Well now… it’s me, Aunty Fan. I was minding my own eternal business here in the Great Beyond – having a nice chat with Granny Frass about the state of the afterlife’s tea supply – when word reached me about Fanny’s latest carry-on. And let me tell you, I had to sit down. Which is saying something, since I haven’t technically had legs since 1987.
Now, for those of you new to the Faurel Hill folklore, let’s clear one thing up: yes, that girl was named after me. A decision I still consider one of the great tragedies of our family history. I was a woman of the old ways. A reader of tea leaves. A speaker to spirits. A believer in the signs nature gives you when you’ve the sense to listen. I could tell you if it was going to rain by the way the magpie blinked at dawn.
And then… there’s Fanny.
Modern medicine’s most loyal disciple. If a fella in a white coat told her to drink bleach for balance, she’d be on Amazon ordering it in bulk. Eyes glazed like a Christmas ham, rattling on about cholesterol and blood pressure and the ‘proper authorities.’ Lord, save us. She’s the type who’d report the moon for being out past curfew.
And don’t even get me started on the surveillance business.
Apparently – and I say this with no small amount of spiritual side-eye, she’s taken to lurking behind her net curtains, jotting down number plates, and logging the neighbors comings and goings like she’s running MI5 from her kitchen table. Granny Frass said it best: ‘That one could find a conspiracy in a cabbage patch.‘
Word has it she’s even installed one of those video doorbells to ‘keep an eye’ on the lane. She’d call the guards if a sparrow landed on her windowsill with an attitude. Can you imagine? I never needed gadgets. The crows told me everything I needed to know – and they didn’t require batteries.
And do you know what really twists my ghostly knickers? She’s out there flapping her gums about ‘science’ and ‘proper medical protocol’ while her aura looks like a week-old dishcloth. Not a spiritual bone in her body. Wouldn’t recognize a sign from the universe if it slapped her with a wet fish and said ‘take the hint, girl.‘
Anyway, I just wanted to pop in and set the record straight. Not all who bear the name Fanny are cut from the same cloth. Some of us had a bit of sense and the good grace to let people live their lives without a clipboard and a blood pressure cuff.
Right – I’m off. The kettle’s boiled on this side too, and the tea leaves have been whispering about something scandalous in Section B of the graveyard. You wouldn’t believe what old Dicky Flanagan’s been up to.
Until next time – mind yourselves, trust your gut, and if a crow looks at you sideways, pay attention.
Message of the Day:
‘Some people are so busy minding other folks’ business, they forget to water their own garden. Let them. You, my darling, keep planting wildflowers.‘
– From the Department of Mind-Your-Own Energy Affairs, via Aunty Fan
UNDER THE WILL... OVER THE DRAMA... 
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