I walk past the door a couple of times before I summon enough courage.

I’m talking to myself as I go in.

‘You’ve every right to be here. You’re a blogger too. You know your stuff.’

I introduce myself to a helpful young woman. She takes my name.

‘Hi, what’s your Instagram handle?’

‘Huh?’ I reply impressively.

‘Your Instagram handle? So we can put you on the list.’

‘Uh…I’ll have to ask my wife.’

Things are going well.

I’m at the NI Blogger Brunch at The Gallery on the Dublin Road in Belfast. A networking event for those involved in blogging. There’s a part of me that is thinking the reason I do blogging is so I don’t have to network. It’s something I can do in my bedroom, hiding under the covers.

But sometimes you have to come out from under the covers. That’s why I’m here.

It’s no secret that I struggle in social situations like this. I feel like a thumb that’s been stretched on a torture rack, only to escape and step on a rusty nail. Before being kicked in the goolies.

The room is full. It’s mostly women. Mostly young women. Mostly glamorous young women. And me.

I find a seat and try to look casual. But I fear that I look like an extra from an episode of Father Ted who keeps rubbing his hands together, leering and whispering ‘lovely girls’.

The event has been organised and is compered by Cathy Martin. A PR professional whose name I’m familiar with from my time in newspapers. She networks effortlessly and seems to know every person in the room. Except me.

The event gives every blogger the chance to speak for a minute. To tell about their blog, why they do it, give some tips, hatch new ideas, meet new friends.

I decide to get my turn over with early. There are a lot of people here and there’s only so much information a mind can absorb. And mine less than most.

Cathy invites me to take the floor with the encouraging words, ‘Sorry I don’t know your name’. That’s ok, story of my life.

I tell a room full of complete strangers about my quest to share parenting stories and my battles with mental health problems.

It seems to go well. People are very kind in approaching me to say they thought it was powerful. A number say they are going to check out my blog. This is good progress.

The majority of the bloggers here seem to operate in the fashion and beauty industries. It’s totally alien to me but I listen to each contribution with interest. Skin treatments, whiter teeth, tanning products, make-up. Lots of make-up.

I nod my head and clap as they come and go. It starts me thinking about the process of blogging and why people do it. The art of it. The point of it.

There’s a lot of talk about Instagram, hashtags, microblogging. I know I’m out of my depth but there’s no wrong answers in this room. Just plenty of goodwill and sharing.

At the end the indefatigable Cathy introduces two people who are the experts in this strange new world. She calls them ‘influencers’. They are glamorous young women called Tiffany and Melissa.

The truth is they live in a different world to mine. They talk about how they choose which brands their blogs will endorse. How they have turned down big money offers to endorse brands which weren’t important to them.

For me this is a new way of thinking about blogging. My mind starts to consider what products I could endorse.

Spam. Mansize tissues. Toilet duck. Corned beef. HP sauce. Coal.

It’s a fascinating new world. I’m not entirely sure how all of it intersects with what I do but the positivity is contagious, the people open and friendly.

A man I’ve never met before approaches me and tells me that what I’m doing is inspirational. It’s that sort of room. You feel better going out than when you went in.

The truth is I’ll never be good at social media. I’ll never understand what hashtags are for. I’ll always be my own worst enemy as a blogger through my sheer inability to grasp the tricks of how to get myself out there.

But that’s ok. I do it because I love it. I love to tell a story. I love to see how people react to that story. Even if only three people read it then it’s still good.

A couple of the speakers talk about the importance of content. This bit I do get. For me the content is all I can do. The rest will always be a mystery. The end is the means.

I slip out at the conclusion while most of the others are coming together to exchange numbers and positive sentiments. There’s only so much networking I can take.

But there is a goodie bag to take home. I open it in the car. A bottle of Prosecco. I don’t drink alcohol but I’m sure my wife will appreciate it.

There’s also a bottle of self tanning spray. I look hard at it. I’ve tried a lot of strange things for the first time recently….

It’s the first time I’ve come face to face with a self-proclaimed psychic medium.

And I seem to be making quite an impression. As soon as she sees me she breaks out in goosebumps, she tells me there’s a lump in her throat. She seems temporarily overcome with emotion.

She invites me to touch her hand. I touch her hand. It is cold and trembling.

She invites me to touch her face. I touch her face. It is warm and flushed.

In truth I’m not used to having this sort of effect on women.

Several times in recent weeks I’ve written in this blog about how my life has gone in an unexpected direction. The truth, I now realise, is that the weirdness hadn’t even begun.

I had expected some reaction when I posted last week about my first experience of a mindfulness class. But I hadn’t counted on the nature of the correspondence.

People started to come to me with different ideas on how I could heal my mind. Really different ideas. Crystals. Lunar energy. Spiritual healing. Card reading. Mediumship. How the heck had I ended up here?

The speed of this path disturbed me. I knew what I was getting into with mindfulness. I’d read Ruby Wax’s book. I understood the science behind it. The study of what role different parts of the brain play.

Mindfulness is now offered as an approved medical practice for some conditions. I never believed it was a miracle cure. I don’t believe it’s for everyone. But I certainly thought it was worth a try.

But card reading? Lunar energy? How could we travel from something which seemed rooted in logic to what I considered to be mumbo jumbo so quickly?

What did it say about the world of alternative medicine that all these things get lumped in together so handily?

And isn’t there a danger that vulnerable, depressed people get led so easily from something which has a proven physical benefit to some sort of mystical wasteland where their weaknesses can be taken advantage of?

My mind has always been based in reason. I can’t believe in things which make no logical sense to me. I understand that there are millions of people who think differently. But I’ve always deeply resented the cynicism of professions and practices which exist to manipulate people’s innate need to believe in something outside of themselves.

And so the idea was born. I’ve done a lot of unfamiliar stuff recently. Now I would go a step further and meet one of these spiritual healers. I would observe the process. Take part in it. I would make them aware of my doubts and put the rough questions to them. The game was on.

An appointment was set up. I was going to have my cards read.

I hate to be unkind and I want to always give everything and everyone a fair hearing. I tried to work out a logic for card reading in my mind. Perhaps it was just a glorified counselling session. The cards were simply a tool to unlock a conversation about difficult subjects. As long as there was no claim that outside forces were manipulating or controlling the process then we’d be ok. No voices from the other side please.

I am introduced to a blonde haired woman.

Her first words to me are: ‘Hi, I’m Sharon, I’m a psychic medium.’

Oh well.

We start a conversation. A very long conversation. One that is still going on.

But straight away she seems to be struck by the power of my aura. Sort of like Yoda when he meets Luke Skywalker.

I want to be fair. I tell her I don’t believe in the process. I tell her I intend to write about it.

She is calm and annoyingly nice.

We discuss how it works. How she always knew that something was different about her from childhood. The feelings she would get. The scary words and pictures in her head that couldn’t be controlled. She says it was only when she left her career and trained as a medium that she found fulfilment.

But I want to know where these mental pictures, these voices in her head, come from. Sharon tells me that we all have ‘guides’ in our lives. You can think of them as God, Angels spirits, whatever you will, but she sees herself as a channel to tell us what our guides are saying.

But it goes further. She relates experience of passing on messages from dead people to their living relatives. In some cases she says that daily messages were passed to her from the dead to be given to loved ones.

To me this is where something which could be explained away as harmless fun becomes dangerously manipulative. I tell her that if this is some kind of performance then it is the most cynical act in the world.

She is utterly calm. Completely composed and solid in her conviction that she hears messages from the dead. She tells me to check the reviews on her website from clients who have been through this experience. They are glowing, of course.

I ask Sharon what she knows about me. As a blogger I’ve put a lot of information about myself into the public domain. Information which could be used by a medium to provide a pretty good character profile for a reading.

This appointment was set up by a third party. Sharon says she knows absolutely nothing about me. Not even my name.

I start by observing her with another client. She dangles a crystal from the end of a chain. It moves back and forward. She tells me that it is energy causing this movement.

The client is invited to ask three questions. If the crystal moves in a circle it means yes. Sideways means no. Or it might be the other way around. I can’t remember.

I tell Sharon that she is manipulating the movement of the crystal with her hand and arm. She says she is not.

Then it is time for my card reading. I refer to them as tarot cards but Sharon corrects me. Psychic oracle cards. She tells me that she gets different words and pictures in her head as she lifts each card. But these are all things which will be from my own mind, she is just channelling them.

I shuffle the deck and she selects nine cards in sequence from the bottom of the deck. She lays them out on the table in three rows of three. The top row represents the past. Then the present. Then the future.

The first card is marked Choose Wisely. It has a picture of what seems to be a man sitting on the edge of a pier staring out to sea. There are five arms protruding from the pier in different directions and two birds flying off into the distance. Clunky imagery.

Sharon begins to physically struggle again. There are goosebumps on her arms (this happens a lot) and she complains of pains in her head and stomach. She looks genuinely distressed. Her hands begin to shake. She tells me that she knows that I have suffered a lot, she can feel that pain. It is flowing through her now. She talks of ‘men in suits’ and of me being made to do things I didn’t want to do.

She throws out a lot of suggestions and asks if they mean anything to me. I try to respond as little as possible.

Then she says something very specific. She says her throat is contracting and she feels I may have had trouble eating food at some point in my life.

Last week I posted a blog about my difficult relationship with food. I talked about the trouble I sometimes had swallowing.

I look directly at Sharon. I ask her again if she has read anything about me. Again she insists she doesn’t know me. She shows me a text sent to her setting up the appointment which refers only to a ‘man’. Later I ask the person who set up the appointment and she also insists she did not reveal that I was to be the subject.

The central card of the nine is apparently the most significant. In my case it is Intuition. It seems to be a monk wearing a tiara in front of a floating door staring longingly at some sort of black disc. Actually it might be an Oreo biscuit. I often stare at biscuits like that.

The centrality of the Intuition card represents how tuned I am to other people. Part of my suffering is my sensitivity towards other peoples’ pain, Sharon tells me. I can judge characters shrewdly. I have a strong aura. Latent powers that I am not yet aware of.

Indeed it seems that I might actually possess the gift.

This is unexpected.

Sharon is confident in my abilities. Much more so than myself. She smiles as she tells me how she used to be a sceptic, just like me. She tells me that in a few years I’ll be in an entirely different place.

Which brings us to the future. The final card is Positive Movement Forward. It shows someone sailing off across the ocean towards a setting sun in a tiny little boat. Not unlike Iggle Piggle from In The Night Garden.

Sharon tells me that I have changed the direction of my life. I have already started to take the right steps. Everything is going to work out. I don’t need to worry about finances. There will be a big announcement about my future in the coming weeks.

She says there is a word which keeps flashing across her mind. Contentment.

And then Sharon looks at me. A shy smile on her lips. Almost childlike. She wants to know if I’m happy with the reading. Does it make sense to me?

Undoubtedly it does. Many parts of it seem to be describing my own life. The struggles and pain. The decision to change my life. The hopes for a new future. It’s all me.

But then it’s probably a lot of other people as well. Generalisations which appeal to many.

She has painted a pretty picture. A simple tale with a happy ending, designed to make the client feel better about themselves. Emotions always work better than facts.

I put this to Sharon. I tell her that this narrative will be consistent for many of the people who visit a psychic medium. Of course it is going to be people who are broken, people who are seeking a new direction. People who need something outside of themselves to make sense of life.

But, as ever, she is unbowed, insisting that she felt my individual pain. Pointing out that she referred to a couple of things which were very specific. I have to concede this is true.

I continue to ask her questions. For several hours. Late into the night. My interrogation is more thorough than any I’ve ever carried out in my journalistic career. She takes the time to answer every question. Some of the responses and the logic are woolly but they keep coming.

There’s something specific I’m seeking here. A truth I’m desperately trying to get at.

I know I’ll never believe in what Sharon does. I’ve come along and witnessed it. I’ve seen nothing to alter my view.

But I know there are millions of people who do believe. Who get comfort and solace from it. I’ve no interest in trying to change anyone’s mind.

What I’m really trying to unearth is does Sharon believe it? Behind the smiling face and mellifluous voice, in the crystallisation of her heart, does she honestly think what she is doing is real?

Because I suppose that’s the point. The difference between a person who is, in her own mind, genuinely trying to help people and the worst kind of fraud.

I ask the question again and again. Finding different ways to frame it. I ask it to her face. I send messages later. It always comes back the same.

‘If I didn’t believe it I wouldn’t be able to do it.’

I don’t profess to have any special wisdom or understanding of how other people behave or project themselves. I know I’m untrained in the techniques, tricks and methods that so-called psychic mediums use to unlock our secrets.

But as a layman I form my view. Using the same techniques and defences I would in meeting any new person in any situation, Sharon comes across to me as someone who believes what she does is genuine.

But it’s even worse than that. I find that I actually like her. She is clearly devoted to her family. She’s a mother and loves to talk about her children. Just like I do. She has battled mental health difficulties. Just like I have.

She is open, warm and caring. She thinks about the needs of others. The sort of person I imagine I could be friends with.

There’s a part of me which now regrets starting this endeavour. Because I know it inevitably ends with me composing a sceptical article. And I find myself thinking that I don’t want to write something which hurts her.

But the problem won’t go away.

She claims that she gets messages from the dead relatives of some of her clients. An act that every part of my understanding of life tells me is wrong, tells me is the worst form of exploitation.

I don’t know how to flatten this stone. It’s a contradiction that just won’t go away. I’ve started a conversation that will go on and on.

Sharon looks at me. The goosebumps are on her arms again.

‘If you’ve got time I’d really like to try some spiritual healing on you.’

‘What the hell, let’s go…..’

I made a rare foray to a shopping centre today.

I had no particular reason to be there and nothing I wanted to buy, just a little bit of time to use up before a meeting.

I had barely entered the complex when a very pleasant young woman approached me.

She asked if she could chat to me. I told her I’d be delighted. I love to make new friends.

She then asked me if I was aware that Poundland are now stocking a range of men’s and women’s clothing.

It seemed an unusual ice breaker. Then again I’m not so familiar with what the young people like to talk about these days.

Also my knowledge of what’s going on in the world is not as complete as it once was.

What was more important to me was that she had made the difficult first move. She had reached out to me as a new friend.

I told her that I wasn’t aware of it but that I felt it to be a tremendous advancement in world affairs.

She seemed encouraged and thrust a card into my hand.

Now I became worried that I had perhaps led her on. I wanted to be straight from the start so I told her I was happily married.

Her face wore an uncertain look. I took this to be disappointment. Crushing disappointment.

But it’s ok, I reassured her, we can still be friends.

As I left I assured her that we would chat again, but she was still reeling from her previous disappointment and didn’t seem to want to engage anymore. Such a pity, I thought.

But as I continued through the centre I found myself attracting more and more friends. 

Total strangers were drawn to me like fog to the wet grass on a cold morning.

I took this as validation of my new positive outlook on life. Clearly I was emitting a positive aura and the public were powerless to resist it.

I gave them all a little bit of my time. It seemed the kindest thing to do.

It was life affirming. I became quite emotional and tried to hug one of my new friends.

But he was modest and insisted on keeping me at arm’s length.

It seems churlish to complain on such a special day.

But if I had to find fault then I would certainly question some of the conversational skills.

Alzheimer’s, Sky TV, gas prices. Such a paltry, miserable collection of social topics.

I felt particularly sorry for the young man who started our friendship with ‘Do you mind if I ask who your electricity is with?’

How sad to be so desperate for human contact but to be so limited in your intellectual and verbal range.

I told him that I didn’t mind in the slightest but insisted there were much more interesting things we could talk about.

He looked quite startled. As if the whole world was just opening up to him for the first time.

Conversation skills are certainly limited amongst the young. I blame the TV. And mobile phones.

If they can move away from those things they will certainly develop a better understanding of what is going on around them.

Prince Harry was in Hillsborough today.

Apparently his family own a house in the village.

You can usually guess when a royal visit is coming because you see a bit of extra security in the main street on the day. Police checking cars, cones laid out at the side of the pavement, just a bit of an excited buzz from the customers in the shops.

It always reminds me of my own journalistic experiences covering VIP visits and the tedious security precautions which had to be negotiated.

The hours of waiting around in a single spot waiting for that brief moment when the royal visitor or foreign dignitary walked past. And then trying to think of something interesting to write about it.

US presidential visits were the worst. The names of covering reporters had to be submitted weeks in advance, personal searches were carried out by grim faced dark-suited secret service staff and then you were bussed to a location about six hours in advance.

And then you waited. If you were lucky there would be somewhere to sit down.

I was at Aldergrove when George W Bush arrived for his Hillsborough summit with Tony Blair in 2003. They talked about peace in Northern Ireland. And war in Iraq.

Watching Air Force One landing on the tarmac at RAF Aldergrove was one of the more prodigious and unforgettable sights of my life.

The significance and symbolism of the massive plane pulling alongside Tony Blair’s small private jet could not have been lost on anyone. There was no doubt who was in charge. When Bertie Ahern’s tiny jet landed soon after it looked like a paper aeroplane beside Bush’s giant jumbo.

Dubya emerged and waved briefly before being whisked by helicopter to Hillsborough Castle. The village was virtually cut off from the world that night as the security forces kept anti-war protestors from passing the roundabout.

I covered many royal visits but the only ones which really stick with me are those featuring the Queen. The strain of trying to find words to describe her frocks has left an indelible mark.

The first time was when she opened the Laganside Courts complex in Belfast. I’ve described this infamous occasion before in this blog. A number of journalists, including me, were huddled together onto a small platform for an hour waiting the monarch to walk past. When she finally did I was struck by the urge to kick her in the arse. I didn’t.

The second occasion was three years later at Balmoral Showgrounds when she presented the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross to the Royal Irish Regiment. I was outside on the grass for three hours. It rained for three hours. Without stopping.

By the time she eventually appeared my biro had stopped working and I had lost one of my shoes somewhere in the sodden muddy field. For all I know it’s still there.

I almost had a third encounter with the Queen. This is where it gets a little weird.

A few years back I was invited as a guest to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. I presume my name had been put forward by someone in the NIO. Journalists get invited to these social events occasionally and I guess it was my turn.

I’ve no strong feelings about the Royal family. I’m not particularly an advocate of it but nor do I actively seek its demise. However, the opportunity to see inside the grounds of Buckingham Palace seemed too good to pass up.

Plus I had received a fabulous grand card which said I had been invited there ‘by Royal command’. These people really know how to throw a party. I duly accepted.

The invitation had been sent well in advance and I had to fill out forms and give details of my car, in case I decided to park at the palace.

I booked the flights and accommodation for me and my wife. And then….

And then I forgot all about it.

I should explain that I’ve never used a diary. I always keep dates and appointments in my head. I wasn’t used to planning something so far in advance. It probably also reveals something of the impact that the pressures of work were having on my mind that such a major event got lost somewhere in the fog.

A couple of months later I was in the office when I received a phone call from an unknown number. It was a man with a posh English accent. In my imagination I like to think it was Philip.

He told me that all the other guests were in place and enquired if our arrival was imminent. He needed to know for security reasons if we still wanted to park our car there.

Rather sheepishly I told him I was still in Northern Ireland and that I’d forgotten the date. There was a silence on the line. Then he said.

‘I’ll put you down as ill then sir’.

And that was it. I had stood up the Queen. People have been thrown in The Tower for less.

I never covered any event attended by Princess Diana. Her death occurred just at the moment when I was starting out in my career.

But I remember the sad event so well. Certain news stories are just so big that they stun you into a belief that it simply cannot have happened.

I was staying at my Da’s house that night. I was in bed. He came into the room and shook me awake in the early hours.

Instinctively I knew that something bad had happened. I contracted my muscles, waiting for some personal blow.

‘It’s on the news that Princess Diana’s dead. She’s been killed in a car crash.’

I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

‘What? Jesus, what happened?’

‘She was being chased through the streets of Paris by Pavarotti on a moped.’

This had quickly turned from tragic to surreal. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

‘What? What did you say?’

There was only a half-light in the room. But I remember my dad screwing up his face.

‘No, I don’t mean Pavarotti…what do you call them? Paparazzi!’

‘Oh right.’

I couldn’t really get back to sleep after that.

I’m lying flat on my back.

On a thin mattress on the floor.

But it’s not just any floor. It’s Brenda Shankey’s living room floor.

That’s Brenda Shankey, best known to me as a celebrity hairdresser. A personality whose name I would have encountered countless times in my long journalistic career.

Brenda Shankey, who styled Eamonn Holmes’ hair. Brenda Shankey who hung out with One Direction when they visited Belfast.

And now I’m lying on her wooden floor. Meditating.

I think it’s fair to say my life has travelled in an unexpected direction.

But then there’s been a lot of unexpected things in my life recently. Since I started writing about mental health issues on my blog, the unexpected has become commonplace.

Among the plethora of messages, offers and calls for help, Brenda reached out to me. She liked what I’d been saying, identified with much of it.

We had both suffered the trauma of breakdowns. We were both workaholics who left a business that we were closely identified with. We both see being a parent as the most important role in our lives. We quickly hit it off.

These days Brenda devotes much of her time to running her own business as a mindfulness and life coach. She invited me along to one of her classes to see what it was all about.

A year ago I would probably have dismissed it as a load of hippy nonsense, but, hey, I’m in a transitional period now and fully committed to trying new things. What the heck.

Mindfulness is a technique used by many to assist with mental wellbeing and to combat stress. It involves using breathing and meditation exercises to improve your awareness of the present moment – of your thoughts and feelings and the world around you.

I remember getting some tapes and trying it myself at home a few years back. But I never got very far. The truth is I just felt a little bit silly sitting there counting my breaths.

Also the meditation tapes I used were narrated by Mike Nesbitt, the former newsreader and political party leader. Every time I tried to empty my head of thoughts, Mike’s face would appear. This didn’t seem a likely path to serenity or enlightenment.

Brenda had told me to wear comfy clothes so I took this as adequate excuse to wear my tracksuit bottoms outside of the house. The pure unadulterated joy of trousers with an elasticated waistband! I could feel my mental wellbeing improving already.

Brenda introduced the students to the class by shaking a heart-shaped snow globe. The flakes represent our thoughts. Plentiful. Random. Always moving. It was simple, clever and effective.

She explained what she hoped we would learn over the coming weeks, how we could be taught to use skills to control our subconscious thoughts. To take a step back from the snap reactions which so often end up hurting us.

But how could this be achieved? Well we started by staring at a miniature fat Buddha statue. An introduction to learning how to focus on and control our breathing.

Breathing is the thing we do more of in life than anything else, yet we never give it a moment’s thought. Concentrating on the process itself helps to centre you. It’s also a technique to push the thoughts you don’t want right out of your head. Breathe in for two, breathe out for four. Count it out.

Then the part I struggle most with. Clearing my mind of redundant thoughts. The wasps in my head are never still. I can’t be reprogrammed as simply as the Arnold Schwarzenegger cyborg between the first and second Terminator films.

I tell Brenda I may be her greatest challenge. How to still this waterfall?

She wants to introduce us to the process of relaxation through deep breathing. We can do this sitting in the chair or lying down on the mattress. All the other students opt for the chair. I figure, there’s a mattress there, I’m in Brenda Shankey’s house and I’m going to use it.

So I’m lying on the floor. Brenda puts on some relaxing meditation music. A piano, a guitar and what sounds like someone playing the wobble board. I get it into my head that it must be Rolf Harris, which makes clearing my mind of exterior thoughts an even greater challenge.

But Brenda talks us though it. Calmly authoritative, the slight hint of a north west accent. I become aware of the sensation of each muscle in my own body relaxing, like liquid metal. Soon I can’t feel the mattress at all. I don’t feel anything other than myself.

I feel like I could lie here for a long, long time. On Brenda Shankey’s floor.

Then she says something which goes deep inside me.

‘What are the three things in your life that you are most grateful for?’

I think of my son. My wife. Myself. Our life together.

‘Remember to be grateful for what you have,’ she tells us.

Of course. It all makes perfect sense now, as I’m lying here on Brenda Shankey’s floor. Why am I worrying about what I don’t have? The person I won’t ever be? The decisions that I got wrong years ago? Why am I not spending every moment enjoying what I’ve got? Living in the moment.

Eventually I have to get up. Reluctantly.

Brenda hands out books for us to read, CDs to listen to. She gives us tasks as well. Be more compassionate to other people. Carry out an act of kindness every day. Practice the breathing for a minute 10 times each day. Wake up with a smile on your face.

Wake up with a smile on your face.

But you can’t keep that smile on your face all day. Life is like the small fishing boat tumbling on the seas. Nobody can totally calm that sea. But as I’m lying here floating on the floor, Brenda Shankey has calmed the ripples a little.

Does mindfulness work? For some people undoubtedly. Others may struggle with it. My sceptical mind will always work against me in processes like this.

I enjoyed my mindfulness session. And that’s probably the most important thing. It was fun. That’s enough to convince me to have another go. 

: Book classes at bshankey@gmail.com

I want to get my hair cut today.

I’ve got an early start dropping the wee man off at school, so I’m at the barbershop a few minutes before opening time.

I don’t like waiting. I want to be first in the queue. Quick in, quick out.

But he’s not there.

So I hang around. Standing outside the shop, peering in the window like the world’s worst robber.

The time which the sign in the door says the shop opens passes.

But he’s not there.

I hang on. It’s his own business, he can be a few minutes late.

People I know pass me in the street. A few say hello. A few stop for a brief conversation. I pass the time but I’m keeping an eye on his front door.

But he’s not there.

There is nobody else waiting. I want to be first.

I nip across the road into a gift shop, just to pass the time.

I make sure I can see the barbershop front door at all times.

There’s nobody else in the gift shop. The assistant’s eyes follow me as I pretend to be interested in candles and porcelain bowls. I peer across the road, to the barbers.

But he’s not there.

The gift shop assistant keeps watching, like she’s onto me. I end up buying a birthday card, just to prove myself. I don’t know anyone with a birthday coming up.

I go back across the road.

But he’s not there.

So I nip to a coffee shop and order a cappuccino. While the barista froths the milk I’m straining to see out the front door. To the barbershop.

But he’s not there.

I get my coffee to go and stroll up and down the street, examining the cracks between the slabs of the pavement.

I look in the window of the barbershop again. For some reason I try the door. It’s locked.

It’s getting later in the morning. I know I have to move my car.

I’m parked on the Main Street. I’m already over my time. A red coat walks past me.

I’m working out how long it will take me to move my vehicle to the car park.

Maybe five minutes. Less if I rush.

I take one more nervous look in the window of the barbershop.

But he’s not there.

I sprint to my car. The traffic’s mercifully light. I’m into the car park and back out onto the street without even having to breathe out.

I go back to the barbershop and look in the window.

He’s there.

And there are six other men there too. All ahead of me in the queue, waiting to get their hair cut.