Most people arrive at their first sitting braced for something out of a film: candles, incense thick enough to chew, a man in a velvet robe. What they get instead is me, two comfortable chairs, and the offer of tea. The spirit world doesn’t need theatre, and neither do you.
We begin by simply talking. I explain how I work: I pass on what I’m given: names, dates, the way your gran folded her arms when she was cross, the song your dad hummed in the car. Some of it will make sense immediately. Some of it won’t until Tuesday next week, when it suddenly does. I ask you to confirm or say no honestly, because a good reading is a conversation between three parties, not a performance by one.
What I never do is frighten people. In twenty years of practice I have never met anything in spirit worth being afraid of; grief is the only heavy thing in the room, and it lightens as we work. If nothing comes through, I will tell you that plainly and we won’t pretend otherwise. Spirit doesn’t do commands, and honesty matters more to me than a full hour of padding.
Come with an open mind, not an empty one. Bring your questions, bring your scepticism if you need to; both are welcome. All I ask is that you let whoever wants to speak, speak.
