No, I'm not talking about colonic irrigation – I mean fortune-telling.

It's not a subject I'd ever given much thought to, although I know my mum's mum was incredibly superstitious.

She had a psychic who visited her at home to give her guidance on everything. He earned his psychic stripes when he told my nana that my mum – then a baby – wasn't her real daughter.

He was right: she was adopted.

The irresistible appeal of knowing the future was obviously passed down to my mum as she consulted a fortune teller who correctly told her she was pregnant with a boy (my brother) when my mum had only just found out herself and had no idea what sex it would be.

I guess with these tales forming part of my family folklore, I was never going to be a sceptic.

Who knows, maybe I'm a distant relative of Gypsy Rose Lee? But I would never have sought out a fortune teller if I hadn't been invited by a work contact to see one in Leeds city centre.

Stunning

Have no fear I would have walked straight out again if she'd been dressed in anything with a hint of tie-dye, a gypsy skirt or huge gold hoop earrings.

Instead I felt it was a positive sign that she was wearing a stunning Chanel-style jacket.

If she could interpret the cards as perfectly as she had this season's blazer trend, I thought, we should be on to a winner.

Watching her turn each card over, exposing the exotic images supposedly holding the key to my innermost thoughts, was surprisingly nerve-racking – especially once I started recognising certain pictures as they came up repeatedly and I realised that the black cards were negative signs.

Among many other things she told me I was very much in love; that I could trust my husband; he was younger than me; he was enjoying married life; I was his dream woman; I was missing a close friend; she could see a house move.

Some things could apply to half the population, others were music to my ears so I was happy to believe them without question, but there was also plenty which felt uniquely accurate to me.

Two examples – we have just moved house, and my best friend has been sailing round the world for the past two months and is still away.

You might ask why she didn't tell me not to drink too much that weekend so I could avoid making myself ill, or warn me I would lose my keys and my next street dance class would be cancelled. And cynics would definitely query why she didn't know my car was going to break down less than a week later.

The thing is, most people who visit psychics and fortune tellers aren't happy.

They need answers to unresolved issues, to know things like when they will fall in love, who with, and whether they will have children.

Seeing as there's no burning issues or questions in my life I won't be rushing back for another reading.

Still, at least I won't need to tell her that – she should know already.



Ta-ra, Tom Tom


IN an age when we constantly hear about Satnav directing drivers down bridleways, over the edges of cliffs and into lakes, my pal's approach to route planning is like a breath of fresh air – or a trip back in time.

When she gets in a pickle on the roads she doesn't pull into the nearest petrol station and play the damsel in distress like me. Nor does she resort to ringing her bloke for help finding her destination.

This girl is old skool. She simply reaches into her glove box and pulls out her compass, identifies which way she needs to go and she's off again.

How charmingly retro is that? I wonder whether she also tells the time by looking at the position of the sun, and uses a mangle help wash her clothes.


Grown-up boozing


I'M still on a high after one of the best ever nights out in Leeds.

The Saturday in question started with dinner for six at Brasserie Blanc, then Champers and cocktails at Malmaison – seated in a booth, no less – followed by more cocktails at Noode, and a spot of dancing at Smokestack.

It was a revelation, after too many nights spent wandering from one packed-out bar to another, fighting your way to the bar, the toilet, the dancefloor, then back out again.

Determined to avoid the usual pitfalls and make it a special night for pals that don't get to Leeds that often, we planned our mini bar crawl meticulously.

Buffoon

I know it sounds middle-aged but it paid off.

And yes, it felt really good to sit in a comfy chair and be able to hear what the person next to me was saying rather than having my toes trampled and my drink spilled down my dress by some drunken buffoon.

It's opened my eyes to a new, more grown-up style of boozing.

I think this means my gradual transformation from newlywed to smug married is almost complete.