When a starling comes calling.
I turn my weary head sideways towards the travel clock sitting on my bedside table. I always keep it on its side so I don’t need to lift my lazy head off the pillow in order to see the time. Twenty past two in the afternoon. I have overslept. My alarm call was late today; perhaps he had been busy somewhere else, somewhere much more important than this awful place.
I peer through my curtains ever so slightly to scowl at my recently arrived visitor. He chirps incessantly as I sigh despondently at the wet weather surrounding him. He looks at me and I look at him – man to man. Every day I wonder why he bothers to continually turn up unannounced on my window sill. It’s not as if I feed him, or even encourage him to visit. It seems to me that his only reason for being here is to get me up out of my bed – and I hate him for it. In truth, I have nothing to get up for, apart from pleading with this tedious little bird to shut the hell up!
All of a sudden, he is gone again. I never know where he goes and I never really care. To be brutally honest, I don’t care about anything anymore, least of all myself. I close the curtains tightly in order to shut out the world once more, but, to my horror, I suddenly remember what day it is – Friday. I always go shopping on a Friday as it feels slightly less depressing than any other weekday. I could never shop at the weekend as the supermarket would be far too busy, and every judge and jury would be waiting to assess my right to be there. So Friday is the only day that I would ever venture outside my lounge-cum-bedroom. Regrettably, today is still Friday, thanks mainly to my ornithological nuisance. I try to summon up some self-confidence from somewhere as I desperately need to restock my fridge with various comfort foods. A voice in my head constantly reminds me that I need to eat, not that I ever really enjoy eating, but the thought of starving to death in this man-made dungeon that houses my sordid soul doesn’t much appeal to me.
Slowly, I get dressed in last night’s clothes and reluctantly make my way out of the front door. The wind and rain meet me at the end of the garden path, reminding me that I have to walk to the nearest supermarket without the aid of a car. My contorted face grimaces from the effects of the mid-winter weather as the weekly journey to hell and back gathers a slow but pronounced momentum. The rain turns to sleet and I look skywards to ask God if he is happy at the pain that he is inflicting on me.
Title: Ghost Writers
Author: David Shaw
Genre: Self Help
In this life-affirming book, author David Shaw explores ten major themes that affect us all – and offers a unique way to engage with them. Whether it’s fear or forgiveness, credence or clarity, materialism or acceptance, Shaw gives us the benefit of ten spiritual authors who pen their intriguing and stimulating words through him as modern parables.
In doing so, they offer us a steadying rudder in the choppy, often violent, sea of life’s cruelties and uncertainties.
Presenting an engaging and fascinating blend of fiction and non-fiction, Ghost Writers presents in a non-stuffy style information, whose light-hearted humour belies its powerful emotional punch.
So sit back, relax and share David’s absorbing, gripping and spellbinding journey of a lifetime – and beyond.
DAVID SHAW lives in Ayrshire with his wife, son, Labrador and a houseful of ghosts. When he is not writing books and magazine articles, David works as a psychotherapist, hypnotherapist and Reiki healer. But his biggest passion is working with his spirit guides and connecting this world with the spirit dimension.
His only real aspiration is to be accepted as an Average Joe, oh, and to maybe see his favourite football team, Kilmarnock, actually win a game!