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  • Writer's pictureAnn

I Just Called to Say, "I'm Sorry"?

Well, I don't mind admitting that the last 3 weeks I've been in something of a stonker of a mood!

Since Emma's death on Christmas day (see last blog) things have been strange. The atmosphere in the house, ever since walking back in after her funeral, has been like lead. Getting through each day has felt like swimming through tar in the dark whilst blindfolded, and in slow-motion. I've wanted to cry. A lot. I've felt love for my family and friends so deep that it made me gut-churningly sad to realise and accept that day-by-day, each of us draws closer to not only our own mortal demise, but to having to bear witness to those of said family and friends. The human condition and our knowledge of our mortality is a curse as well as a blessing, I'm sure.

I had also giddily applied for a job at Muchelney Abbey near to where we live (see other blog!) and having been given a pretty good indication that I might be in with a rather good chance, was subsequently absolutely buzzing come closing date for applications. This was to be the perfect job! Plus, I had writtten what I thought to be a hum-dinger of blurb to seal the deal, and thus I waited with butterfly-filled anticipation. The application had said that they'd be in touch, successful or not... but I heard nothing.

I still hadn't heard midway through the first week set aside for interviews, and so, having been uptight and fearing the worst, at last plucked up courage and emailed to ask what was going on? In a rather blunt reply I was told that I hadn't made the cut. I felt numb and desperately sad. Clearly having a passion for history and old buildings, and a good customer service background was not what they needed, but oh well. Was it what I'd written? Did I blurt out too much about my love for the past and how living history is vital? A massive knock in the teeth I can tell you, and this didn't help the anger, sadness, or feeling of being a waste of air. I stupidly put things on my Facebook posts and people got worried about me, and I wondered why I'd put my grumpy feelings out there. I'm not 20 anymore! But at least I knew.

Added to the feeling of enormous disappointment and the anger I felt at having been just left to wilt by English Heritage, were several instances in which my polite simple enquiries about venue hire were totally ignored because, so I'm guessing, my small-fish status meant that it was apparently below them to deign to answer me. Also add to this insult multiple messages ignored by friends, for some reason. I felt invisible, jobless, pathetic, lonely, and rather pointless. I'd get in from daily chores and change into my PJs, and lie on the bed until it was time to make dinner. It was the worst time for my Jack to be away at work in Holland, but isn't that always the way?

However, come the day after the job news, the proverbial steam that had been seeping from my ears subsided, I began to feel like myself again. Jack came home, and I was off back to the stables in the morning three days a week to sort out Rodney, the absolute treasure of a pony whom I half-loan. As I scrabbled to put my wellies on in the near dark, I became aware of a loud whirring mechanical sound in the living room. I hopped in, listening intently. What on earth could it be? It turned out to be the hand-held electric fan we use to irritate BBQ flames or more recently, agitate the woodburner's glowing embers. The switch was switched on full, and it was merrily gusting out all over on the cabinet. I switched it off. Weird. It reminded me of 'the old days' when we had a poltergeist (see many other blogs on this!).

Two days passed, and I was in the bathroom, Jack had returned from working away and was downstairs, and all was quiet. Suddenly there was a loud thump just outside the bathroom door, and I waited a second, thinking that perhaps Jack was playing a prank. I opened the door, and found a magazine and tin of guitar picks just outside the door.

What the....?

You see, the magazine had been on a pile of things I'd moved out of my little office/writing room whilst I had been filming a few to-camera bits and bobs for my latest filmic project Where the Jackdaws Cry, and I couldn't have stuff in the background. I am an untidy creature, and so I just shoved the big bag and detritus out into the landing where it stayed, magazine squashing down the top, tin of picks on top of that. This pile was sturdy and had remained there for literally, weeks. Anyway, now the magazine was upside down and several feet from where it had been happily lying for ages, and the picks with it. If it had slipped it wouldn't have jumped so far, and also probably not flipped over either. My instincts told me that something was amiss, but perhaps too soon to tell if our uninvited guest was paying a visit once more.

In bed that night, as always when Jack is home, I plugged into my Snoozeband! It's the most wonderful invention that interweaves a cosy headband with bluetooth speakers, so you can lie in bed and listen to things. To combat the husband's snoring, I have stormy rain sounds from Audible, for eight hours continuously - and it usually works a treat. Before I had hit the sack that night (last night actually, the 9th Feb' 2024) I sat on the landing and just spoke to whoever or whatever may have been responsible for the dual mischievous acts that may or may not have been anything, or even related. But something told me they were. I said, please don't do these things at night and especially not near our bedroom. I was polite and calm, then took myself off.

The first 3 hours of attempted sleep were interrupted by terrible and unusual crackling static playing over the rain sounds through my headband, so bad, it kept waking me up every time I almost dropped off. I thought that perhaps the wires inside had gone all funny, but anyway, I got up, visited the loo, came back and put it back on. Clear as a bell. Then as I lay my head down once more, came the voice. And this wasn't my imagination; this was through the speakers and was not part of the rain soundtrack!

It was a man, well spoken and clear, and he said simply and loudly, "I'm so sorry". And that as it.

Was this the voice of whoever had been meddling? From previous EVP captures during our 'troubles', I know that our invisible resident was more than capable of making himself heard via my voice recorder, and indeed on many an occasion. But this was out of the blue, and the voice I heard was apologetic. Our other fella certainly hadn't been! And why now? Was it because I'd been getting myself in an absolute tizz about the current state of my life?Was my angst fuelling once more, 'weird ****' around the home?

Indeed, just four nights previously I'd been alone eating dinner downstairs and glanced at Emma's memorial service booklet, and I'd crumbled. It all came out. My fears and worries for my parents, my grief for something that hasn't even happened yet, pulling at my heart and spilling tears down my face. I was disgustingly puce and my eyes puffy. The K2 meter next to Emma's booklet hit red and orange and went quite berserk for several minutes, then returned quietly, to green.

Had I done this? Or was there more at play? Whatever it was, my eyes and ears are open and alert. Maybe I'm not quite so invisible after all. Thanks to 'my man' for his apology, if he was the cause of the mischief. And, whilst I may never know, I think he may have been.

Over and out for now!

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