There is going to be yet another seminar on past lives. Great, eh? Everyone comes home happy and proud, with the knowledge they were once Cleopatra or Marco Polo. It’s interesting how nobody was ever Hitler. Or the woman who took care of Caesar’s dirty underpants. Well, you probably wouldn’t hand over your money if they told you THAT, hmm?
No – everyone was Cleopatra. Especially those with ASPirations. Or Joan of Arc, if you’ve had heartburn all your life and nobody could find out why.
Apparently, when you find out who you once were, it can explain why you do a lot of the things you do. Karma being what it is, you now have a chance to put things right in the cosmic scheme of things. Or you can lie around in baths of ass’s milk all day and watch Better Pyramids of Our Lives.
Personally, I don’t care who I was. And anyway, there’s every chance this might be my first time around. In a few thousand years, some poor devil will go to a psychic and find out they were once me. There will be stunned silence, followed by the gnashing of teeth and frenzied sampling of Mars Bars. Why would God even want to bother arsing about with celestial recycling?
What I can’t understand is why people want to know all this crap in the first place. It’s far more information than is necessary. Isn’t this life hard enough? Aren’t there enough challenges without taking on someone else’s? And the past notwithstanding, why in hell would you want to know what was going to happen in the future? Apparently, according to those who’ve been, psychics won’t tell you if something really bad is going to happen. It’s unethical or something. Comforting, eh? So presumably, if you’re sitting there and Madame Nutcase has her mouth clamped shut, you can pretty well figure out there’s a No.10 bus heading down the highway right about now with your name on it – due to arrive just in time to ram your sorry arse as you walk across the road to meet the tall, dark handsome stranger, who will turn out to be the intern in Casualty. The travel over water will be when the ambulance hits the rain-filled pothole on its way into the hospital grounds. It won’t even have its sirens on, because it’s probably too late. After all, didn’t Mme Nutcase say you were headed for brighter and better things?
Anyway, it’s better not to know. Every year, you pass what will be the anniversary of your death and don’t even celebrate because you don’t even know. This is definitely the way it should be. Why this obsession with finding out things we are better off not knowing? What if Mme Nutcase came good and said, ‘Okay luvvy … you’re heading for a myocardial infarction on January 1 next year.’ What do you do then? Blame a computer virus for stuffing up the heart monitor? The only consolation is, you won’t have to worry about stockpiling all those tins of beans and you can damn well cancel the order for the rainwater tank. Did Nero really come all this way to be fooled by a computerised piece of man-made medical equipment? He spent his whole life worrying about how well the wheels were fastened to his chariot, never dreaming for a minute he would be ultimately let down by the idiosyncrasies of the microchip.
Take my advice, it’s better to worry about whether the toilet’s clean (in case of visitors) and whether you have the ingredients in your pantry to whip up a quick batch of scones and a salmon and ricotta quiche (in case the bastards want to be fed, too).
You can’t do anything about the past. And ultimately, you’ll only shorten the present by worrying about the future. Just live for the asparagus quiche – easier on your stress levels and everyone thinks you’re a marvelous hostess.
The person I feel really sorry for is Cleopatra. How would she have felt if someone had told her she would end up as a 90s housewife with a sagging bottom and Gravox stains down the front of her chenille bathrobe? That’d be a real bummer, dude …