. But then the psychic pointed at me, uttering something that left me shaken: “He’s saying he regrets what he did.”
What the psychic didn’t know was that my late partner, Alex, had tragically taken his own life two years earlier while suffering from a bout of depression. Suddenly I seemed to be on a spiritual speed dial with the love of my life. But was it really him? The psychic chuckled. “He’s saying he was ‘past his sell-by date’,” she said. I was dumbfounded; this was a typical Alex remark, all black humour.
