Some say that psychics are born, not made. I’m not sure whether they’re right or not, but as a child I was not aware of my psychic abilities, although in hindsight there were signs of things to come. Perhaps the facility is there for everyone and life’s events either give us reason to open those doors, or they don’t. Perhaps certain people are destined from the beginning to experience life in such a way that spirit has an opportunity to work through them. All I know is that everything I have been through in my life has led me to where I am today, and I believe that I am where I was destined to be.
When I was born, my brother Martin really wanted a little brother, so instead of my chosen name, Charmaine, he called me George. My earliest memory is of Martin sleepwalking and waking me up from a deep sleep. I remember being frightened that there was someone in my room. Martin simply curled up on the end of my bed and continued sleeping. According to my mother we were very close, so close that I barely spoke a word until I was four. My brother spoke for me, always telling mum of my precise needs, never getting it wrong. It was not until he went to preschool that I finally found my voice. In hindsight, I’ve often wondered if we were telepathic, but as a child it just seemed normal to me.
We lived in Ingham, North Queensland, and the house was always filled with the scent of mangoes; mango chutney to be precise. My Grandpop, Mervyn, boiled up enough chutney to sink a battleship. Grandpop’s was such a strong brew; our house was virtually fermented with the smell of the stuff. He used to hand it out to all the local barmaids and shop owners as gifts, but they eventually handed it back because he had made it too spicy for human consumption! Back into the pot it would all go, with Grandpop adding even more mangoes to make it edible. To this day, I cannot eat mangoes. It was all too much for a five-year-old.