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QTNA: 10 Questions I Would Like Kerry Washington’s Memoir, Thicker Than Water to Answer

Kerry Washington’s memoir, Thicker Than Water, will be available to the masses on the 26th of September, and I have questions that need answers. Well, I would like to have answers.  I pre-ordered it in June when it was announced, and I’ll be receiving a second copy when I see her in Manchester in October (Kerry, you better not cancel this leg of the tour. I worry because we’re the only stop that still doesn’t have a confirmed special guest). Before a million reviewers start leaking and the full-court press is unleashed this week, I thought it would be fun to post some of my own questions about Ms. Washington that I hope are answered in Thicker.  To be clear, I read the same excerpt on Oprah.com as the rest of y’all. And I won’t be reading any advanced reviews until mine own eyes have completed all 320 pages of Kerry’s words. I am really looking forward to reading it, and hope to recommend it to my Black women-only reading group. 

As an actress, I have liked Kerry Washington since I watched Save the Last Dance in the early 2000s. And in each subsequent film I’ve watched that featured her, I’ve felt like Tony Goldwyn (but not as intense): Oh hey, it’s that really great actress and she’s always giving something different. But I never explicitly sought after articles or interviews, preferring to casually enjoy her work instead. 

That changed with Scandal. My dedication to the show hedged on its compelling narrative themes. But it was the compelling relationship between Kerry’s Olivia Pope and Tony Goldwyn’s Fitzgerald Grant that created magic. It cast a spell that elicited from me reams of writing about Scandal between 2012-2018. In fact, the series changed the whole trajectory of Kerry Washington’s career (and my life, too ). It also brought significantly more eyes upon her. The first vehicle built around Kerry, Scandal gave her acting space to breathe, develop and shine. I also continued to watch the smattering of films she made during that era (Django Unchained, Peeples, Confirmation), and began reading interviews with her--both before and during Scandal. I began to notice the way in which the availability of information shifted, receded (or removed), and sometimes became opaque under a claim of ‘privacy’ whilst also offering the veneer of accessibility from late 2013 onward. Granted, I do not run any obsequious fan accounts about Kerry, so I know there will be some who try to rattle off any number of things I “should know” because they have inhaled every morsel of information and made its consumption and regurgitation their entire online personality. But I am also not a hater who consumes the actor's every move for the purpose of group chat gossip. I like knowing things about people I admire because I like to find points of connection, perspective, recognition…and differences. I admire Kerry Washington…or what she’s allowed me to see. The problem is, when I think about her, I think about a person who seems good and cares fiercely for her country, family, and other people. She’s well-regarded. She’s funny. She’s stylish. She has a great capacity for information. But. 

She also seems secretive, and that’s different from being private. I feel like I know of her, about her. But who is she, really? That lack of clarity is partly by design, of course, due to her profession. Still, I hope Thicker Than Water answers the soul of that question: Who is Kerry Washington? 

It is with that central question in mind that I pose the following questions. These are MY questions. I am not here to represent anyone’s fandom. I know, too, that I don’t have a ‘right’ to have any of these questions answered. I’m not delulu (as the kids say). I’m being as honest as I can with my own curiosities about Kerry, as both an actress and a human. 

These are my questions. I am not here to represent a fandom. Let’s get into the QTNA of it all.

Q1: What childhood scars still itch even into adulthood?

In a recent interview, Kerry mentioned that her therapist has read her book. Samesies! When I finished the pre-copyedited draft of my first book, I started connecting some childhood dots to a few of my ongoing challenges. I asked my therapist to read it so that we could be on the same page in our sessions. It is for this reason that I wonder if Kerry’s reading back of her own writing was revelatory to her in ways she was not able to consciously unlock before. Are there things still there under the surface, the ghosts of which still tingle and itch sometimes no matter how much therapy she has had? Falling back into patterns is easy; undoing them takes so much self-awareness and intentionality. 

Secondly, I ask the question based on the excerpt from Thicker that was chosen to appear on Oprah.com. Beautifully conveyed with a stark honesty I had never seen from Kerry, the selection chosen is one that gives us a sliver into the dysfunctions of the Washington’s marriage. Ones that were quite literally disruptive to 7-year-old Kerry. Aristotle famously said, “Give me the child until [s]he is 7 and I will show you the [wo]man.” The theory of the first 7 years of a child’s life has been debated in Psychology. However, anecdotally, I can tell you that both my wife and I carry deeply impactful memories of our selves at age 7, the threads of which still linger. So, why is that memory offered as the amuse bouche to the drawing back of the curtains of Kerry Washington’s life which Thicker Than Water promises (or ‘her truth’ as Kerry calls it)? Does the excerpt set a foundation for the grown up Kerry we now see? For me, the excerpt made me wonder if young Kerry’s (confessed) determination to be the living embodiment of the pleasing, “good” thing that bonded her parents together was the start of a perfectionism that would be hard to shake. Control issues that would find her guarding a carefully curated image that avoids like the plague the possibility of being seen as ‘problematic’ for a stance, an opinion, a view? Or it could be that I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. That is entirely possible.  

Q2: Did you experience any body dysmorphia issues during your first pregnancy? Was your second pregnancy different?

This is a difficult and very personal question. I know. It is based on two things: 1) the unusual language Kerry used to refer to her changing body during that time; and 2) the fact that she mentioned, prior to Scandal, she struggled with an eating disorder. 

During Kerry’s first pregnancy (2013-2014), I don’t recall her using the word ‘pregnant’. She would say things like how the ‘condition’, ‘orientation’, or ‘physicality’ of her body changed when discussing how she approached acting during that time. I don’t recall her talking about it in personable ways. It felt like if she didn’t have to acknowledge what our eyes could plainly see, she would not have. Kerry appeared much more comfortable with her second pregnancy (2017). Listen, I have never been pregnant. In fact, I am terrified of it, which is why I wonder what it must be like for someone who has struggled with an eating disorder (which can cause body dysmorphia issues). How did Kerry come to embrace such a purposeful but very disrupting change to her body?  I have been around a fair number of pregnant women, so I know it’s not all ‘miracle of life’ stuff. The typical pregnancy narratives out there from celebrities don’t typically discuss this unless we can relate it back to inequalities in maternal health care. Even if they do, I’m asking for Kerry Washington’s perspective. I could be entirely wrong, but I’d still like to know was the changing of her body hard for her. I’d love to know how she felt after her first child was born, and what motherhood feels like for her. 

A related thing about which I am curious: Did she have any fertility issues and struggle with getting pregnant? And why did she wait until after it was beyond obvious during her Saturday Night Live appearance in early November 2013 to officially confirm she was pregnant? What fear was the fear behind this late decision? 

Q3: What makes you sad, insecure, or sometimes need to retreat into yourself?

Kerry seems like a high-energy, joyful, positive person. She’s commented that as an Aquarius, she loves all sorts of people. I can see that. As an introverted Cancerian, I appreciate high-energy people…in doses. Every talk show appearance, red carpet interview, and social media content are all carefully presenting a woman who is very together. I say this because sometimes Kerry speaks in therapy language even when she’s trying to be sincere about overcoming battles. Of course, the image one projects (me, too) is always only partially true—whatever the industry.  Kerry is a person and most of us do not have it all together, no matter how much we present it as such, or how much we sweep aside the less salubrious, more complicated parts of ourselves. It’s that stuff that I’m interested in. Where are her edges? Negativity may be ‘noise’ (as Kerry’s Twitter banner displays), but it also gives positivity its meaning. I also recall a saying that happy people are usually the most fucked up ones. Now, I’m not accusing Ms. `Washington of being uniquely fucked up, because we all are in some ways. The always ‘on’ facade is typically a way of hiding (just one of the tools) the things we don’t think we can show. Is she a trainwreck in the mornings and a bitch in the afternoon? Please, I just want to know something real…about Kerry, not just about her parents and her career. 

Q4: In what ways, are you like your character Olivia Pope? 

On an episode of Unpacking the Toolbox podcast, Kerry’s co-stars/friends, Guillermo Diaz, and Katie Lowes, said that out of everyone in the cast, Kerry is the most like her character (Olivia Pope). Would Kerry say this is accurate or fair? If so, what characteristics does she have in common with Olivia? Please spare me surface-level, obfuscating comparisons such as ‘We look alike :)’ or ‘We’re both passionate about democracy!’ Somehow, I don’t think that’s what Katie and Guillermo meant. I don’t presume anything untoward. I also understand why actors in long-running shows are usually at pains to separate the actor from the character, especially when that character’s messy humanity is on display for everyone to judge. But, again, give me something of substance here. 

Q5: In what ways do you draw on your Jamaican heritage? How are you imparting that to your children along with their Nigerian Igbo heritage? And who are your father’s people?

Kerry has been very vocal about her mother’s Jamaican heritage. She has been vocal about immigration, sharing that her maternal grandparents came to America via Ellis Island.  In the summer of 2023, she was in Jamaica to film a special about dance forms from around the world. As a Jamaican myself, I would like something more concrete about her Jamaican background. She often mentions her Jamaican heritage, but in what ways is it important to her? How does she call on that heritage as part of her identity? How is she (or not) imparting that sense of culture to her children alongside their Igbo heritage? Lastly, I’m less certain of her father’s origins (presumably in the American South). I’d like to know more about that. 

Q6: Why was Hollywood the calling? Did you feel like changing course? If so, when and what put you back on the path towards who you’ve become?

This question is about Kerry’s early experiences in Hollywood. In an old interview (hopefully, I didn’t hallucinate this), she mentioned being told early on to lose 30 pounds and fix her teeth, at which she scoffed. Despite the contemporary irony juxtaposed against the past demand, where did she get the strength of determination and belief in herself to push past what those assholes could not see? As plucky as she seems, everyone has low moments when they are pushing for a dream. What’s one of hers from those early years?

In another interview (or the same?) Kerry mentioned giving herself a year to become a working actor in Hollywood. This is after her post-University travels to India to study Yoga. I want to know more about the jump from Yoga to Hollywood. What was that internal calling, or was it a casual, young adventurous thing she thought she would try? Did the move to Hollywood occur during a highly ambivalent part of her life? If so, how did that feel as a Black woman, since those women are often under pressure to take up a more guaranteed profession than the arts?

Q7: What did you find most challenging about working on Scandal—both as an actress and as a person? What nonsense did you and your castmates get up to behind the scenes? 

Kerry has been very grateful for landing a show like Scandal and for the fine company of actors with whom she got to work. Great, but can she tell us the non-PR stuff? I’m not talking about back-biting—I don’t care. I’m always interested in the process for actors and all the changes they go through when working on a long-term project.  American TV shows have 16-24 episode commitments every year. That has got to dominate a person’s life! What are some specific ways it impacted Kerry’s life? Actors have talked about how unrelenting the TV schedule is, including Shonda’s reflections in her 2015 book about the incessant demand to ‘lay track’ (write) so that the train that is the TV show doesn’t run off course. I already know that Kerry has borrowed from Ellen Pompeo, the advice to approach being #1 on the call sheet of a TV show the way an athlete would approach her dedicated sport. The point here is that I’m not seeking more information on enduring the schedule. I’m interested in how she kept the motivation and rationale for her character over such a long period. What did she do when she had disagreements about things Olivia was written to do? Would she have done anything differently? What was the thing that Olivia did that she found hardest to justify? Who was that one guest star who gave her nothing when they acted together (alluded to in Unpacking the Toolbox, episode 107)?  And finally, can she stop playing diplomat and just say that Tony is the better kisser?  

Q8: IDTAMPL was weird. What was the fear behind that, and how do you now define ‘personal life’?

For the uninitiated, or those with short-term memories, the acronym IDTAMPL stands for I Don’t Talk About My Personal Life. Kerry adopted this saying whenever she was interviewed after her marriage to Nnamdi Asomugha was announced on the 3rd of July 2013. Occurring on the brink of the holiday weekend, the news dropped like a bomb in the Scandal fandom. Even outside the fandom. Many were flummoxed, including me. On the 4th of July, I attended a celebration in London with a fellow American who is a big-time Philadelphia Eagles (Nnamdi’s former team) football fan, including the gossip surrounding the team.  As soon as she opened her door to me, she said, “Your girl married Nnamdi?!” She consumed more football than Scandal at the time. Suffice it to say, I have left out the accurate number of question marks and exclamations in her voice. Her face, too, was full of them. 

Listen, we used to be a proper country. Many celebrities, with and without talent, have lost the art of mystique, preferring instead to cultivate the marketing skill of capturing attention and selling it to us as actual talent. 

I am thankful for those celebrities who maintain the mystique of a bygone era. Intrigue me, but don’t shut the door completely. The latter is what it felt like Kerry did after it was announced that she was married. Prior to the announcement, I don’t recall the media being that interested in Kerry’s dating life. It was not a topic that came up. Nor did Kerry ever let on that she was dating, let alone that she had been involved with Asomugha for three years (according to Kerry’s timeline of their meeting in 2009 when she did the Broadway play, Race). I have no qualms with celebrities who don’t make their partners part of their public image, or the ones who wed outside the limelight (Margot Robbie, Chris Evans (recently)). What I don’t like is when they pretend that they didn’t volunteer the information in the first place. Kerry’s team announced the marriage, even giving PR-friendly People Online titbits from “a source close to the couple” about Kerry’s ‘regular’ looking wedding dress (I kid you not. The source called the unseen dress ’regular’). We even learned that the “secret wedding” (every publication used that phrase so it’s deliberate) took place in the potato-producing state of Hailey, Idaho in the last week of June. These things were volunteered. 

But once Kerry emerged back on red carpets and public events that summer, she trotted out a new PR line when asked follow-up questions about her wedding, husband, or newly married life: “I don’t talk about my personal life”.  After literal years of not mentioning a romantic life, when her very public engagement to David Moscow ended in 2007, it was Kerry who let the public know: 1) She was hiding a boyfriend (shoutout to Pusha T); and 2) Surprise! I’s married now (shoutout to Shug Avery)…but don’t ask me anything about it! Don’t even ask me for a picture with the two of us together to go with your marriage announcement headlines. That’s what photoshop is for. Figure it out!

I’m being facetious, but, girl...

BFFR. Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. We didn’t ask, but she definitely told us. And when folks followed up on that telling, Kerry closed up tighter than a sphincter with a ‘do not enter sign. That whole era was awkward. Can we acknowledge that, at least?

Lest you think, “You’re being way harsh, Tai”, I’m not. What I sense is that there was some fear Kerry harboured behind revealing her coupling with Nnamdi. What was the source of the fear that led to the IDTAMPL shutdown? Was it because she did not want her personal narrative to be overshadowed by her relationship status? And what inspired her to begin relaxing that… a little? Like, she waited until her second child was born in 2017 to start allowing articles to describe her as “a mother of three”, revealing Nnamdi’s daughter from a previous relationship, which she had not acknowledged before. Was it simply time that allowed her to all but retire the IDTAMPL line? Or were there key turning points that led to slow revelations? And can we agree that the reluctance to talk about a ‘personal’ life is specifically related to her husband (mostly) and children (I support her keeping them off social media)? Words mean things. One’s parents are part of one’s personal life, but Kerry has no qualms about performing her relationship with them on social media. I mean, the excerpt she chose for us to read busts-open like a ripe papaya their whole past marital dysfunction, and her mother’s contemplating being unalive. Like…are such matters not not both personal and private? With all of that in mind, what has prompted this rethinking? How does Kerry now define ‘personal life’?

Q9: What is your most enduring memory from your time in India? Would you go back if you haven’t already?

On more than one occasion, Kerry has referenced her time spent in India. Besides the fact that she chose to travel to the subcontinent after graduation from George Washington University, we don’t know that much about that period (and that she studied Yoga whilst there). Kerry graduated from GW in 1999 (?). I spent five months in the southern states of India in the first half of 2000. I’m not sure if her trip crossed over into the new millennium, but it’s kind of cool to think about us both being in that vast country at the same time. I would love to know what are some of Kerry’s outstanding memories? What did she love about that place? What does she not miss? Did she visit a favourite place, or discover a dish she continues to enjoy? Does she, like me, share Indian heritage as part of her Jamaican identity?

Looking back, did travelling abroad at such a formative age, shape her coming of age in any way? I would welcome any memories or anecdotes from that time in her life. 

Q: Beyond “mutual respect” for each other, why are you at your most playful around Tony Goldwyn?

I cannot be sure, but it is likely that Kerry has come across online theories and conspiracies that are both outlandish and semi-reasonable based on visuals alone. Whenever fans (to be clear, I am ‘fans’) are treated to her interactions with Tony Goldwyn, it feels like a hit of sugar injected directly into our veins. Their power has a hold on us. 

It is not simply fans seeing in Kerry and Tony a nostalgia for Olivia and Fitz. Both entities are a force unto themselves. Most don’t confuse one for the other, if they have a shred of media literacy. Even people who hated Olivia and Fitz as a couple can acknowledge that there is a je ne sais quoi between Kerry and Tony. Their chemistry has its own fans; it’s palpable.  I know that Kerry knows that the Kerry x Tony appearances are gold because she leverages them on social media. She’s leveraging it right now for her book tour. It’s no accident that the Washington, D.C. tour stop with Tony Goldwyn as the special guest was the first to quickly sell out dates were announced. People are coming to that tour stop for the cerise sur la gateau which is the Kerry x Tony bond. I’m not cynical enough (or blind enough) to believe that their interactions are simply good “PRs” for both their images (as some have alleged). No, there is an energy, an authenticity that crackles and fizzes between them, even when they are simply standing next to each other.

Hell, it’s there when one of them simply talks about the absent other. Fair enough that chemistry works in mysterious ways that can’t be manufactured.  But when Kerry is in the vicinity of Tony Goldwyn, there is also Physics at play. There is inertia in their body language to familiarity and comfortability with each other in ways that speak to a shared intimacy.  I mean that in the sense of closeness and rapport. Kerry and Tony are clearly very close. Beyond the “mutual respect” they say they have for each other, there is something about who Kerry is when she is around Tony that is different than when she is around others. She doesn’t have that with her other Scandal co-stars with whom she has remained friends. Other than her passionate and on-point political advocacy, her time spent with Tony Goldwyn lends a cozy texture to her personality that is more easily felt than described. It’s like popping the bubble of perfectionism and letting out a giant exhale. Me, I exhale when they are together. Am I trippin, or is there something about Tony Goldwyn that effortlessly extracts this playfulness in her, and can she feel it, too?

Bonus Question (A la Inside The Actors Studio):  What is your favourite curse word? What sound do you love? What sound do you hate? What scares you? What makes you cry? What petty thing have you had it with? What did you finally embrace only after you were in your forties?

Even if Bravo were to resurrect Inside The Actors Studio [LINK], Kerry Washington will never have the chance to be interviewed by James Lipton because he passed away in 2020. A venerable institution himself, Lipton’s sincere and earnestly pointed manner of asking questions gave actors the opportunity to embark on a journey of both self and art in the space of an hour, in front of a live audience of actors-in-training.  Through this show, the audience could learn more about their favourite actor, and all the ways in which the personal intersects with their art, and much more. My favourite part was always the quick-fire round near the end when Lipton would ask the small, quotidian questions that are the true stuff of life. You know, the anti-Hollywood shit. Though it’s a cheat, it is in that vein that the bonus questions above are designed.  A few are taken from James Lipton, and others added by me. 

Those are all of the questions…until I read Kerry’s tome. 

Perfect-seeming people are boring and untrustworthy. But is the perception entirely a fiction created by the celebrity or us? 

“…[She’s] clearly a beautiful, intelligent, multi-talented, quietly formidable woman with a Jesus-like heart. From what we can tell, she is highly respected among her peers. Well, that’s who we’ve made her out to be. We choose to see those things in her because that’s what’s on public offer. Because of that, it’s so easy to turn KW into some Magical Negress archetype imprisoned on a pedestal in our minds. We believe Kerry is clean. Kerry walks on water. Kerry makes the fishes and the loaves. As her fans… we mythologize her, and others like her, because we have this deep-seated human need to create heroes for ourselves. We need to believe that there are people less fallible than we are: that if we believe in their perfection, it might take us a little closer towards that ideal… Kerry doesn’t walk on water. She’s not perfect. The reason I know is because she’s flesh and bone and blood, just like you and me.” (Me, 2013)

It's true: the perception is a little but her, a little bit us (me). However, I can’t say that I’ve seen a lot of evidence of the proverbial ‘flesh and bone and blood’. That perception seems poised to change on the 26th of September with Thicker Than Water’s release. 

I was surprised (in a good way) to see Kerry reference this early ‘need’ she placed on herself to be ‘good’ as a point of connection for her parents, whose marriage was in trouble. I was also sad because I know what that means. I did that to myself at age 12, and it’s been hard to completely abandon. But the admission intrigued me, and I hope there is more of that kind of self-revelation in the book as the timeline approaches the Kerry we see today.  Above all else, my wish for Thicker Than Water, is this: to offer me insight and greater clarity about a woman whose public persona, for the last ten years, has been highly visible, yet persistently opaque.

I get it. To exist publicly as a Black woman in the 21st Century is to navigate a high-wire act. Perception is always on the mind, especially in Kerry’s industry. If you share too much, people have a problem; not enough, people have a problem. Nothing you share is impervious to being twisted into the most ungenerous or scandalous interpretation. We have watched Queen Mother, Beyonce, in the last decade become more deliberate about what she shares with the public. But even she feels like less of a question mark than Kerry Washington. Beyonce has, at least, given us glimpses into her personal life and thoughts via documentaries, BTS photos, and the intimacy of confession in her art—the parts that are beautiful, fucked up, or ambivalent. This is not me pitting two bad bitches against each other. It is me offering an example of another Black woman who has told us that she battles perfectionism, and who has found a way to let us in (or feel like it), through her art, whilst making her boundaries clear. 

Thicker Than Water will be a part of Kerry’s artistic self. It is a product of memory and polished fiction; narratives carefully organized and swaddled in beautiful prose (based on the excerpt) that promises to take the reader on a journey. As someone who recently published a book that is small in its number of pages, but big in its revelations of things unspoken and unshared, I know that writing is an intimate act of exploring one’s mind and interiority; of the past and its pertinence with the present. What your mouth cannot say, your fingers will. It is my most profound hope that Thicker Than Water allows me to feel a sense of connection with flesh and blood and bone Kerry Washington. And I hope for her the book accomplishes a giant exhale of whatever she wants to release into the world. Whether or not I will personally be satisfied by the book... stay tuned.

Q: What are your questions for Kerry?

[yesastrologervikramjius-blog]

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sherlock on the block rambling! character details!!

the majority of it takes place during the summer in the Neighborhood because summer for children is a) magical b) everlasting and c) delightful in a way adults can’t enjoy anymore

facts about The Neighborhood:

it’s located in northeastern usa

it’s home to a lot of expats, immigrants, and locals alike

sherlock holmes, age 8: described by many as a genius, and by her family as infuriating, sherlock is a precocious 3rd grader who would rather solve (small scale) crimes than sit in a classroom all day. despite her brilliance, or rather because of it, she’s often bored by things other kids her age take delight in. in fact, she’s never quite connected to anyone her age, until joan watson moves into the neighborhood a few doors down...

family: 16 year old brother, mycroft holmes, who hates his name and prefers mike. barbara holmes, 43, an american interior designer/realtor who lived in london directly after her undergrad graduation (where she met her late husband) john holmes, deceased, a british journalist who died when sherlock was still a toddler. 

joan “joanie” watson, age 8: joan is a resourceful and peculiar kid; she’s rarely seen without her trusty knapsack that somehow has everything she could ever need it in. she’s also incredibly contemplative, and bit blunt, and very good at puzzles. she wants to be a doctor, like both of her parents, and has determined that the earlier she starts the better, so don’t be alarmed if she pulls out an anatomy textbook from her sack. it’s happened before, and there’s no doubt that it will continue to happen for the foreseeable future

family: she’s an only child; emma watson, 36, is a british surgeon who grew up in manchester. harry watson, 37, is an american military doctor -- interestingly they met while emma was studying in california and harry was stationed nearby. they married in the states but move often due to harry’s frequent relocations. most recently, they’ve rented a house in the cul-de-sac neighborhood of the holmes’, and joan spends her birthday wishes hoping that they will stick around for a while.

it goes without saying that all these characters are black

barbara holmes: african american, her family is from georgia

john holmes:  welsh, had somali roots but he was like 2 generations removed

emma watson: english, born and raised in manchester, her father is indian and her mother is english as well

harry watson: he was born in the DR and moved to connecticut when he was 5, (his spanish is rusty but his parents won’t let him forget it entirely)

there are other sherlock characters that will appear, adjusted obviously to fit the times

the extent of crimes holmes and watson solve are things like “the murder of susie’s stuffed bunny, who was found beheaded by the playground 2 hours ago” or “someone stole tom’s red wagon but he takes that wagon everywhere so where it could it be?” 

[mylatinlinernote]

A Discovery of Witch(es) Part 2

Initially written for @snapeloveposts last challenge of AU!Snape/Snape lives

In this installment, a pointed lesson from Dumbledore has unexpected consequences

Ellie was ensconced in her favourite chair in the lounge, reading one of her school textbooks while Severus was in the kitchen, beginning the preparations for dinner. As he chopped onions, a vivid memory surfaced.

It was the early days of teaching, soon after his defection. His affiliation with the deatheaters was secret amongst all but the most senior staff and a rumour amidst students. Lily and James were still alive and still in hiding.

Dumbledore had accepted Severus’ change in allegiance but still found it within himself to make Severus endure some sort of punishment in exchange of a reprieve from Azkaban.

That night, Albus had a particular lesson in mind and assigned Minerva to the task. It was the time of year when she would review the names in the book acceptance and prepare the dearly awaited Hogwarts letters in advance. She balked at having the young man assist her but Albus had insisted that Severus would need to be familiar with all aspects of school operations. It was a deceptively simple job that robbed Severus of peaceful sleep for years afterward.

While the quill and the book worked in concert to accurately identify any child who had undeniable magical ability, neither were diligent in removing names of those who were undeniably dead.

“In a normal year, approximately 7 to 8 names are removed across all 11 upcoming intakes,” Minerva said primly as she drew a perfectly straight line through the name Lester, Duncan in red ink. From what Severus could see from the book the boy was a muggleborn born in 1972. In Minerva’s hand was a thin folder containing a birth announcement, muggle newspaper clippings, a death notice, and an official looking document from the ministry.

“This boy here, died in a car accident. Many of the muggleborns who die before we reach them perish this way. Accidental magic and motorised vehicles are not a good combination,” Minerva waved her hand over the various bits of paper in her hand “It is important to thoroughly investigate whether a potential student has died. At best, they are alive and they are late receiving their letters and at worst, we have upset any surviving family members with what clearly appears to be a tasteless joke.”

Minerva vanished the file into thin air. And pulled another from the box she had brought with her. As she reviewed the contents, Severus took some time to review the book and turned the page to births in 1960. His name was one of the first recorded for their year group, according to the notation but there was a question mark beside his name and what looked like the fragments of several different red lines that halted just before his name.

Just after his name, several different addresses also crossed out with the exception of his Spinner’s End address. He remembered moving frequently around Cokeworth and Manchester; sometimes with his parents, sometimes without. There was the spinster who had a house that smelled like cats on Magnolia Way, the family with too many children on Canton Row, the house in a slightly nicer part of town where his only memory of his parents were truly happy occurred. Other children worried if Santa Claus would find them; Severus worried that his Hogwarts letter would find him but clearly, he needn’t have worried.

Severus fought the bitter temptation to quiz Minerva why the left-hand margin of his entry looked so worn; He knew what it meant and his stomach lurched at the memories. There was a spiteful part of him which wanted her to see that he had seen, to explain her inaction, to beg for forgiveness on behalf of her precious Gryffindors for their unceasing torment, to beg for herself for letting the torment continue unabated when she had some inkling of what he might be experiencing at home.

He tried to conquer the temptation by quickly turning a few pages away. There was nothing to be done for it now and he was here, alive; that couldn’t be said for Mulciber, Avery, or poor Duncan. Severus barely held back on asking Minerva exactly how many years this has been her responsibility when he heard a sigh of relief as Minerva resumed her place by his elbow with a 14-inch scroll.

“The war has made this a weekly chore. Here is this week’s list of children from known wizarding families. Only 6 this week, an improvement in this line of work. I would prefer it to be zero.”

Some of the names were very familiar to him as the children and siblings of former housemates but not as deatheaters. It shocked him, to be honest. He always avoided going on raids, instead preferring the cleaner, bloodless work of spying and brewing. Or so he thought. He wanted to think that these names were of those killed by overzealous aurors but Severus knew they were the collateral damage of their parents’ refusal to submit to the Dark Lord.

“Remember your first year, Severus? Almost 25 students per house! We nearly created a fifth house to keep you from being stacked head-to-toe in your rooms. Well, the Dark Lord took care of that!” Minerva angrily sat at a nearby desk, fixing Severus with a scowl before commencing her letter writing.

Now that was completely untrue, Severus sneered to himself, he personally knew of several students who had transferred to Drumstrang due to Dumbledore’s anti-dark arts policy, another lucky handful who were able to escape the Marauders bullying through home schooling, and the usual attrition of witches and wizards going into the trades instead of NEWTS. At least, that’s how it was in Slytherin…

Minerva wordlessly finished crossing out the remaining names and moved on to finalising the letters of acceptance. It was still a grim task as a few dozen names had just recently been struck through in red but as the final envelope was addressed, sealed, and stored for future use Severus decided to break the silence with a question that had gravely worried him as a child. He felt foolish as if he were asking how Santa could find him if the house didn’t have a chimney.

“Professor McGonagall, I know that muggleborns are visited by a member of staff and receive their letters in person,” Severus took pains not to mention Lily “but what of the half-bloods? How does the staff distinguish between a half-blood that has grown up with knowledge of the magical world and one that has purely, or mostly, lived as a muggle.”

“Severus, I assure you, that has not been a problem, not in the years I worked here anyways. In fact, during these troubled times we actually have an influx of owls from witches and wizards married to muggles who want reassurance that their children are on our books. They see Hogwarts as a much safer place then their own homes. It is a pity we are unable to house such families during these times, or even keep the children over the summer.”

Severus wondered if his mother ever sent such an owl.

“Nevertheless, there is a contingency. In the event of no reply to the owl or an offer of place has been declined, regardless of blood status, a representative of the school is sent to discuss the decision. A small number tutor or chose to send their children to other magic schools, but I can be quite persuasive, if I do say so myself. ”

While Minerva sounded proud, she could not, would not look Severus in the eyes lest his supposed occlumency skills uncover the growing disquiet he caused within, the wretched poverty and chaos she knew he had lived in, the failure of his mother to meet her promise, the scrolls of medical reports from St. Mungo’s, his recent unexplained change of heart.

She needn’t have worried. Severus wasn’t interested in Minerva’s unease just yet. His attention was back on the book of acceptance. He tried to appear casual as he flipped forward to the most recent pages.

There it was. In clear, unadulterated black ink. “Harry Potter – The Blue nursery with the snitches on the wallpaper, Potter Summer Home, Godric’s Hollow”.

It nearly put Severus over the edge when a thought caught him…

“Minerva, would an address still appear if the child was under a fidelius spell”.

“What in the world are you talking…” her words died in her throat. The wellbeing of baby Potter had been on her mind since they young couple had gone into hiding. There had been no address since Harry’s name was entered and Minerva had been there almost daily.

Minerva snatched the book from under Severus’ hand.

“We must inform the headmaster immediately!”

[hysydney]

Half sick of shadows …

I’ve always wanted to draw an analogy between an episode of MFMM and Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott, the tale of a woman imprisoned in a tower on the Island of Shalott, cursed to remain inside to weave tapestries of the life she cannot be part of, and cannot even look directly upon*. 

(*Yes I know I’ve not only ended a clause but a full sentence with a preposition. This is something up with which you will have to put.)

W M Egley, The Lady of Shalott, (1858), City of Sheffield Galleries

The poem came to mind in finding a thread among the themes and tones of Death by Miss Adventure. This post complements one from a long time ago looking at the colour palette, so for those in need of a cure for insomnia, it’s here. Egley’s famous depiction is also reminiscent of the tones and colours of the episode.

This episode is about Mac.  Her personal and professional worlds collide, as her competence is questioned because of bias and intolerance. It is an episode of secrets hidden away then emerging and confronting. And it’s not only Mac held captive, metaphorically, in towers of dark anguish. 

In the poem, the Lady of Shalott lives in shadowy isolation, the grey of her imprisonment contrasts the implied colour of the world outside:

Four gray walls, and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers      The Lady of Shalott. 

Mac’s feelings are imprisoned as she calls in her friend to investigate a suspicious death in a factory where Mac provides some legitimate, and some illicit care to the factory owner and workers. 

The opening scene hints at imbalance:

Mr B:  Apologies, Miss, but Doctor MacMillan is here.

Phryne: It's a bit early for a house call.

Mr B: She doesn't seem herself, Miss.

Phryne: Mr Butler! Forget the big breakfast. This calls for a pot of strong coffee, and Mac will need a... stiff drink. 

Go on, take your medicine. Let me be the doctor for a change.

Whilst Phryne takes charge, she is ignorant of the true reason for Mac’s need for a fortifying whiskey.

The Lady of Shalott preserves her safety by staying within the confines of her tower and not participating in society’s activities.  This provides a metaphor for  Victorian concepts of the woman’s role, expected to be the protector of the home, where she embodies the pure, the mysterious, the unthreatening, the proper:

No time hath she to sport and play:  A charmed web she weaves alway. 

Mac doesn’t fit with society’s expectations of a woman’s role, so preserves her safety by imprisoning her feelings, locking them away, even from her closest friend.

Mac: Her name was Daisy Miller. 

Phryne: Did you know this girl?

Mac’s response avoids a direct answer to the identity of ‘this girl’:

Mac: I attended when they rang the emergency bell.

Tennyson’s poem found popularity with morality-obsessed Pre-Raphaelite painters like Waterhouse, Hunt and Rossetti, whose depictions illustrate the tension for women, seen as the saviours of the domestic realm, between their private desires and the reality of their social responsibilities.  The Lady of Shalott abandons her social responsibility in pursuit of love, and perishes for her impropriety. 

Hunt (below) portrays the consequences of turning away from duty and yielding to the temptations of the world rather than being removed from its material realities.

She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro' the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume,         She look'd down to Camelot. 

W H Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, (1842), Manchester Art Gallery

Aunt P voices the views of her class and of society more broadly in terms of tolerance of difference or the lack of it.  Both she and Roger Gaskin, the factory owner and later victim, are members of the board at the hospital where Mac is a physician. Roger Gaskin bought his way into acceptability and this is considered of greater significance than supporting women in need of clinical care and contraceptive guidance.  She has no qualms about threatening Phryne’s continued involvement in the murder case, a warning  which has renewed significance when Gaskin becomes victim number two:

Aunt P: Do you have any notion just how much money Roderick Gaskin has donated to the hospital? 

Phryne: He didn't strike me as a particularly charitable type. 

Aunt P: My dear, when a member of the manufacturing classes attempts to buy respectability, who am I to say him nay? ... You'd best warn the doctor that... that this is not the first time a complaint has been made.

The board has been made aware of the doctor's more... unconventional activities. What she does behind closed doors is a matter entirely between herself and her maker. But Mr Gaskin has heard rumours that she has been giving un-Christian advice to some of the girls at the factory, and he will be reporting this to the board if you continue your absurd crusade. 

Mac provides a medical clinic for the female workers at the factory but also established a relationship with Daisy, the first victim, something she is unable to reveal to Phryne.  Phryne must detect this herself.  Realising her ignorance of her friend’s feelings is as hard for Phryne as it is for Mac to admit.

Phryne: You loved her. And you suffered in silence while I showed you those photographs of the blood on the machine.

Mac: What could I have said? ... I went to Daisy's funeral service. Her mother came and thanked me for being such a good doctor. I was so much more to her than that.

Mac was invisible to Daisy’s family as anything other than her doctor.  The lady of Shalott too is an invisible figure.  Not only is she imprisoned and isolated on an island, separated from Camelot where she is heard but not seen, but she is not described physically, nor even given a name.

Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly,       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Even prior to Phryne’s realisation of Mac’s involvement with Daisy, Phryne has  an altercation with Jack as Mac becomes a suspect in Gaskin’s murder.  She has to defend Mac’s character:

Jack: We know Gaskin threatened to make her life difficult with the hospital board. 

Phryne: That's hardly enough for her to kill him. It's true that Gaskin disapproved of Mac's attitude, but so does half the world, the wrong half, if you ask me. And Mac's used to sailing close to the wind.

And speaking of Jack and Phryne...

Phryne too is hiding demons, imprisoned by the guilt of Janey’s unsolved disappearance.  Murdoch Foyle, Phryne’s nemesis, has contacted her from his prison cell, seeking a bargain, the truth about Janey in exchange for his freedom. 

Despite the personal anguish she feels in receiving Foyle’s letter, she masks her feelings when confronting Jack back at the factory.  

Jack: I see the threat of a trespass charge hasn't discouraged you. 

Phryne: If I were easily discouraged, you would have frightened me off on our first crime scene. 

Jack: OUR first crime scene? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you agreed to leave this one to the police. 

Phryne: You're never wrong, Inspector. Just a little behind the times. Roderick Gaskin won't be pursuing this complaint. 

Jack:  If you're good, I'll keep you informed. 

Phryne: Give my regards to the tea lady. 

She does, however, confide in Mac,  This is a poignant exchange given Mac is not prepared to share her own source of distress. Here Phryne abandons her customary logic for pathos, as Mac, despite her own tragedy, provides unequivocal advice:

Phryne: He wants me to visit him at the jail. 

Mac: Tell me you're not going. 

Phryne: Perhaps he wants to tell the truth about what happened to Janey. 

Mac: Or perhaps he's just toying with you. The man is evil. You've made sure he's locked up. Now just forget he ever existed. Stay away from him, Phryne.

The Lady of Shalott appears to accept her lot, her imprisonment, her need to weave the world she cannot directly see:

She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she,       The Lady of Shalott....

and further

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights...

Phryne too rarely provides signs of the ever-present wretchedness she endures at the loss of Janey. But there are moments, just like in the poem, when the lady admits her frustration with her circumstances:

'I am half sick of shadows,' said     The Lady of Shalott.

The lines are reminiscent of Phryne’s words to Jack in a later episode, when she asks Jack to Guy and Isabelle’s engagement party, Foyle’s shadow ever-present:

Your invitation. To Guy and Isabella's party. As my partner ... You still have a murder case to solve and what better way to gather information than to mingle with the crowd? Besides, I need you to remind me not to be afraid of shadows. 

Phryne, against Mac’s advice, visits Foyle.  More imprisonment imagery as both seek release.

The nature of the Lady of Shalott’s curse is not explained, but to stop weaving, to look outside, would set the curse in motion. She becomes increasingly aware of the life that flourishes outside, reflected in the mirror:

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page* in crimson clad,       Goes by to tower'd Camelot: 

* !!

Then one day she is struck by the reflected image of the handsome Sir Lancelot riding by en route to Camelot.  

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode,       As he rode down from Camelot. 

She goes to the window, a glance at Lance, and the curse is fulfilled.   She has moved from slavery and imprisonment to freedom, but the transformation is also her death.

She leaves her tower and floats in a shallow boat to a watery grave, the knight left to muse over the beauty of the unknown creature. 

G E Robertson, The Lady of Shalott, (1864), private collection, Michigan

Now I’m not suggesting any such tragic analogy to this MFMM episode. But Phryne is no longer hiding the reality of her circumstances from Lancelot Jack, and in their fireside heart to heart (as it were), Jack won’t advise, but insists that she has it within her to break Foyle’s curse.

Jack: I hope you're not asking for my help. 

Phryne: But I am. Tell me not to place myself above the law. Not to let a killer loose because I want the truth. Tell me there's a greater good than my own need to know. 

Jack: You never listen to me, anyway. 

Phryne: Humour me. 

Jack: You know what to do.

[spellsandpixiedust]

Talk about - 4, 7, 16, 23 - Izzymun

→ “talk about…”-Meme ← (accepting)

Stuff’s under the readmore break because fucking long and also trigger warnings apply for mentions of death, sickness & drugs

4.) Talk about the thing you regret most so far.

“…dunnohowtobeginorevenwhere… Right, me life’s made up mistakes and regret. That’s what you get, when you owe nuthin’ to no one. Not even the bad things. I wish it wasn’t I who corrupted me. I wish I could blame my most atrocious misdeeds on a state of mind beyond sobriety, but… People died because of me and it wasn’t always an accident. 

Memory lane: Mid-nineties, when I had recently arrived in London. Bit sickly, me, but - yeah - not exactly uncommon when ye’re living on the streets. It usually passed. Not this time though. Over the course of several weeks me state worsened severely. Could hardly drink as much as I sweated out again. Fever and murder headaches and sometimes I just blacked out. Should’ve gone see a doctor, any reasonable person would’ve, but not me. Maybe I was scared or just stupid or blinded by the feverish thought I could fix this with magic. Like I fixed everything with magic. Yet nuthin’ I tried worked. Every time I got it out of me system it came back instantly and as horrible as ever. Sick of me boomerang illness and sick of being sick, I came up with the most wicked plan I’ve ever followed through:

In me hidey-hole I conducted half the ritual, enchanting a needle, reciting old as bollocks spells, all that jazz I’ve already done half a dozen times. In vain. But once done preparing, I headed into town. I could barely walk, hardly think and opening my eyes felt like someone thrust blazing blades into my eye sockets. Dunno how, but eventually I made it to a busy tube station where I looked for… no, where I… where I preyed on the most wealthy looking person around. He seemed like he had it all: expensive suit, great job, money, acceptance. The kind which I loathed so much. Although I keep telling meself, I picked him because I believed he’d get all the help he needed. Right? So I waited at the platform behind him, got out me needle and rammed it into my thigh. When I pulled it out, I pulled out the illness with it and in the one moment of healthy clarity I did not hesitate and pricked me victim with the needle. He fell sick immediately. And me? I just hopped on the next train to wherever and never even so much thought of that man again, until years later I learned that the illness that should’ve carried me off, had cost him his life. And this, this I regret the most.”

7.)Talk about your biggest insecurity.

“Am not insecure, get stuffed. It’s not paranoia when ye now it’s gonna happen for sure. And sooner than later everyone will see what I am: a fucking failure. I can’t win, I can’t. Me mum never loved me as much as she loved her late husband. Not even against the dead I stand a chance, let alone the living. There’s always someone better than me out there, always. I’m replaceable, inferior, and I much prefer removing meself from the scene before someone tells me what I already know.”

16.) Talk about the best party you’ve ever been to.

“Yeah, mate! Now we’re talkin’! Been to a hell of a lot parties in me life, good ones, amazin’ ones. The nineties, basically, were one big party, for the chemical generation anyway. After Manchester’s been replaced as England’s capital of music, London was the place to be. House party after house party after house party. Camden, especially. It was one fucking paradise for a homeless thief like me. I’d sleep the days away in public libraries or cheap hotels or at some bloke’s gaff and the nights? At night I was a friend’s friend’s acquaintance’s distant cousin and went to some of the best house parties there were. Proper music, booze for free, an’ if you were lucky, you’d find someone who sold tickets for a trip to the high and beyond. In the end, I was a few quid richer, a few brain cells dumber, and over-all a happy lad. Were those the best parties? I dunno. They were for sure the best way to earn money. And, right, the demolition parties back in Cottonopolis weren’t bad either - nor were the nights at the Haçienda - , yet I’ve never felt so alive, unshackled, …free than back in the Camden era of house parties. So, yeah, all of them were the best party ever. ” 

23.) Talk about a time someone turned you down.

“Ugh, yeah. Happens more often than not. The best blokes fancy birds, innit? But right, here’s a fun story: Once met this bloke, yeah? In Birmingham or somming. Night was alright, he paid me drinks and we went to his gaff and yeah, ye know how it goes. Half-dressed and drowning me in kisses he suddenly demanded I call him ‘daddy’. Like where the fuck did that come from? So I’ve asked him where he’s been all me life and that he owed me several years of pocket money. He then complained I was disrespectful. As if he showed me any respect expecting me to play his bullshit games and gladly accept being degraded. Yeah, that’s what I told him. More or less. And, yeah, he kicked me out for it. Wasn’t the worst push I got. And I’ve torched his motor afterwards, too. I’ve always been someone for therapeutic revenge.”

[prewettali-blog]

about ellie

001. I’ve met Gimli (John Rhys-Davies), Hikaru Sulu (George Takei), Radagast the Brown (Sylvester McCoy) and members of Bring Me the Horizon. The first one (along with meeting Sylvester) also featured my sister meeting Rimmer (Chris Barrie) from Red Dwarf and nearly meeting Uther Pendragon (Anthony Head). Looking back, I really wish I’d met Anthony Head, too, but John was the sweetest and I’m never going to forget it. I got my photo taken with George Takei during Destination Star Trek in Manchester for the 50th anniversary.

002. I'm currently doing my A Levels. I am studying Law, History and Politics and doing an Extended Project Qualification on the side.

003. I am The Worst at figuring out what to watch on Netflix. I have around nine shows that I haven’t finished, either in the middle of an episode or at the end and I just cannot decide what to watch. Like, I really love Anthony Rapp so I want to start Star Trek Discovery but I also want to watch Gilmore Girls and Touch and Person of Interest (which I’ve seen before only sparingly) and Merlin and the Good Place and Black Lightning and Anne with an ‘E’ and The Crown and all the movies I’ve never seen like My Best Friend’s Wedding and Shawshank Redemption and Die Hard and sooooo many more??? There are so many. Help.

about alice

001. EDUCATION

↬ hogwarts class: Gryffindor, 1974

↬ o.w.l. courses & marks:      ↬ Arithmancy - O     ↬ Astronomy - E      ↬ Care of Magical Creatures - A     ↬ Charms - O     ↬ Defense Against the Dark Arts - O     ↬ Divination - O     ↬ Herbology - O     ↬ History of Magic - A     ↬ Potions - O     ↬ Transfiguration - O

↬ n.e.w.t. courses & marks:     ↬ Arithmancy - O     ↬ Astronomy - E     ↬ Charms - O     ↬ Defense Against the Dark Arts - O     ↬ Herbology - O      ↬ Potions - O     ↬ Transfiguration - O

↬ extracurriculars:       ↬ Gobstone’s Club (October 1970 - May 1974)       ↬ Duelling Club (November 1971 - May 1974)       ↬ Slug Club (October 1971 - May 1974)       ↬ Reserve on the Quidditch Team (September 1970 - May 1974)

002. Alice is a very affectionate drunk, even more so than she is when sober. She’s known for bossing the people she cares about around, simply because she wants (and expects) the best for and from them. The most memorable time she ever got completely black out drunk, it was during the ‘Marlene’s back home’ celebration party. If she remembers correctly, she and Marlene ended up tangled in Frank’s bed, both of them with half of their make-up removed and Marlene’s hair in a haphazard braid, while Frank was forced to sleep on the floor. 

003. Alice’s favorite childhood memory was when her father took them on an impromptu trip to France. They spent a three days in Paris, and her dad tricked her mom into eating a frog’s leg, while everyone else was eating pastries from the bakery they had just visited. It was Alice’s first time drinking Earl Grey (which has since become her favorite tea to drink, period), because it was the only tea that they had. She remembers standing on the Eiffel Tower with her mother, her hand wrapped around her mothers arm.

[drswalihkmusa]

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[thisisnotasafari]

Bus Magic

Yes, that’s my bus, stuck in the mud. You try getting a better picture.

Before I begin, let me state that buses should stay flat on the ground. I think we can agree on this. Yet, ending up at wide angles with respect to horizontal is well within the realm of possibility on a Tanzanian bus. This will usually be rectified within a few hours by a team of shirtless men who show up out of nowhere to dig the bus out of thick mud or deep water or whatever obstacle in which it has entrenched itself. I swear, these guys showed up every time one of my buses got stuck. It might have been the same guys every time, I have no way of confirming. Maybe there’s a team of heroes who are dispatched to rescue stuck buses. Even on the deepest, darkest road in the most uninhabited stretch of land in southern Tanzania, they appeared at any hour with shovels and picks, and bravely struggled to dig out the tires and push the bus out of the hole into which it had plunged. Nine times out of ten, I’d say, they were successful. I was always slightly concerned I’d handed a shovel and get drafted into helping, but I remain thankful that never happened.

To set the scene: I was on the way to Mahenge after a lengthy spring holiday in Cape Town, South Africa, about which more later, but the shock of being back in Tanzania after two weeks with hot showers, strong coffee, and fast internet hadn’t fully set in. I arrived armed with the steely conviction that I would survive my last months in Mahenge as safely and happily as I could, or die in the process. It was this attitude that I assumed as I boarded the bus.

The journey started as propitiously as it could, under the circumstances. Morogoro was hot and dry, the sun stuck flat in the middle of the sky, but I knew further south the rains had come and would be in full swing by the time I arrived home. I bought my ticket the day before with surprisingly limited hassle (after I confirmed the hour of departure three times) and arrived at Msavu, the Morogoro bus stand, an hour early. After waiting for twenty minutes, the assembled crowd was told to walk across the street to a gas station. Buses pay a small fee for entering the bus stand, and as the bus was already en route from Dar, it was easier to pick up passengers at the gas station along the highway than deal with the traffic inside Msavu. Fine. The busI got on, and discovered I had two seats to myself. Enjoying my surprising luxury, I quickly assumed bus Zen mode and stared out the window, watching as the houses and people thinned and gave way to acacia and baobab and vast swaths of brown, swaying grass and clouds draped over distant mountains. Things were going well.

We departed Morogoro at 9:30 am. It was an hour or so before I saw the first dark puddles at the sides of the road. A few people had already gathered around to fill buckets with water before balancing them on their heads and walking on. As puddles go, these were small, I thought, only a few inches deep and nothing to worry about. Amateur puddles, a few years away from signing a college contract. About an hour later, the puddles had begun to spread across the road. Thin creeks tinkled under makeshift log bridges at the road’s edge. The bus slowed once or twice to ford a stream that had bisected the road and cause all of us in the back to fly out of our seats. It was an ominous development but the sun was out, the road was still paved, and I was determined to stay positive at any cost. (At the time, I was inwardly screaming at the absurdity of everything: “I want a beer, I want a pizza, I want Peanut M&Ms, I want to be off this bus, I want a bed, I want to go home.”)

At the Cape Town airport, I had purchased 1Q84, a brick of a Haruki Murakami novel, and brought it out of my bag to keep my mind occupied. I didn’t normally read on buses, it was often too bouncy and dusty, but I felt an ill-defined sense of uncertainty rising at the base of my neck, just out of reach. The fact that Murakami's novel takes place in an alternate world that often crosses over into a parallel reality seemed appropriate for my current situation.

“What if we get stuck?” a voice asked, quietly. “Where will you go? What will happen to your backpack, stowed out of reach? How will you get home? What will you eat? Do lions get hungrier during the rainy season? How long can you survive by drinking you own pee?” These are questions that used to plague me before any journey, my mind running through endless loops of contingency plans and emergency procedures. In my travels to this point, at which I’d been in Tanzania for about eight months, I’d learned to silence them, or at least to ignore them until they subsided. There was a way for everything, I knew, even if it was unpleasant or unexpected. Things were fine. They would be fine.

At about 3 pm, the bus switched with a lurch from the paved road onto the local dirt highway that stretched the rest of the way to Mahenge near the entrance to Udzungwa Mountains National Park. The park is home to the second largest biodiversity of any national park in Tanzania, and contains the magnificent 170 meter-tall Sanje Waterfalls—popular with backpackers and hikers—a glimpse of which I saw tumbling grandly down the mountain between a break in the clouds. It’s also home to a hell of a lot of water, much of which fell from the mountains and collected into rivulets that fed into larger streams along the roadside. The jungle, dense to the point of entering the bus by force and buying us dinner, was held back by the force of flowing water. A channel about four feet across flanked the road on both sides and deepened and widened as we progressed. It looked like we were driving not on a road, but on a thin, dirt-covered bridge over a vast river.

After another forty minutes of bouncing along over rutted tracks, things suddenly became not fine at all. The road curved around a hillside and disappeared. Like a river cutting through a canyon, the road, or what was left of it, was subsumed completely into a flowing mass of murky, silty mud bordered by towering walls of red clay and brown grass. The delineation between the dirt and the mire was clear: as if painted by hand, brown earth gradually gave way to black sludge for about one-hundred meters. The bus slowed to a stop. From the other direction, a Jeep heaved its way through the morass, its engine revving mightily as the tires cleaved into the ground and sprayed inky mud in every direction. I watched its progress enviously through the windshield. It eventually cleared the mud and drove past us, jauntily honking its horn as if to say, “Good luck, suckers.” At this point, everyone around me started to whisper quietly, which for Tanzanians is as close as they’ll come to true panic. I looked around at my neighbors, trying to gauge the seriousness of the situation by their expressions. One by one, they rose and began to walk toward the front of the bus. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I groaned to no one, and picked up my bag.

All of us congregated on the side of the road in the shade of some banana trees while the driver, a stout man wearing rubber sandals and a Manchester United jersey that nicely accentuated his paunch, conferred with his friends. At least, I assume they were his friends—they might have been strangers from a nearby village. Maybe they were from a nearby village but they were actually his friends, and he stopped the bus here on every journey so they all got a chance to hang out. In fact, I never had any inkling of where people appeared from on the road, or how they got there. People just seemed to appear from the tall grass, like those dead baseball players in Field of Dreams, perhaps drawn by the prospect of watching some bus drama unfold. I can imagine that was the main activity in a lot of towns.

I took a seat on a damp log, trying to keep my new black Converse shoes, fresh from Cape Town’s shopping district, from sticking in the mud. It turns out it is possible to be vain about one’s appearance even while stranded with a group of people who don’t speak your language while sitting on a log by the side of a swampy road. If I’d been in a better frame of mind, perhaps seated in a comfortable reclining chair with seven cold beers and a bag of chips, what unfolded might have been highly amusing. I would’ve recorded the entire process and submitted it to one of those TV shows that feature videos of people getting defenestrated or accidentally tossing their toddlers down a flight of stairs, with a studio audience of buffoons cackling madly in response. “Schadenfreude for Idiots” is the genre, I think. Anyway, it would’ve fit in perfectly.

I finally figured out, after spending twenty minutes waiting and listening to snippets of the conversations of people around me, that the driver asked us to leave the bus in order to lighten its weight and make it more buoyant (or so I would guess). In what seemed a strange group dynamic, even for laid-back Tanzanians, no one seemed perturbed or even slightly worried about our situation. The men quickly formed small groups as if they were socializing after church, many laughing and slapping each other on the back like they’d just found wads of cash in the tall grass instead of being forcibly removed from a sweaty bus after a truncated seven-hour journey. (If you’re counting, which I was, seven hours was the time the entire journey usually takes from start to finish. It had taken us that time to make it about a quarter of the way before we stopped.) Women quietly gathered in separate groups and spoke softly, the younger ones watching the men reverently, many using banana leaves to shade their faces. I sat on my log and continued to watch while I wiped spots of mud from my shoes.

The driver, clearly having reached an accord with his associates, boarded the empty bus and, with a theatrical roar of the engine, took off as fast as he could. “Hey dudes, watch this! I’m going to see how stuck I can get this bus and then we’ll ditch all these people and go back to town and get drunk!” he shouted out the window. After a few seconds, he accelerated sharply and turned the bus at a slight angle, hoping to skid across the mud and use the bus’s force and momentum to arrive pointed straight, more or less, on the other side. He, I’m sure, had more experience than I have piloting a two-ton metal block through waist-deep mud at high velocity, so if I ever see him again, I will admit that I didn’t do incredibly well in high school physics, so my opinion probably isn’t worth much. I do know, however, that in order to move a wheeled craft forward in a set direction, one must point the wheels to travel in that direction. It makes sense, does it not?

The front set of tires bit into the mud and held tightly, churning the bus forward with a thunderous force before succumbing to a lack of traction and spinning aimlessly as the rear wheels became mired in the tracks the front wheels had created. The weight of the bus was pulling it down into the mud, and the tires, traveling at an angle, forced themselves in deeper until they were completely stuck. The bus stopped, its front left tire spinning madly in the glare of the afternoon sun, with its nose pointed at a 15-degree angle into the ground, and the rear tires elevated slightly, so that all of the passengers, had we still been aboard, would have been dumped toward the front.

The driver hopped lightly out of the side door and landed with a splash in the mud, his feet sinking a few inches with every step. He seemed supremely unconcerned. This, I suppose, in retrospect, worked in his favor. Since most Tanzanians rarely get visibly frustrated or flustered, they’re able to shake off any failures and carry right along. There's something to be learned from that, I suppose. Life lesson: when you’re stuck in the mud, go get beers and things will be fine.

After conferencing again with his advisors, he stood for a moment and surveyed the scene, his stance suggesting, maybe only to me, the rugged determination of a prizefighter about to enter the second round. I’d like to say that everyone grew silent and apprehensively hopeful as he climbed aboard the bus, but really, no one seemed even to notice. For all I could tell, this turn in the road was our destination all along and, having successfully reached it, people were content. Maybe this was where the journey was meant to end. The thought of a lion stumbling on our party of castaways, as if a lion stumbles onto anything by chance, was arresting enough to cause me to remain stationary on the log with my head propped up on my chin. I love lions, but only in certain situations. This was not one of them. The sun bore down through a thin veil of cloud that fluttered across the cyan sky, and ripples of gauzy heat radiated up off the road in the distance.

His second attempt was more successful. After a slow start, the bus lurched ahead, jittering and shaking madly like an unbalanced washing machine, and with a great deal of pushing by the driver’s advisory council, some of them sinking to their knees in mud (part of the job, I guess) the tires gained a grip on solid ground. The small groups standing around in the shade looked up as if someone had announced that dinner was served, and made their way slowly back to the bus. We climbed aboard and in five minutes were on our way again.

The Titanic. RIP.  We only made it a short distance, however, before another natural waterway hindered our progress. After successfully extricating ourselves from the first dig-out, we arrived at Ifakara and spent three hours waiting to cross the Kilombero River because the ferry was was “broken.” You’ll notice my skepticism. After watching people (it was hard to tell who were the officials and who were overzealous observers) spend two hours attempting to resuscitate a second ferry, rusted and half-sunk in the shallows along the riverbank, I found another seat in the shade of a banana tree. The rescue crews made their way to the Titanic, which is what I named the rusted ferry, in shallow canoes and rowboats before nearly capsizing in the Kilombero’s swift current. I made a game of guessing which canoe or boat would make it to the Titanic’s rusty hull first. Would it be Speedy, the showoff in the flashy red canoe? Or Baldy, making his way slowly but surely in a homemade brown rowboat? It made for an entertaining afternoon of competition.

About an hour after I sat down, Speedy and Baldy had both boarded the Titanic, but it turned out that the first ferry actually did work, and the friendly driver forgot to put the key in or wanted a break from the monotony of driving back and forth. Maybe be had an existential crisis. Maybe he suddenly realized that life is about the journey, not the destination, since his destinations were literally the same two every day. It was impossible, and indeed probably detrimental to my mental state, to know what actually happened. My resolution to remain happy and positive was shaken, but on the plus side, this delay afforded me quite a lot of time for forced relaxation and quiet contemplation.

Eventually we all climbed aboard the functioning ferry. The driver or captain or whoever, apparently still in doubt about his chosen profession, didn’t pull it close enough to the bank, forcing all of us to wade through ankle-deep water. So much for my black Converse. By some miracle we made it across the river, waited for another thirty minutes for the bus to catch up with us on the other side, and pressed on into the mountains.

We got stuck four more times over the course of the next ten hours between Ifakara and Mahenge, a trip that took one hour during the dry season. It was the same every time: the bus got wedged in waist-deep sludge the color of rusty blood, everyone climbed off and waited at the side of the road, the driver recklessly attempted to extricate himself from the mire, failed, and a group of guys with picks and shovels appeared to dig it out. I can’t confirm whether he knew all these guys, but the chances are pretty good. Maybe they have a phone tree or a Facebook group.

My favorite instance of getting stuck was at 11 pm, in complete darkness, at a point where the road narrowed drastically and the red clay soil gummed up the tires. We had once again exited the bus, as we did each time it got stuck, and were standing on the side of the road with a wall of dense forest at our backs. It was hard to see anything under the pitch black sky, but the mood was more subdued than earlier, and many people were propped up against each other dozing. The only light that filtered down through the trees was from a ghostly moon, imbuing everything with an eerie glow. It was at this moment, perhaps under the influence of the the pale moon, that an adventurous spirit stirred in me and I decided I was going to make it home. Armed with positive thinking and two working legs, nothing would stop me, I decided, not even the lack of adequate vehicular transport. Okay, maybe a lion would stop me. Or a hippopotamus. Or the fact that I’m hopeless at navigation and would probably have ended up eaten by a crocodile in the river. But I was on an adventure, god damn it, and I intended to see it through.

At that moment, cutting through the silence, I overheard someone say, “Simba atajkuja (The lion is coming),” laughing. “Simba atakuja hapa, sasa hivi! (The lion is coming here right now!)” It took a few moments for my brain to process this statement in the context of where I was and what I was doing there. What kind of reality was I living in such that the appearance of a lion in the depths of a black night made any rational sense? I had heard tales of a rogue lion patrolling this part of the jungle, roaming far outside its territory in Selous Game Reserve. I chalked it up as one of those local legends that people like to use to scare the white folks, even though I was the only one around at the moment. In actuality the lion probably wouldn’t challenge such a large group of people. At that moment, it didn’t matter. To hear someone say, “The lion is coming right now,” accompanied by a maniacal laugh, while standing by the side of a desolate, moonlit road in rural southeastern Tanzania with no means for escape—well, it’s hard not to take that seriously.

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McGrawHamilton Uni AU

(Part 1.5 AKA The interlude)

James wakes up to the opening strains from “He’s a pirate.” He groggily lifts his head from the pillow and answers the phone. 

“Hi dad.” He croaks into the phone. “How was your first day at uni.” His father asks jovially. (He feels bad. He only called once yesterday to let him know that he had gotten to Manchester but hadn’t said anything since). “I’m sorry da-”

His father interupts him quickly. “Listen lad, I remember my first few days of independence. My mum heard nought from me for three weeks.” Hal then laughs. James smiles at that, he then rubs the nape of his before talking. “Yeah, the first day was okay. My flat mates are alright and the halls are in a great location. I’m like 3 minutes from Lidl.” Hal hums. “Anything else?” James starts. (”How the fuck did he read me, I didn’t say shit. What in the hell”). “Uh, yeah. We’re having this guy over for tea tonight and I don’t know what to think.” Hal hummed again. “I mean he’s really attractive, but I also don’t know what to think of him or what he thinks of me. Is he even attracted to me??.” James shifts in his bed as he thinks about Thomas and everything that happened last night (which was nothing). “Can I offer some advice?” Hal asks gently. James nods and then realises his dad can’t see him. “I’ll take the silence as a yes.” His dad says. James outright laughs at that. “Enjoy yourself James.” James stops laughing. “I know how hard it was for you growing up here. There are exactly three openly gay and bisexual boys in this village and I know you wouldn’t touch any of them with a 50 foot pole, and that says nothing about all the teasing that went your way. All the jokes and ridicule at your expense.” James purses his lips and then opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out Hal interupts. “I mean it James Flint McGraw. Enjoy yourself. Live, laugh, get too drunk and stumble home at 8 in the morning.” James starts laughing again. “Just enjoy yourself.” James smiles softly. “I will dad.”

“Now go socialise before your flatmates start thinking you’re an antisocial ass.” James smirks. “You should also go and make sure Billy is fed before he decides to eat you.” He sasses back. “Your brother would rather die than eat me.” Hal quips back. “TOO MUCH FAT.” James and Hal say in unison laughing. “Speak of the devil.” Hal says. “Hold on a sec James, Billy is going to talk to you.” There is quiet for a beat.

“Hi James.” Billy says. “It’s Billy.”

“Who the fuck is Billy?!” James says in a deadpan voice.

“Fuck you Jamie.”

“I thought we were never to speak of that again.” James hisses down the line.

“We don’t know each other, so how did we make that agreement?” Billy says in a solemn voice.

“Fuck you Billy.”

“Now, now boys.” Hal says somewhere in the background.

“Anyway, good luck at uni bro. I hope you don’t fail too badly.”

“Thanks Billy, good luck with high school.”

James rubs his face after the call and thinks about how tired he still is. He blacks out again. 

Part 2. (The continuation of the main plot?? Who am I lying to, there’s no plot. Think of this as a slice of life anime- it’s all about characters and the stuff that happens to them).

He wakes up to the smell of oatmeal,eggs and bacon frying and strong coffee. He leaves his room and goes next door into the common room.

Madi is sitting on the couch eating oatmeal. Max is holding a copper and glass cafetiere and pouring the rest of the coffee into a white mug. Miranda is plating up the eggs and bacon and Vane is eating an apple. (”Wow, how domestic, I didn’t anticipate this either, I thought it was every person for themselves, but I guess I was wrong.”) Vane sees him, grins and chucks the apple core at his head. “Fuck you Vane.” He picks the core up and tries to thrown it into the bin. “Boys.” Miranda says sternly before actually putting the core into the bin. Vane laughs. “I’m heading out for a smoke. Anyone coming with?” Max gets up. “I’m game.” She says with a smile on her face. “Can you make me more coffee when we get back?” She asks Vane. Vane nods as he grabs a coat and his keys.

James watches them leave. “I missed something.” He tells Madi and Miranda. “Yup.” Madi says. “Charles Vane bought coffee grounds and a cafetiere, Max did not.” Madi tells him before going into the kitchenette and putting her bowl in the sink. Miranda gets her toast out of the toaster and digs into her eggs and bacon. “I was starving.” She says to James who was staring at her demolishing half the plate. “No please you don’t have to explain yourself.” James says quickly. “I’m just trying to think where I’ll get food, I haven’t done any shopping.” Madi looks at him for a second. She then goes to a cupboard and removes an oatmeal cup. “Here, help yourself.” She says casually. (”Great I’m already magically the charity case person. Shit!” James thinks as he takes the offered oatmeal.) “James.” James turn to look at Miranda. “We’ll go shopping in like an hour when the shops open. You’ll buy your stuff then.” Madi smiles at him. “We’re flat mates. We’ll probably help each other a lot over the course of the year.” She says, “So don’t feel bad for needing help right now.” (“How are they reading my mind right now?!?!?!?”) She then chuckles “Also, it’ OATMEAL, not a gold bar. Stop being awkward.” He huffs a small laugh before putting the oatmeal cup with water into the microwave.

Max and Charles return. Charles boils the kettle and grabs the cafetiere and cleans it out. Max smiles at them. “We really need to shopping.” She says. “I need to get actual food.” Madi and James make eye contact and Miranda says, “Lidl, Asda and Tesco all open at 10.30 on Sunday, which is in an hour. We’ll all go then.” Miranda then gets up. “Excuse me I need to do a bit more unpacking.” She goes into her cupboard and removes a tray of eggs. “Help yourselves. Unfortunately, I ate all the bacon though.” She then smiles at all of them before leaving. The kettle finishes boiling with a click. “I’ll finish that.” Max tells Charles who had begun to spoon grounds into the cafetiere. Charles leaves her to make her coffee and goes into a cupboard where he removes a loaf of bread. “Anybody want toast with their eggs?” James looks up at Charles before speaking. “Yeah.” He says softly. “I can make everyone their eggs if they want.”  “Dude,relax okay.” Charles tells him. “You don’t need to be this awkward.” Madi huffs out a laugh. “I already told him that.” Max looks at him for a bit. “I like my eggs over easy.” James smiles at her gratefully. Max then turns to Charles. “He’s offering to cook eggs once, not to clean your room and do the laundry, YOU relax.” Charles raises his hands. “Fair dos.” Charles then says to James. “Sunny side up.” James grabs a pan and begins to cook. “Madi?” He asks her. “No, I’m allergic to eggs.” She then goes for the loaf of bread. “But I’m having some of the bread.” 

----------------

Later in the afternoon after they get back from doing a TON of shopping and have arranged who’ll have which cupboard and which fridge shelf, Jack returns with his girlfriend. “Anne meet everyone. Everyone meet Anne.” “Hi Anne.” Max says with what was fast become her trademark charming smile. Anne then ‘bro-hugs’ Charles. “Hi.” She says to the room. “Oh yeah, Jack, your the second shelf in the first fridge and your cupboard is under the breakfast bar.” Charles informs him. “Cool.” Jack says. “I’ll go shopping in a bit.” He says. “Also Anne’s staying in the night.” Charles just smiles. “Great, she can join us for dinner. My friend Thomas is coming over.” Miranda says. Anne, Jack and Charles all look at each other. “Cool.” Charles says for all of them. “Is it gonna be a party?” Charles asks. “I hope not, I have my course meeting tomorrow morning at 9.” Miranda responds. “Oh come on, we’re freshers.” Charles pouts. “Drink yes, get totally smashed, no.” Miranda says. “What ever mom.” Charles tells her. Miranda just shakes her head. “I’m cool with a chill evening.” James says. (”That’s right, I meet my supervisor tomorrow at 10. Better to be sober and well rested, I don’t want them to hate me before I’ve even begun the year.”) “Fine.” Charles says. “Also you two can go.” He tells Jack and Anne. They then both go to Jacks room. Vane rolls his eyes. “Love birds.” He tells every one. “They’ve been together since the first year of high school.”

“Cute.” Max says.

-----------------

Miranda gets a text and raises an eyebrow. “Thomas’ll be here in an hour.”

“Okay.” James says sinking further into the couch.They (James, Max, Madi, Charles, Miranda, Jack and Anne) are all watching a marathon of “The Chase.”

There’s a beat of silence. Madi finally gets up and turns off the TV. “What the fuck?!?!” James and Vane say.

“Our common room looks like a ring of Hell.” 

Sure enough, there’s liquor bottles and stains every where, a pile of take away boxes and a mountain of washing up that looked like Everest. Also somehow there are clothes on the floor.

“Fine.” Vane said. 

He grabs bin liner and begins to stuff take away cartons into the bag. Vane then separates out the trash to recyclables and non recyclables. Flint looks at the overflowing garbage bin and decides to take the already existing garbage out. Max beats him to it, though. He then decides to tackle the washing up. Miranda has already plugged the hoover into the wall and has begun to hoover. Madi starts to organise the common room.  Jack goes to help with the washing up and Anne starts wiping surfaces. Max returns and puts the washing up away as soon as it’s done. Miranda then mops the floor. In half an hour their common room is spotless. They’re also filthy.

They all retreat to their respective bedrooms to have showers and get dressed for the dinner.

A/N: Here’s parts 1.5 and 2. Next up, the dinner with Thomas. Also for those who might be wondering. Most student accommodation in the UK is called “Halls” and they are mostly self catered (i.e. you need to cook for yourself) and you don’t really have a roommate, you have flat mates. Also,again this is based on my experiences in Uni. Not all flats have a great synergy, but some do. I decided that the characters would be good friends and support each other even though they are practically strangers. (The breakfast thing happened to me in my third halls, I just got offered a cereal bar and some eggs on toast with baked beans from two different people so yeah, that happened).

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[top-astrologers-canada]

Interesting News For The Psychic Astrology Believers

People, who want to know about their future, seek answers to questions around their life, need predictions about the important aspects of their life or require insight about the peace of their mind, are naturally tempted towards astrology. In other words, they are the true believers of astrologers and their actions well compliment with the signals they obtain from the astrological study. However, this cannot be done on their own. For this, they need to talk to an expert who has prolonged experience and immaculate expertise in predicting events of their life with the help of astrological study. Good news for the astrology believers in Manchester is that they can now obtain predictions from the world’s highly practiced Indian astrologer Ganeshji!

What to expect from Ganeshji’s Predictions

You may have your reasons to come over to meet or talk to Ganeshji, but every question is okay. You can expect accurate answers to your questions because Ganeshji is an experienced practitioner of Vedic astrology. Not only this; you can also get rare insights about your life and know some of the most unknown aspects of your family, career, earnings, etc. In addition to just astrological advice or guidance, you can also look for spiritual wisdom from Ganeshji. This wisdom is essential for every human being on earth as most of us seek the solace of mind together with success and fame!

Turning Point in the life of Astrology believers in Manchester

Astrology can bring a sort of turning point in man’s or woman’s life. All of us work hard for success; every one of us pushes limits to achieve something; each person in the world sheds sweat to earn money! But all this is not enough unless they have the right guidance unless they get appropriate advice about their life, job, business, etc. Wherever Ganeshji has been, men and women have remarkably benefitted. If you are in Manchester, now it is your turn. Get in touch with Ganeshji as early as you can to benefit with his knowledge and expert counsel about various facets of your life. Getting an opportunity to a genius is an optimistic opportunity; getting a chance to speak or meet an extraordinary astrologer is like a turning point. Being one of the astrology believers in Manchester yourself, you have good reason to hope for such a turning point in your life. Changing your life for better is in your hands and from that perspective, here is your opportunity! People, who want to know about their future, seek answers to questions around their life, need predictions about the important aspects of their life or require insight about the peace of their mind, are naturally tempted towards astrology. 

In other words, they are the true believers of astrologers and their actions well compliment with the signals they obtain from the astrological study. However, this cannot be done on their own. For this, they need to talk to an expert who has prolonged experience and immaculate expertise in predicting events of their life with the help of astrological study. Good news for the astrology believers in Manchester is that they can now obtain predictions from the world’s highly practiced Indian astrologer Ganeshji!

What to expect from Ganeshji’s predictions

You may have your reasons to come over to meet or talk to Ganeshji, but every question is okay. You can expect accurate answers to your questions because Ganeshji is an experienced practitioner of Vedic astrology. Not only this; you can also get rare insights about your life and know some of the most unknown aspects of your family, career, earnings, etc. In addition to just astrological advice or guidance, you can also look for spiritual wisdom from Ganeshji. This wisdom is essential for every human being on earth as most of us seek the solace of mind together with success and fame!

Turning Point in the life of Astrology believers in Manchester

Astrology can bring a sort of turning point in man’s or woman’s life. All of us work hard for success; every one of us pushes limits to achieve something; each person in the world sheds sweat to earn money! But all this is not enough unless they have the right guidance unless they get appropriate advice about their life, job, business, etc. Wherever Ganeshji has been, men and women have remarkably benefitted. If you are in Manchester, now it is your turn. Get in touch with Ganeshji as early as you can to benefit with his knowledge and expert counsel about various facets of your life. Getting an opportunity to a genius is an optimistic opportunity; getting a chance to speak or meet an extraordinary astrologer is like a turning point. Being one of the astrology believers in Manchester yourself, you have good reason to hope for such a turning point in your life. Changing your life for better is in your hands and from that perspective, here is your opportunity! Are looking to consult an Indian Astrologer in Manchester. Who specialized in Psychic astrology, Palm reading, Love Vashikaran, Black Magic Removal.