Are you Red Pilled or Blue Pilled?

I was a child of the Crusades of Rescue; a Jesuit run Charity for unwanted babies.
When I was 21 I had my life ruined by Mainstream Media when they called me The Devil’s Daughter.
Odd then that I joined, Mainstream Media or MSM as it is termed; the very people who had destroyed me.
I was dumped at the gates of the Roman Catholic Church.
I was left to fend for myself as a blonde, blue eyed girl with half English – half Irish blood.
I was sexually abused. This is exposed in my Hodder and Stoughton book – a best seller listed in Sunday Times. Entitled, Searching For Daddy.

I suffered life long PTSD from the large amounts of sexual abuse I tolerated – group sexual abuse – pornographic photographs. My Vatican connected, adoptive parents and senior paedophile priests within the Roman Catholic Church Orphanage were a ring of paedophiles, still operating.
I do not like sex much unless I am madly in love. Not liking sex much unless I am in love, I haven’t married. I just haven’t fallen in love.
I was a good investigative journalist, exposing priests in the Catholic Church and other paedophiles. I fought against bullying – I appeared on GMTV (below) fighting over school bullying being ignored in schools to the detriment of the children.
My life began in ‘Crusades of Rescue,’ kid’s home in London.
The other kids became my close family. A student came to study the emotionally deprived kids at my kids home who turned out militarily connected through his father

When I turned sixteen I felt as if my feelings were dead. I felt trapped inside a prison of ice where others couldn’t reach me. Yet I was an open house with no boundaries and anyone could use me for sex. I had PTSD.
When he went back abroad; at 18, I went to live in a homeless hostel.
I had no idea how to support myself. I had no education. I was scared of ending up a prostitute like some of the other girls in care – like Kerry who had slashed her wrists and so I vowed I’d do anything bar ending up like Kerry. Some part of me feared I’d end up a whore or suiciding.
When you live a life where noone cares and noone ever cared, you often think of leaving this world via suicide. I tried to kill myself over ten times – I have had three serious stomach pumps from my time in care and after where the boys were raped by the social workers and wrist slitting went on so much the beige carpet in the corridors was stained red.
I joined men who were ex-MI5, ex-military and a firm who needed young girls to do surveillance and office work. It was easy work for fools and not glamourous – nothing like ‘Sparrow’ or ‘Nikita.’
I became a private detective – but really I was a schmuck used for getting close to men.
It was dangerous and it depressed me.
In the small close knit world of ex -spook private eyes I was always in awe of ex public school, John Boyall. He looked like the actor, Dirk Bogarde; he had his air of mystery and unreachability. I heard things about John Boyall being a killer. None of these things matched with the John Boyall I knew, who looked so alike to delicate and genteel, Dirk Bogarde.

The Agency taught me how to trace missing people and use a car to tail a mark. At the home they discovered I had a bit of what the Irish call ‘second sight’; I knew things others didn’t, an empathic feeling for what other people felt. it made me a very talented detective. I was pleased and childishly proud that I was actually talented at something. Moslty I found answers to how to solve problems through sleeping on the problem and then I’d wake with the knowledge. I assumed I had a deeper self who was brighter than I was. I was a bit of an idiot.
I guess I was a bit of a gifted Autistic type kid; I made bad eye contact, I was impractical and easily led. My life was empty because my relationships often failed. I’d give too much then felt bad and confuse others by being cross. I was over sensitive to rejection.
I stomached loneliness and grew used to it. Lone-Wolf – who had never known a family or a lover or even a real friend.
My job fitted a loner, always undercover using another name –Jane or Sarah or Mary. I hated Christine; my birth name had been Lucy -neither were a fit; one given by a Mother who had left me on Church steps – the other one who had beat me.
I found a book in my adopted Mother’s drawer. The book was all about the Moors Murderer, serial killer, Ian Brady and I felt intrigued why an adopted young man of 25 would rape and kill.
I don’t know why I wrote to him? Perhaps I was just lonely and I sensed that he didn’t do it. Yet I felt mad for thinking that. Ian Brady innocent?

I scrutinized Brady’s crimes. Like me, he had an adoption that failed – and he was in pain over being called a bastard.
I began to think, that unlike my sexually abusive Father, Brady was innocent – I don’t know why – something in his eyes in the photograph. A cop investigating the case asked around about Black Magick and others sneered at him for it. I wondered if something dark and hidden had gone on. I sensed that.

My adoptive Aunt, the nun, Sister Kathleen Hart of The Daughter’s of St Paul taught me how to follow the waxing and waning of the moon; I studied Theosophy and found out I was powerfully gifted. In another time Sister Kathleen Hart of the Daughters of St.Paul would have been burned at the stake as a Witch.

Desperate for answers to the meaning of life; I wrote to and visited serial murderer, Brady when I was 21 to try to find out why ‘bastard children’ were evil; they werent of course; I had just been told that by my adoptive Mother who beat me bloody on the backs of my legs.
On my third visit to the Liverpool based hospital for the criminally insane, Brady full of drugs sat alone with this slim young blonde and encouraged to visit by the psychiatrists who had deemed all his social visits be unsupervised. I was that very stupid girl; out of my depth with a world class rapist. Hawk eyed, Brady lunged at me, his recent medication giving him the courage to flick his tongue greedily around my little mouth. Not many can boast a kiss from a serial killer – yet it was the filthiest thing imaginable.

Staggering out of there I felt like my little body held all the energy of his heinous crimes. I felt like his crimes, like daemons sat like dirty spit inside my body.
I wanted to die; I felt invaded by something. I saw visions of his crimes. I felt as if something had entered me.
I had noted on the visits each personality of Ian Brady; one was the intellectual, one a child; one a teenager, his fourth personality was pure evil.
I called the fourth man, the torturer I found inside him – ‘The Nazi.’

I wondered who he was.
I felt his dark powerful energy as being something entirely different from Brady who was a weak effeminate man.
Unknown to me – a Fleet Street journalist called Phil Hall hung around outside my digs in London watching me.

I blushed as this classy handsome stranger charmed me with his education and good manners.
Phil Hall promised me that he could put my name in lights, make me famous by calling me the new Marilyn Monroe.
Phil Hall who was a senior crime reporter for The Sunday People, told me that he was captivated by the fact that a young beauty had visited a beast.
Phil was a well know hack and had early grey hair. I immediately felt attracted to him.

I couldn’t act, I wasn’t even an actress, yet I believed he would make me into Marilyn.
I played the song ‘Goodbye Norma Jean’ on the jukebox in the pub where we shared a drink and I fantasized about everyone finding me lovable.
We sat over a pint of a lager in a nearby pub. I told him, ‘I’m an orphan. I havent got a Father.’
Phil had been served up my details by Alan Graham and Rachel, two private eyes who had sold me to him for a deal with Phil’s newspaper The Sunday People, to carry out data gathering, dipshit private investigations work for the press with an added five thousand pounds for selling me.
Phil said it meant that there was nothing left to pay me any money for my story, so I would have to tell my story for free.
He paused. ‘But hey – did you ever think Ian Brady was your Father? That’s what Alan told us.’
I told him, yes, yes, ‘ they said my real father was a criminal.’
It did have in my records that my father was a criminal but I had found Ian Brady inside a book – he was not my blood Father – but that didn’t stop Phil.
‘…the Devil’s Daughter,’ was what they named me, when they broadcasted my image across the front-page of the national newspaper, The Sunday People under the sad, seedy headline of a girl with her hair tonged – a golden dress in a bright red lip, too much eye-make up and dropped pearl ear rings.

‘Smile for the camera; it’s not the end of the world,’ the Sunday People photographer told me but I feared that all around me flames were rising and I was going to be called Satan’s Seed.

The National Press put me on TV advertising their newspaper about my visits to the grimy cell of Moors Murderer, Ian Brady.
They wrote that I ‘claimed’ to be his long-lost daughter. Phil said it was better he phrase it that I had ‘claimed’ it; then he wouldn’t get his career ruined when the others found out it wasn’t actually true.
He was over the moon when Ian Brady wrote a letter to him to say he remembered my Mother.
They dressed me in really dark make-up, spiky high heels and a gold and red dress to fly up to Liverpool to go inside and ask Ian Brady – ‘…are you my father?’
I was on the pervert serial killer’s visiting list, so I had access to go in on any visiting day.
Of course I didn’t ask him, I knew he had lied about being my Dad.
I sat opposite Ian Brady and wished the floor would open up.
I dropped my cigarette on the floor and stressed out, I swore – ‘Shit.’ Brady nodded over at the guard who sat at the far side of the room and said – ‘yeah exactly.’
‘Tell the press nothing,’ he ordered me domineeringly as Phil waited outside.
Phil wrote up a tale of bad blood and orphanages and a monster cuddling a busty blonde.
I read about it on the front pages of the Sunday Tabloid and felt that my life was over. Phil said to me, ‘It’s odd how we have the power to ruin lives, it never ceases to surprise me! People will always think you’re his daughter now.’
While the second weeks story was being prepared; Phil took us both on a ferry then hired a car. We both drove across France, his white shirt billowing out the window. I was falling for him. Looking back, I can see he was seducing me – the older man and the young idiot.
Maxim De Winter and I was ridiculously inane Joan Fontaine.
Phil drove for miles in the dusty heat of France. He drove us South until we reached picturesque Pond Du Gard in the South of France. ‘It’s to hide you from The Pack.’
It was the name they gave the pack of hounds, known as reporters on Fleet Street.

Unpacked in our lovely rooms, we met outside and we skinny dipped in the warm French Riviera underneath a magnificent stone bridge that looked almost Greek.
It was paradise. I was glad to be away from the newspaper story that I was the Devil’s Daughter.
We stuffed oily snails in garlic, we supped good old brandy on nights where the hum of crickets kept us awake past the small hours.
I was stupidly falling in love with this older man who knew to follow Michelin starred restaurants all around Egremont and St Tropez. I saw him as too good for me because of his job – big shot journalist.
I knew then it was what I wanted to be. A journalist. Phil was stupid and silly and I knew I was smarter than him. ‘If he can do this, why can’t I’ – I reasoned.
Strolling along the bridge arm in arm in the hot sun, we sang songs and made each other laugh, at old wooden tables outside little sun drenched bistros sucking with wet lips on fresh peaches pulled out of chilled glasses of Moscato, as music played and we let our eyes dance the dance of romance.
Every morning over coffee, Phil Hall coached me how to locate stories to delight newspaper editors so I could join him in his profession.
I envisaged us as a married power couple, Posh and Becks, except writers, sought after by everyone – F Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda.
While he chewed on a cigarette we chatted over the phone to Brigitte Bardot and she agreed to meet us, but then cancelled due to her dogs getting sick. Phil taught me how to put together a newspaper story over exquisite fresh ground French coffee and crumbling croissants, our newly tanned bodies marbled by a brightening and waning sun.

On temperate evenings as a dying marmalade light danced across the balcony, Phil taught me how to file copy to the NewsDesk copytakers as our eyes danced away from each other’s longing looks. We sipped fruity champagne kirs in the rooms as he taught me how to locate the breadcrumb in a story to follow up on.
I felt enthralled that Phil allowed me access to a higher world – one of men in white shirts who held pens instead of hammers.
Glossy skyscrapers in the midst of London, full of history. Westminster and St Paul’s and I loved its lush opulent vibe.
In France, I lazed in a polka dot bikini beside my Hemingway in a Mimosa scented breeze on the river bank on sunny days, believing I had joined this world of top newspaper and book writers in London.
I began to think that Phil was my soulmate.
Reader, I had once visited a renowned psychic called Mike Baker, who told me that a man with the initial ‘J’ would ‘impact on me so hard. J would beat down my walls, that he would locate the real me and kiss me back to life. Since all Mike Baker said came true, I waited for J.
I imagined myself in a white seed pearl dress. I wanted to marry ‘ J’ – whoever he was; I knew he must be my Twin Soul and I imagined we would have great sex that I would actually enjoy it for once.

Phil laughed at me and told me that his nickname in the Sunday People offices was ‘Jolly Phil Hall.’ That he was this ‘J’ the psychic had told me about.
I believed him. Jolly Phil Hall. It seemed to fit.
During that very hot night as crickets croaked and the heat made us sweat, we made love for the very first time in Pond Du Gard, France. I prayed to God that he was J.
Phil’s caresses on high count white cotton sheets bought me to a pitch of excitement and then something happened right in the middle.
I suddenly felt repelled.
He wasn’t J.
Who had I fallen in love with? Another part of me was revolted by him. My stupid side had fallen for his power and charm and another side cringed.
Back in London, I wondered was J – John Boyall? But we barely spoke.
Phil was my still my ‘becoming a Fleet Street journalist’ teacher and he took me out to Joe Allen and Bootlegger’s as Madonna’s ‘Into the Groove.’ blasted out of his car radio.
In celeb haunt – Bootleggers – Page 3 girls dined alongside us with rich Arabs and vintage champagne flowed.
I got back to the cheap Bayswater Hotel that Phil had put me in and dancing to Madonna – I paraded about for him in my underwear. ‘Get into the Groove, boy you’ve got to prove your love to me…’ He slowed it down and we slow danced to ‘Days Like These’ by Matt Munro. We remebered France, we made love in the heat and I thought about J as he pushed himself inside me hard.
I felt sick.
‘Whats up you act like you don’t even like me – I don’t get it?’
It was my inner self, that seemed to actively loathe him and she came out in sex.

Afterwards in Bootleggers, over skinny fries and fish, Phil felt guilty, he told me. that I hadn’t been paid for being a World Exclusive front page story for two weeks running, so dinner was his treat.
I only had a few hundred savings left in my bank account. I was homeless and jobless since the story and the scandal broke.
”I’ll teach you this business, you can work in Fleet Street as a hack,’ he promised me with a guilty grin. ‘ Fuck, it never ceases to amaze me how we ruin lives; look at the mess of yours, youve got no home or job cos of all this.’
Through his ongoing tuition I became a bona fide journalist.
With my full stripes I bought a cheap one way ticket to New York City and like his baby bird leaving the nest I rented a bedsit in a rough area of Brooklyn.
I began to walk the streets of Manhattan hunting news stories they’d enjoy back in the UK – like a bloodhound seeking a bone.

I eagerly filed copy on stories from New York on Madonna’s hair loss – called in the paper, ‘Madonna Loses Her Mane’ and Howard’s Beach Racism – where a black man was beaten up by a gang of rich white boys from a cheap bedsit on my own with dry bread and salad cream to ease the hunger and still pay my rent on the room.
Phil was astounded at how quickly I’d picked up his role and he put the stories in The People under his own by-line. He forgot to pay me and I was destitute and unable to pay rent on my room in Brooklyn.
I quickly discovered that anyone could write a story; journalism was about getting others to talk to you.
I was good with people over short lengths of time and enjoyed meeting unusual people – they were often outsiders who made up the news.
Hurt by my desertion to New York, Phil took his old journalist girlfriend called Tina back to the Pont Du Gard and sent me a card from France to my bedsit.
I miss you. I wish it were you here, not her.
*
It was all over, yet his glamourous world infatuated me, I still wanted to be part of the controlling beast called Mainstream Media.
I flew back to London and applied for employment as a rookie hack working for The News of The World to NewsDesk editor Greg Miskiw.
Phil Hall had moved there as an editor and rough guy Greg Miskiw was his underling.
Greg was famous for saying, ‘…we ruin lives, it’s what we do.’
Little did he know when he hired me, that I was one of the victims who had their lives ruined. I never wanted it to happen again, I wanted to find out all about their power and own it as mine. To help others like me. Tip them off – screw it up for the press whom I hated.

Phil ignored me as I sat in the news room; he was afraid I would talk about our love story, he with the Devil’s Daughter, dressed in scarlet. To get in with the other reporters, I giggled in corners and I gossiped about him, lying that he had a small willy to make them laugh.

It shocked both Phil and I when my dizzying ascent in the newspaper industry materialised overnight.
The News of The World’s had a strong appetite for my style of intuitive spying I’d learned to hone.
My sense of knowing who to speak to and what to say to them thrilled editors, even he.
It wasn’t about ‘blagging’ – hundreds of investigators who could do silly blagging applied to the papers all the time and reporters used this trick of getting stories. Actor, John Ford was a brilliant blagger they all used.
I had this weird skill of ‘knowing’ who to ring and what to say to get people to cough their secrets – that shocked even me.
But I only knew it after I went to sleep.
I would ask my deeper self and in sleep that part of me communicated it back to the outer, sillier me.
Reporters I confided this to sneered at me – but they still used me.
My unique skill as an investigative made other journalists envious – the most envious ones were those who termed themselves investigators – one of them was called – Graham Johnson.
Phil Hall watched with incredulity as my earnings rose from a junior hack’s 30k salary to a giddy 100k.
My accountant was a stickler for being ‘proper’ having been ex Inland Revenue and he didn’t even let me claim expenses; but I was glad I still have the proof of my high earnings in neat bound booklets – its not often working class girls earn the big bucks and I was proud.
At the advice of a new freind, Hugh Burnett who was ex BBC and ex MI6 – and lived nearby – I began to branch out and work for other newspapers; The Sunday Mirror – The Daily Mail and The Times.
I used my insight. I would know how to get inside a story by saying things to the subject of the story – and I somehow knew what to say to get them to tell me private things.
I would know exactly when to make a phone call and it really worked for me in that world.
I noted sadly that some of the other reporters disliked me – called me a blagger.
The hack who always held journalist parties at her house was my good friend, editor, Fiona Whitty. Dave Dillon, Dennis Rice and Matt Bell hung out with us.
Because of my unique skill, newspaper editors like Paul Dacre invited me to champagne parties peopled by top cops and security service men. My skills grew, proving stories by garnering the correct information and proof. They called me Fleet Street’s secret weapon and Royal hack and personal friend, Clive Goodman called it ‘The Christine Hart Magick.’
In a way it was a kind of Magick and it made me unique. I was proud – at last I had some kind of skill others liked me for.
Some reporters hated the rise of this dumb cluck blonde who once snogged a serial killer and hadn’t been to journalism school.
I felt their eyes watching me.
I knew old PI tricks – but I didn’t as much as turn an ex dir phone number knowing they’d grass me up to their cop contacts over a pint in The Old Rose.
I could look at a photograph and see a way into private lives.
After sleeping I’d wake up and know just who to call and exactly what to say to extract information out of their minds; what to say to get them to open up to me. None of it was or is illegal.
I reported what they were all up to back to the off shoots of my old agency who were hiring me through Ciex Ltd. (Company X in French – a firm owned by ex MI6 officer, Michael Oatley) They were investigating Fleet Street; esp News of the World’s use of the boys at Hereford – serving SAS to track politicians. I disliked reporting back to my old world of spies , but I felt I had no choice. we met along Buckingham Gate at their offices a few doors down from Christopher Steele’s agency, who dug up dirt on Trump supposedly colluding with the Russians.
I was attending The Priory Clinic in Roehampton for weekly hypnotism to access my childhood. I could not access my childhood memories at all. I read that a man using therapy called EMDR that was a veritable time machine. Doctor Mark Collins saw only A-list; Robbie Williams, Kate Moss and Ruby Wax – so I felt honoured to be seen by him.

I went along for years and soon gossip spread and all my journalist peers I partied with knew I had access to a castle of superstars.
I despised the idea of wandering the corridors of The Priory in my nightdress.

I wasnt going to be a freak spy for the tabloids, crying about my childhood and envious of powerful, successful people’s wealth and status.

I did think I deserved fame like they had, I felt a loser, second rate and I felt afraid of them and angry I wasn’t one of them. But I would never have hated them enough to hurt them by spying on them.
I hung out with Ruby Wax and Marty Pello and enjoyed The Priory’s West Wing and Centre Court and their fare of apple crumbles and private parties but I wondered why I wasn’t famous like Catherine Zeta Jones and Kate Moss so I was bitter. it was sick to be bitter when I was bringing in 100k a year, yet I craved stardom. I didn’t know it, but deep within I hadn’t healed from the rejection of two Mothers and I stupidly believed fame would heal my pain.
I told Dr Mark Collins at our monthly sessions in his office that my peers had asked me to spy on him and his other patients. Mark said, ‘… tell them a load of old rubbish and take their money; you need it for here.’
So that is what I did.

I decided to enjoy lying to the rude pig editors like Greg Miskiw who asked me to shit on Mark.
I had no intention of letting them take what I loved away from me or get me arrested. No one was going to take my journalistic career off of me.
I worked hard at putting away paedophiles and exposing villains, sometimes I played the wife of Mazher Mahmood like when we met Sylvester Stallone at his wedding at The Dorchester.
I grew as a reporter and soon I became responsible for 95 per cent of stories in the paper at The News of The World, The Sunday Mirror and The Daily Mail.

Phil Hall became editor of The News of The World where I had a desk of my own next to Clive Goodman in the office.
Phil knew a past that others hadn’t bothered to look into.
Reporter, Graham Johnson, found out I was the Devil’s Daughter and passed around old copies of The Sunday People to everyone with me on the cover.
‘O’ my God – Chris is related to Ian Brady. What else is she hiding?’
Fiona Whitty took me out to dinner to find out the details and I felt they were all waiting to hear what she reported back. I was back feeling like an outsider again.
News of The World, Editor, Alex Marunchak knew the Ian Brady story was a farce and hated Phil Hall so he lost no chance in ribbing me.
‘Chris, how’s your dear father, darling? So, Phil not only made up a load of shit to ruin your life, you gave him his leg over too. Chris, remind me, how much did Phil Hall make sure you got paid? Nothing? Old Phil – he’s such a charmer with women.’
Phil heard about it and punished Alex by sending him away to work in Belfast.
I began to be isolated again. But I was still getting results.
My favourite editor Chris Boffey left The Sunday Mirror. Tina Weaver arrived to take it over. Tina was the old flame Phil had taken to South of France.
Tina kicked me off her paper for revenge for Phil. I didn’t care. The Mail, The Times – Alison Boshoff, Rick Hewitt, Chris Boffey, Ian Cobain continued to use me. I still worked for The News of The World, but I preferred The Daily Mail and The Times and Chris Boffey bought me in at The Telegraph.

Before Tina kicked me out, I got a Sunday Mirror staff Press Pass off Dennis Rice and Matt Bell and it said Sunday Mirror Staff Reporter on it.
Once I had that little baby I was able to interview people.
A six-figure salary purchased me an open top sports car. I posed in the West End around Sloane Square in film star sun glasses and cool designer dresses through Knightsbridge after lunch at Harrods with Rebekah Brooks, Paul Dacre and Alex Maranchak.
Dennis Rice took me with him to interview George Harrison – then when ex Beatle, George came to the gate, he told us both to come back in a few days, Dennis returned without me.
I felt valued for the very first time in my entire life and it felt good.
‘Hello its Peter Allen from the Daily Mail – please may we borrow your genius?’
‘My genius is fully at your disposal.’
Sometimes I felt a fraud; because it was an inner, separate part of me standing up stories.
SHE was different. yet she was still me – she just felt not like me.

I wondered why I hadn’t yet become an adult; others around me were maturing, but I was at a standstill. I was a 15 year old child with low self esteem.
I seemed to be split. I had noticed that about serial killer, Ian Brady – he was split and one of his splits was The Nazi. I assumed this thing of having ‘parts’ was over adoption.

I didn’t buy a flat with my six-figure salary; I felt the money was immoral. Tabloid wages, led to bad karma. I was an energy reader and money was a hook that evil threw you but it had attachments, especially if it was from an immoral group or company.
The press ruined lives – I wasn’t about to hurt others – but the money off of them was still hooked up with attachments of karma.
I pulled out those hooks by wasting it.
I bought shoes.
Mainstream Media was fundamentally evil – it seethed with it -the vampire’s corridors ran with the fresh blood of all of it’s victims. Some victims of the News Of The World had killed themselves from the shame.

I felt filled with excitement at the idea to become a war reporter in Belfast Northern Ireland. I was sick of snooping on celebrities. I felt it wasnt real journalism at all. infact I was struggling to work out what made a good journalist.
in Belfast, Northern Ireland, I got to know a ruthless terrorist leader called Liam Campbell – Officer Commanding Real IRA – Omagh bombers, who lived in Dundalk, a no-go area for the British Army.
Greg encouraged me to use my body to become a better reporter.
I followed Greg’s advice and appropriated the terrorist leader as my lover.
Ideas filled my head.
I was suddenly ambitious to write a book about them just like I had wanted to write one about Ian Brady.
Campbell was very easy to seduce. Once inside Dundalk he invited me to his house.
I had access. I touched everything. I walked around inside his home.
He trusted me.
I eventually knew all his hideaways, he walked around showing me his secret places.
My journalism on the Real IRA became known for it’s accuracy.
Army got killed if they went to XMG, soldier Robert Nairac who went there to look around was chopped up, his body fed to the pigs.
I strolled around Crossmaglen whistling and breakfasted in Dundalk in their café opposite The Emerald Bar.
I felt proud – I had done something Nairac had failed at. Somewhere deep inside I felt like I was spying on them – but yet I was a working class girl – noone asked me about them.
I was soon taken out to dinner by the editors of the broadsheet newspapers in Belfast about my stories being exact in detail.
Rosie Gowan from The Guardian, Henry Mc Donald from the Observer all bought me expensive dinners and begged me to introduce them to my contacts.
I decided to take the more honest offer by Liam Clarke of The Sunday Times to write for him.
Sunday Times editor – Liam Clarke – began to employ me properly and commission me to go to cop press conferences. To give me bylined work for him and the the magazine and I began to hang with him on jobs such as meeting UDA’s Michael Stone.
I had recently got The Times a recent front page. A Brit was (Bignall) beheaded by ISIS; their hack – Vikram Dodd wanted my help to get a front page story. He rang me to ask -‘Blag MI6 for me to find out the name of this guy who’s been beheaded, will you?’

I got all I needed to fill a weekly story in The Sunday Times.
South Armagh PIRA Brigade had morphed into the ultra-dangerous and unreachable ‘Real IRA.’ And I was now making TV appearances on BBC as a crime reporter.
That really incurs jealousy from hacks who have not been on TV.
The Reals were not amenable to the offers of millions from the British Government – like the 7 million they’d paid out to the INLA – I was tipped off by an INLA leader, Terry O’ Hearcain (a long term contact) who had introduced me to Paul Carson (Dark Cloud) the INLA’s newest leader.
Paul confirmed their pay out by coming to my house at midnight to tell me, ‘ ..aye it’s true.’
I wrote it up for The Daily Mail and they gave me a sole byline.
Thinking I was becoming a defence reporter, I joined the RAF on a voluntary basis as a PRESS officer.
I still needed The Priory as a sanctuary for high stress.
The IRA, INLA, UDA were all hard men and heavy going. They had began to all hang out at my house at various times. Each different group told me that the other groups had me under surveillance. I began to get stressed as some of them would turn up in the early hours of the morning bang the door down until I let them in and then stay and drink all my wine.
Dr Collins helped me handle the stress and told me how well I was doing.
He was seeing Brittany Spears in America when he flew out to his clinic in Hollywood. The Priory had always been my sanctuary since undergoing Art Janov’s, Primal Therapy in Los Angeles, where John Lennon had been treated.
I called the hot shot, strong, seductive part of me Catherine.
i picked the name over ‘Catherine Trammell’ in Basic Instinct.

My work was bothering me – I told Dr Collins. Like – I would wake up naked next to Liam Campbell, the head of the Real IRA and feel absolute terror to find myself in bed beside him.
It was like I wasn’t the person who had gone there.
I knew I had gone there.
Yet it felt crazy to be there.
I’d wake up.
I’d look down and see my naked body so intimate and a sleeping enemy of the State lying naked beside me.
Fear would course through me.
‘Oh no what am I doing?’
It just wasn’t something I would do. What English reporter would? They were highly dangerous men. Getting close was one thing – but this was ridiculously close.
I was buried away in the Irish countryside in a no-go area. And I’d have to play a role so I could leave, make out I felt sick.
I was so terrified he’d chop me up like the soldier spy, Robert Nairac and feed me to Slab Murphy’s snuffling pigs.

For my trouble the News of The World called me – ‘Our Girl’ on my front and middle page spread.
I couldn’t work it out – why one minute I was enjoying myself – cavorting with a man of terror to get stories for The news of The World and The Sunday Times, next minute I wanted to scream for help.
She came and went.
I never knew when she’d leave or appear.
I’d wake up to her life.
It was my life ………..but she lived it on full volume, minus any kind of fear and with an agenda – that I had no idea of.
*
My career grew via her. I got my name on dispatches; by-lines in the Sunday Times.
Liam Campbell, after being jailed for what they found in his secret hold in the floor of his living room.
Campbell passed me comms through another leader in Dundalk from their prisoners in jail and issued me bomb warnings against the English.
After running to the sixth sweaty phone booth – I received a bomb warning from the Real IRA to bomb post boxes from a strange Irish accent using the Real IRA’s secret codeword, Marigold. I gave it to Greg Miskiw who passed it to MI5. But no bombs went off; so I guessed they must have met their demands.
Word spread and I was approached through The Observer by a lawyer who turned out to be CIA. He wanted me to get close to ISIS in the UK by recruiting young Muslims to go undercover in Mosques. He wined and dined me and flew me back to London.
The lawyer dished me up books on ISIS and told me to learn everything about them – that they werent going to go away and the problem in the UK was going to increase and they – the CIA – wanted control of it all – via me. They told me this would pay well. I did not like the idea of it as ISIS cut off heads and I felt they wouldn’t be like the UDA and IRA.

I had written a front page story on UDA – C Company – in the ‘News of The World’ – ‘UDA Talks Peace With Hated INLA’. The other men turned against John White after it ran and violent killings occured – it then escalated into shootings and all out war.
I wrote a story with my by-line in The Sunday Times saying White had gloated like Bogard in Casablanca about killing John Gregg.
John White and Johnny Adair then had to leave Belfast, to live in the UK.

Christine Hart Author/ private eye wearing hat
After he had to go on the run because of me; John refused to speak to any reporters bar me.
John rang me on my mobile at 2am when I was in a Belfast club dancing with a local INLA leader. The world’s media was after him. He was all over the BBC.
‘I’ll let you interview me, only you though.’
The Sunday Times editor wanted to send a UK local rather than pay for me to fly back over from Belfast, but they still gave me a front page by-line.
John rang me after. ‘What about us?’
‘I’ll ring you,’ I said.
I knew then it was over with him. I had acheived whatever it was I had wanted to achieve. It was weird.
Alex Marunchak told the CIA the whole story and this led to the CIA lawyer contacting me and we met at The Dorchester, back in London.
The CIA served me up the books on ISIS and Bin Laden.
I was pampered by them and then left alone.
I never heard from them again. I knew they’d probably tapped my phone and come into contact with my douche side. … I knew who it was they wanted…my Catherine side.

I went shooting at Bisley with an ex FRU soldier, Phil Campbell-Smith and his FRU team who guarded the Royals (this pleased Clive Goodman) and his mate Charlie who was SAS.
I saw myself as a good journalist wining and dining – leaking information here and there – a player in a game I had no idea of.
I afforded rent on an expensive London penthouse and I was happy for a while. I noticed it was only me – at weekends I just longed for work week to begin again – I ate alone – I watched TV. I don’t think anyone should ever be that alone in the world, yet know so many people.
Suddenly the spy John Boyall appeared back in my life.
I felt afraid – something about seeing John Boyall, it made my stomach churn it was almost as if I knew my reign in Fleet Street was over – but not expect to be thrown out of my comfortable nest in seconds.
‘Forget your journalist crap – just give me the details and all your contacts?’
I refused and only when my adoptive Aunt, who was still a Sister in Daughters of St Paul at the Vatican ordered me that, ‘ I must let John inside my Fleet Street world (‘it’ll allow you to concentrate more on book writing – just do it.)’ did I find myself introducing John Boyall into Fleet Street.
Thus Fleet Street then met phone hacking.
I had no idea of cyber-crime – or that John was Master of it.
John met up with Greg Miskiw and then Greg dumped me.
Greg and Phil Hall childishly adored all the illegality John Boyall had got from his MI6 bosses and all he had to offer and dumped me like a hot potato.
I had whet their appetite for spying – yet they hated it they had to depend on a flake like me.

by Cornel Lucas, glossy bromide print, 1950s
I couldn’t work out John Boyall when I found out – he literally had millions – property in Aspen and a trophy wife – why risk prison for carrying out illegality for stupid people?
Idiots Greg and Phil soon wanted to drop John Boyall because he charged six grand per hack.
They decided in typical ‘newspaper hates private eyes’ style to steal his office boy called ‘Glyn’ that John had trained to hack and steal data.
Green office boy ‘Mulcaire’ worked for them for 20 pounds per hack. Since Boyall had been working for The Sunday Mirror on my coat tails – they made Mulcaire go under contract to not work for Tina Weaver.
John had no idea, but he was livid and they owed him 200k.
Greg Miskiw refused to pay up – playing the hard chore, petty villain; yet he was well out of his league.
John then blackmailed the new editor, Andy Coulson for his 200k.
He said to David Cameron’s right hand man, ‘I think you’ll pay me or you’ll find that I’ll inform all the politicians and celebrities you hired me to hack.’
They paid up, but John was still bruised and angry.
Over lunch with me, Greg Miskiw stupidly spoke to a man called Glyn non-stop.
Later on, I inadvertently told John.
We were fuck buddies.
‘Hey, you know after The News of the World dropped me for you – I think they dropped you for a man called Glyn.’
John shot up in bed.
‘I don’t think they quite know who I am.’
He had recognised the name immediately. His office boy. Greg had stolen him to get work cheaper.
Ex orphan boy John wasn’t a man to cross – I even suspected he had his enemies murdered; he hung out and worked with 14th Int and MI6 and top cops. I don’t suppose it was hard for him to destroy the News of The World.
Greg was lucky; in revenge John grassed them all up to the cops. The News of The World closed down. Greg and Glyn went to prison and Greg got the shit beaten out of him in his cell, which I suspected was John’s personal touch.
No one mentioned John Boyall in the world-wide expose of the phone hacking. Not even the man who called me ‘York’ in his book Hack Attack’ – The Guardian’s, Nick Davies.
John Boyall was a ghost, other men feared him. Treasured by top cops and MI6’s commercial arm in Mayfair and Shepherd’s Market.
James Hanning from The Independent who has written about me in his book,’ The News Machine’ told me – I can’t write about John Boyall no one can, he’s rich as Croesus and he will destroy us all.
Safe in his 8 million pounds mansion in Sussex where the boys of Operation Weeting couldn’t even get inside his gates.
Hacked Off never requested his invoices.
George Clooney paid The Guardian’s investigative top man, Nick Davies so much money that he retired.
I wondered how could George do a movie of a book where John Boyall was left out of the story (like he had been in Nick’s book.)
The movie was never made – Davies just got his pay off to keep quiet that MI6 was the ones who bought in phone hacking.
It wasn’t a victory for the public; it was a set-up, so the papers no longer did any exposes on human trafficking and paedophiles. The UK was rife with paedos in high places like Ted Heath; but no one ever got nicked for it.
Newspapers shit themselves after the phone hacking scandal that they might end up beaten up in a cell like Greg – the State now had full control of Mainstream Media and it was now all PR stories.
Hungry young bucks entering Fleet Street from University who would usually get experience working as investigative hacks, then become feisty young editors bucking the system – or go off freelancing like John Pilger, kicking down closed doors, would now no longer get any training or valuable experience like I had.
Old style investigations and exposes died with the phone hacking.
*
I gave birth to a child whom I called, Arthur Charles Jay.
I discovered that being an ex-journalist meant nothing to the rich, stay at home wives in London’s suburbia. My son was left out by the rich Stepford wives in the village because I was a single Mother.
The rich corporate wives loved their 3 million pound mansions in West London and their 4 x 4s and coffee mornings. They also hated children.
Their own were farmed out on non stop play dates. If you were not part of their hive your kids got hurt by them.
We lived in rented and I was unemployed – my kid was lined up to get hurt by them.
All the parties – all the treats and trips in the area run by the Mothers, the women made sure my little boy was left out.
My little boy howled as he watched the other kids in his class go snaking hand in hand off to a balloon party he was intentionally left out of.
Pain made my son kinder hearted. He vowed when he grew up to build free housing for Mothers and kids who didn’t have men to support them. He vowed that in the community housing he would have amazing parties and no one would be left out of these parties, ‘….not rich, nor poor, nor married or unmarried, because I know how much it hurts to be left out of happy occasions,’ he told me.
Workwise I was stuffed. I was smeared with phone hacking, even though I had no idea even how to do it or that John Boyall was likely to do such a thing – so I was unemployable. I couldn’t support my son – that destroyed me.
I couldn’t go back to spying – because they knew I was a journalist who would report back on any illegalities they were up to at their agencies. The press were terrified of me as I used to be a private ye and even thought I was only at the start of my career on Fleet Street they were scared of my links to John Boyall.
I spent my time working on a book about my life with the exMI6 agencies and then secrets of Fleet Street – publishers rejected it and told me Nick Davies has written all about the phone hacking and ‘sorry but the public have had enough of it.’
I was applying for jobs on store check outs at Tesco and not getting them because EU immigrants were getting them and they were younger and fitter.
I was absolutely terrified.
I became scared, depressed and feared my son would suffer at food banks.
I tried to find work – I appeared on GMTV to talk about bullying in schools – I was still doing various appearances as a hack on BBC radio and Ch 4 to talk about the nature of evil – plus BBC World Service but this was all for free and helped nothing least of all paying rent and feeding us.

None of it paid anything, so I was starving in a garret with my little boy when I finally, after years of writing managed to get published. It was a non fic, journalistic book through Hodder and Stoughton on my rise to Fleet Street from the squalor of a kid’s home.
‘Searching for Daddy’ inspired people, so they said – reading it was like having a good friend. It made me proud I’d helped others who had been sexually or violently abused in childhood. I was listed as a Sunday Times Best selling author when it got to 15 in the charts and number 3 in WH Smith charts.

I felt proud I had acheived something.

Peter Allen meanwhile recommended me to The Sun and I began to work for them.
The Sun editors suddenly became curious about my knowledge of The Priory.
I fobbed them off by regurgitating info they’d told me.
I enjoyed the good stuff from The Sun and worked for them as a reporter assisting those like Andy Parry, Chris Pharos and Guy Patrick.
This went on until in 2009 one of their reporters did a bad scam on Heather Mills.
Nick Parker – thier chief reporter – threw me a dummy phone to lie to Heather.
Nick had carried out a really crass, nonsense investigation. He did this because he wasn’t me.
Heather screamed at me for half an hour how she was treated like Yoko by the press.
I tried to calm Heather down. Fleet Street’s men hated her because of her strength and delighted in trying to degrade her. Nick referred to her as ‘the silly slut.’

I was sacked out of the blue after six and a half years of helping The Sun get front pages.
The Daily Mail let go of me at the same time because Nick told them to be wary of me as I had been a private investigator and they were untouchables in Fleet Street.
John Boyall who was scared of me talking out about him to the cops who were sniffing around re the crime at The News of The World – introduced me to one of his very rich ex MI6 chums.

I got work for a while spying in nuclear plants for KCS Ltd the ex MI6 firm I was working for in Knightsbridge and Stuart Poole-Robb. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement to never talk about what I did for him.
Every task held a risk of being murdered. In the end refuse the jobs because I had my son to keep alive for.
I was still unmarried.
I waited patiently for J – believing the psychic because everything else he had told me had come true.
Meanwhile I had no savings – so I began to feel the skids underneath us again.
I couldn’t sleep at night. I was so afraid of life in poverty with no home in middle age. I feared most for my beautiful little boy, Arthur, who was my whole life.
Trees shed their leaves in a flurry of Autumn 2012 as I sat mid publication tour on my second book I had worked really hard writing which was published by Transworld in a quaint little English book shop in London book signing, ‘In for The Kill.’
I had worked for three years researching the book with cops and I was drained, bringing up a child alone and working ten hour days wasn’t a great mix.
Transworld hadn’t given me any advance, so I was hoping this second published book would sell.
Hollywood via Jane Campion’s sister, Anna, told me that she wanted to direct a movie of my life and later on another Producer came along and that had hit the Sunday Mirror with Sienna Miller set to play me.

The story sat online mocking me along with another one in the Indy saying Ian Brady won a court case against the Sunday Express reporting he had sexually abused me.
The Express won. And The Indy had to print a sorry to me and the paper the next day.
Yet the original report was still online.
There was no movie, Miramax told campion that my abuse was too depressing.
All my work was for nothing – the book wasn’t selling as noone knew it was out there. Mainstream ran up a bill of 6k to legal the book and told me I owed them it.
I was broke and I had worked for nothing.
I had also spent all the money I earned off the first book as I wrote.
The gamble had not paid off – I hated myself.
The hate for myself was palpable. I saw how other women had done it right – got husbands and made sure their kids were secure in houses. I had screwed up. I had picked a man who had not stood by us and had found another he liked more.
I had tried to make us money though writing and I had failed failed failed. I hated myself for my choices. I hated myself for not being like other women for having big ideas that had come to nothing, when every other woman had got steady jobs and partners and owned homes and I had zero – I was like a newly arrived refugee.
My attempt to get us a house through my writing had failed and I cursed myself for failing my son.
I told myself – ‘you’re a fuck up, you can’t do anything right – you’re an absolute arsehole.’
I tried to do book signings, to push the book myself.
It was fruitless, the book shops were alway empty.
The years I’d worked so hard on it meant nothing.
I looked up and suddenly noticed that there was a dark haired stranger in the London book store where I was signing copies of my second published book, In for the Kill.
She shoved a copy of my book under my nose.
I picked up my pen to sign.
‘Your name?’
I was surprised by her accent, New York, American, secondly by her words.
‘Christine, I’m here to tell you that your life story isnt a journalist’s story. You’re a Mind Controlled Monarch Slave.’

‘What – what – pardon?’ I wanted to laugh. But I gathered that she was a nut so I thought it best not to insult her.
‘You’re a spy.’
‘Not anymore I’m not.’
She went on. ‘Secret jobs – ones where you thought you were being a journalist – you were spying and times when you bought in bad shadowy people to newspapers, was a mission.’
I grinned at her. ‘You’ve decided that have you after reading my book?’
‘Yes and I flew miles across an ocean to tell you this. You don’t know do you?’
I put down my pen.
I felt she was a crazy and I was an open target.
‘You’re a meticulously produced, costly asset of the Roman Catholic Church. The ‘You’ sitting here in front of me is merely a front for the spy part. She is inside you. An alter. She can only be triggered by your owners using codewords. youre a real life Manchurian Candidate. Can you feel your alter ….. the spy? ‘

‘Pardon?’
I signed my book for her.
‘You don’t believe me?’ She went on insistently. ‘You do know The Priory is a Programming Centre? You go for your top ups. Its where they send Hollywood mind-controlled slaves for their top up programming, it’s the sister of the Tavistock where Dr Green works.’

‘Dr Green? It’s Dr Collins who runs The Priory’
I handed her back my book with my signature.
‘Human trafficking. Not madness. And yes, I flew here. Why? Because it happened to me. I knew that once I told you, you’d shout this evil from the darn rooftops. So, I flew here, even though I’ve varicose veins and I’m 82 years old.’
She was confident, yet she had to be mad.
‘I know you think I’m crazy, but I’ve read your book, I’ve seen the invisible puppet strings.’ She shook her head. ‘Ever seen Long Kiss Goodnight – well they are telling the sotry of a Monarch Slave. Only trouble is you keep swapping in when she’s there – screwing it up for her cos you’re scared shitless of the nasties you’re spying on and who wouldn’t be – they’re the most dangerous men on the planet. It’s why they wanted you to spy on ISIS. They dont care if you end up beheaded – you’re getting old; soon you won’t be able to do this, then you’ll be no use to them. Then they leave you in poverty. they engineer poverty for you – so your low status means noone will ever believe your story if you ever work it all out.’’
I felt dizzy, yet wanted to laugh. She had to be a crank yet she was handing me a gold plated excuse for my poverty and screw ups. I was a secret mind controlled slave who had been controlled into mediocrity. It was brilliant.

She raised her voice above the din of the shop.
‘…. the best spy the English can make is a spy who doesn’t know she’s a spy. They also harvested your heart; so, you can’t love – they broke your trust in the orphanage with torture and violence. Unrestricted lab rats to experiment on – kids noone wants in Catholic orphanages. Free guinea pigs. the programs they run use Alice In Wonderland and other occult books.’
‘I would know if this was true…. I’d know it.’ I thought of Bishop Phillip Harvey who was a father to me in the kids home – he had received an OBE.

She grinned. ‘She earned you your rich flat and your fancy car. Come on… you’ve not even a college education. How could you possibly work on Fleet Street? 100k a year you earned, it’s not your skills you’re using.’

‘…. I did sense something had gone on in that orphanage, but this sounds crazy.’
Anna burst out. ‘You’re their slave; branded like livestock.’
‘I’m sorry – but I don’t believe any of this.’ I told her calmly.
She shook her head. ‘Male children are used for wet work and CIA clean ups. Serial killers – all programmed experiments – fine tuning using unwanted kids long term in hospitals and borstals. Girls, like us, for spies or to carry out mule work; the very beautiful are called Presidential Models and used for …. well, they’re passed around.’

She collapsed herself down next to me and seeing her face close up I could see she had once been fine-looking, an American girl. She looked shattered.
‘I’m Anna – I’m German by descent; Aryan, best victims for the secret Mind Control Programs because of our genetics, as are the Irish – two pure bloodlines they want to wipe out – but that’s all going on right no flooding countries with other blood so it mixes and eventually doesn’t exist. All you have to know right now is that your front alter doesn’t know about the spy part.’
I bit my lip.
‘I think I know what you mean – I called her Catherine.’

‘You see life through a dark lens, so, you easily give way to Catherine. Black Magick ritualistic violence on you sealed the Program into place. Mother was your witch handler; part of the cult of the Roman Catholic Church. The rituals they use to create a Mind Control Slave’s called Moonchild. Moonchild created by Aleister Crowley. When your Masters trigger you to click your red shoes, you morph into her….. she feels powerful – she’s powerful and gifted …….then you chase the White Rabbit. He is your handler, who controls you on missions. Slaves of the Vatican who collect information when men make love to them –whose information destroys their marks.’
‘Men what -!’
Anna told me her weird shit.
‘White Rabbit comes to you in dreams, suggests what you do, you then act out his commands in real life. It was you who told them about the terrorist’s hideaway. You know because you found it after he went to sleep. Liam Campbell trusted you – he looked deep into your eyes as you made love and because you didn’t know you were spying on him – he saw only your desire for sex. Clever?’
My desire for sex……I have no desire.
I had it strongly for Liam Campbell – not me – her.
She had emerged.
My book on the Real IRA also never got written – there was no book.
I stared at her. ‘…. It all sounds psychotic.’
She ignored me.
‘The security services are about 50 years ahead of us mere mortals.’ Anna grinned again.
I stood up – I had heard enough.
I wanted to dismiss her as a crank; but – suddenly I recalled a really hot day in the summer in South Armagh and I was working as a reporter for The Sunday Times .
I remembered lying with Real IRA leader, Liam in the wilds of a glen in Ireland. We sunbathed by a river. I suddenly stood up and began to shake and cry.
He lost his temper and shouted – ‘You’re like two different people. I’m growing sick to death of this shit. One’s scared and crazy.’ He pointed at me. ‘Look at you now, sobbing and shaking. It’s like you don’t even know me. The other one, I love – she’s exciting – she’s so sexy devil may care and a she’s a wild cat in my bed and y’ know this – I’m so into her.’
I knew he meant Catherine – not me. I had called her Catherine. I had called her that because of her power- she reminded me of the Sharon Stone character in Basic Instinct. She held men in the palm of her hand, via sex. Her sex was wild and insatiable.
Then there was me – I was a dull little mouse and I hated sex.

I assumed that what I nicknamed – ‘Catherine’ was a strong part of me.

Christine Hart Author – wearing hat

It was like having ‘on and off’ amnesia. Waking up to someone else’s life and yet it was your own life – a terribly dangerous life. This stranger knew all about Catherine.
Perhaps listening to the American, Anna that freezing cold winter’s day in the London book shop – was my fatal mistake.
I searched online like a hypochondriac.
I GOOGLED Monarch Mind Control.

The writers, mostly American believed that the Deep State created puppets; Frankenstein monsters who shot up schools and committed serial murder for experiments and to repeal gun laws. Prettiest girls like Cathy O’Brien were used as spies or agent provocateurs and had ‘genie in a bottle’ style, alter, sexualised personalities.
I read on.
The Yanks believed that this evil was known as ‘Human Trafficking’ – shattered traumatized girls and boys from care homes, vulnerable minds honeycombed and then hypnotized with themes of occult books containing triggers.They used kids who were long term in hospitals, borstals or children’s homes – they preferred unwanted bastards they could get at – to experiment on. They hypnotized the kids after splitting them and inserted storybook themes; a favourite was Alice.
I was horrified by this Alice in Wonderland macabre; especially as it was my favourite book. It was so hard to believe it, yet suddenly my odd ‘winner/loser’ life began to make an odd kind of sense.

But – if I was under control by something outside of myself – then they could jerk me at any moment? I was relieved to hear a man called James Casbolt who made You Tube videos about life in a Catholic orphanage in Canada and calling us ‘Super Soldiers.’ He said the Program broke down at age 40 and then the victims would usually end up poor.
I swallowed hard – I fit the bill for that too.
I had a strange reaction as I listened to James Casbolt – a pressure on my brown in the middle of my eyes – and I suddenly was in the body of a Nazi serving in Treblinka Concentration Camp as a young man. The man was me – in a previous life. I had many recalls of this life as a Nazi soldier. I had been stationed at Welwesberg Castle and part of a group trying to create a portal in the halls of the castle to call down the fallen angelic.
Feeling scared and insomniac, I talked to Doctor, Mark Collins at The Priory about my past life recall when I went to have my hypnosis sessions. I was having more and more bad dreams about a man torturing us who was a Nazi Doctor.

I told him all about Anna and how I was researching this secret Mind Control. How my mixed-up life of ‘psychic urges’ – finally made sense to me.
Dr Collins was confident it was nonsense.
‘Do you feel that believing you are a vicitm of this Monarch Mind Control will absolve you of all your failures? Failures of no marriage or no friends? You’ve nothing wrong except low self-esteem – now you’ve found this – and you hope it means that there is something wrong. Your son was left out by the rich wives in your village because you weren’t married – end of. You should find a man – join in – enjoy your body.’
I swallowed hard. I was waiting. I was saving myself for J.
I left The Priory feeling a little sick and sad. So! I was just a dumb failure and a struggling single Mother fuck up.

I was so grateful for my beautiful child, yet I had not provided a stable home, just rentals. I vowed to forget the woo woo nonsense and work on earning money to get my son a permanent home and holidays like other kids.
We hadn’t afforded one in years.
I joined match.com to find a man; a father for my son. Yet my heart wasn’t in it. I yearned for a real love – the one the psychic had told me had the initial J in his name.
I yearned for this mystery J. A man who would understand all of my life messes.
J would see good in me even though I had failed at life and was a screw up. A man who would clean out my heart and bring me out of the numbness I existed inside and end my loneliness. A love like Keira Knightley had (Atonement) in the library in that green dress and the frosty diamonds.
It was 2012 and a balmy August evening. I just put my son to bed and read to him. Back downstairs I poured a gin and tonic. I sat on my settee surfing TV bored and a bit lonely.
I came across a documentary about a very infamous American serial killer called the Hillside Strangler.
I yawned and went to flick past; I had had enough of serial killers. I sipped my gin – something about his voice made me stop – I heard something familiar in it as he boasted about his vile murders. They said that Ken Bianchi had an alter called Steve who had killed the 13 girls.

My ears pricked up; here was this ‘alter’ thing again.
Strangler, Kenneth Bianchi grew up in a Catholic adoption home and then went on to join the Vatican in a priest’s seminary. Like me, he spent a long time in hospitals as a foster child.
I turned up the TV.
Bianchi stood belligerently boasting, but not as blue-eyed Ken, as inky eyed Steve his wicked alter.
He spat – ‘I killed this one – er yeah – this one, Ange killed this one, I did this broad – this broad I don’t know – this one he killed, this one I don’t know, this one he did – this one I did.’
I heard something familiar in the obscene boasting about torturing and murdering. I heard the same energy pattern in his voice as the Nazi personality I had heard Ian Brady talk in.
I felt I was listening to the ‘The Nazi.’
I had heard the same energy inside Brady.
I wrote to Bianchi and he replied immediately, despite Hugh Burnett telling me he would never reply to anyone’s letters.
After exchanging letters with Kenneth Bianchi from his prison in America, I managed to get a commission from Merope Mills at The Guardian to go jump on a plane to interview the American serial killer in person.
I was meeting Bianchi on Feb 14th as there werent any other days free that month. Merope wanted to call the piece – Valentine’s Day with The Hillside Strangler.
I should have sensed set up all along.
Despite me being commissioned by Merope – she put my piece in on ‘Readers Experience (I’m not a reader) leaving out the fact I went to see Bianchi as a journalist and she had commissioned me. (I still have the contract) yet she called the piece one of her hacks chopped up crudely – ‘Woman Befriends Serial Killer.’

I flew thousands of miles into the mountainside prison of Walla Walla in USA to look into the eyes of the Hillside Strangler, Kenneth Alessio Bianchi in the Indian town, Walla Walla, in the mountains near Seattle.

I sat with serial killer number two, a man who had murdered 13 girls.
I tried not to feel afraid as I watched his pale blue eyes morph into black ink drops pooling into them as he switched alters.
Blue-eyed Ken was just an average guy.
But the inky eyed one. He was laughing at me.
I could feel the Nazi personality inside him, just as I had done inside Ian Brady and I felt as if he was going to leap up and stick a needle in my cheek to minister electric shock.
After 16 hours and two days spent in his company – I stood up to leave for the last time.
I realised that he was leaning in to hug me.
‘I like you, Chris,’ he whispered drawing back, ‘…but let’s see how it goes with us – ok.’ He said as he stood back.
‘But I don’t like you in that way.’
My head became lighter, something lurched forward forcing her body against his…. She was hungry for the inky eyed one. She pushed and pulled at his shirt.
Suddenly his ink black eyes returned to blue.
I felt repelled and pulled back.
He pulled back. He had switched too and was curious about my other part.
‘What the hell are you doing? I’m in prison. Don’t you like nice things, Chris? Don’t you feel you deserve them? What the hell are you doing in a prison with me?’
‘I’m a journalist.
‘You’re not here for that.’
Blue eyed, Ken leaned forward; then he looked intensely into my eyes ……… ‘whats up with you?’
I swallowed hard. I knew he knew about parts – about alters – about not knowing who the hell you were or why you did the things that you did and ended up in prison or in the bed of a dangerous stranger.
A black-eyed girl inside me twisted in his searchlight.

He spoke softly. ‘I see you – you in there – come out – I’m going to call her Minerva – let her be birthed by me.’
He held me tight and whispered kind things. As he did I felt her ice thaw in his warmth. It cracked painfully inside of me and it hurt so much.
Deep black oil like pain suddenly flooded me. Catherine was so hard, so fucked up and lonely. She was trapped. Born of lashes with a stick – created of the breath of a daemon in the hidden parts of the Roman Catholic Church.
He had cracked her prison open and the light of reality was burning and hurting.
Outside the prison, I slumped in the hired car and I sobbed – I saw how twisted my life was – how lost I was.
For the first time in my life I truly got down on my knees and I prayed.
I prayed and I called on Jesus.

At Christmas, 2017, a year after I ceased all communication with Bianchi and after I’d published In for The Kill. Kenneth Bianchi, the Hillside Strangler sent me a photograph of himself in his cell.
It had inky eyes.
I was tired that day and I fell asleep holding it. I dreamed I was in Germany with my loving older brother – my 12-year-old brother Jack whom I absolutely adored. An evil Nazi Doctor kept us imprisoned, even though we were children. He experimented on us with needles and bleach and gas – so much daily infliction of torture and pain.
We both ran off in the snow and died in the freezing ice rather go back and be tortured again by the Nazi. We walked into the light – where we were separated. I shouted to him that I would search through time to find him and I would never ever give up searching for my Jack, my cherished brother.

I woke up and looked straight into the inky eyes of the man in the picture. I don’t know how I knew…. I just felt it.
Kenneth Bianchi was ‘Jack’ …who had once been my brother in a previous life. Jack, who I had searched for inside this one, yet not known it. He had been split into parts in the Programs and now the real part of him had been programmed as a serial killer.
I was lucky that Bianchi had affected me so much when I visited him. Yes, Jack had bashed down my walls and pulled out the real.
J had kissed me awake out of my living sleep.
J had broken the evil spell over me that kept me hidden underneath glass.
And I had been waiting for J to heal me, just like the psychic said he would all those years ago.
If one believes that more things happen in heaven and earth than mere man is aware of; then one could believe that this man in cell 3 for the rest of his life – had somehow healed me and he was J.
Some Christians online met up with me.
On a special day in 2017 they baptized me in the freezing cold sea in Brighton.
I plunged right under the sea.
With the salty taste of sea water in my mouth – I cried so much my salt tears mixing with the salt of the sea.
They say that when Jesus comes into a cold heart he breaks down all the splits – he reclaims his own and he calls his lost children back home.

I knew I had a platform – my writing and my radio show- I wanted to give something back to humanity and I wondered what gifts I had.
First I wanted to expose the Vatican for long being infiltrated by Satan.
*
A guest on my radio show was expert on Monarch Mind Control, Fritz Springmeier. Author of a book – Bloodlines of The Illuminati. We became good friends.
Fritz told me on air that leading Nazi, Dr. Josef Mengele known as the ‘Doktor Death’ masterminded human trafficking in the Monarch Kontrolle Programs. He had specialised in MK Ultra using blue eyed, blonde twins to try to create a master race. He had also overseen Lebensborn – manufacturing blue eyed blondes in orphanages.
I thought of my orphanage – the girl and man they threw up as my parents had dark colouring, yet mine was Aryan.
Josef Mengele, died in 1979.

Doktor Mengele was Daddy of the Programs. He had, according to expert, Fritz Sprimgmeir pushed his own essence inside the Program to make himself immortal.
The occultist Nazis wanted to be immortal. CIA and MI6 had taken the work by the Nazis and in Project Paperclip even taken those same men and given them a place inside the CIA. Some believed Mengele now called himself Dr Green.
I had seen him hiding just inside Ian Brady’s vacant eyes on the book cover as a child. I had smelt his handiwork in the horrific aftermath of the Omagh bomb. I had seen him crouching inside the serial strangler and torturer Kenneth Alessio Bianchi
*
Victims came forward for me to interview. Fritz wrote that I was like Candy Jones, a CIA doll asset spy exposed in the 70’s. It was exciting for a while – but there were lots of frauds claiming to be mind controlled.
It was a freak show.
I decided to just plain shut up about it. After all Anna had warned me to do just that – ‘you’ll be killed – but if you want to be killed… just shout it from the rooftops and you’ll die or end up in prison for years and years, like James Casbolt who was serving twelve years for nothing.’
I felt I must protect my son, first off – so I shut down all mention of MK and dropped the radio show.
I began to notice something sinister… it was all far too late. I had rattled cages.
A famous Professor who lectured on journalism called Professor Brian Cathcart was announcing online that I was a ‘data thief and should be thrown into prison.’

Brian is on the left in the above picture with comedian Steve Coogan and Nick Clegg MP and since he does not know me and I have not been convicted of a crime.
*
Hugh Grants lackey – Scouser, henchman – Graham Johnston began to ring me and throw money at me and take me out on dates to a cosy French restaurant in Kew and often MP Evan Harris would come along to eat with us and my little boy Arthur.
Evan warned me over the lemon tart that my life could become ‘very stressful’ if I didn’t co-operate to help Lily and the other victims. (Lily Allen who claimed I had spied on her)
Graham, fresh out of prison was throwing me Max Mosley and Hugh Grant’s money.
Graham promised me Hollywood would take my story of what happened to me at the hands of the Vatican.
Graham told me Hugh Grant had now spoken to Charlize Theiron who had read my book and wanted to play me.
Why did I listen?
I was hanging out with Anne Hardy – Tom Hardy’s Mother and Tom Hardy was close to Charlize. Anne had passed him my book. I wanted it all to fit.
Yet if you have decided to fight for the good side – you will mostly encounter pain and poverty.
Hacked Off rented a home for me with Hugh Grants money for 2500 a month.
Our new home was lush; it had wood ceilings with a fan and even a name – The Boathouse. We had a boat parked out in the river.
My son and I feared the isolation a bit – there was no one for miles, but there were swans and Arthur sat each day and fed and talked to them. We both felt taken care of by men and happy. But it was a fool’s paradise. We were being fattened for the kill.
I was scared it was such a dark part of the countryside and we had no neighbours, yet they had been so nice to us we felt safe and taken care of.
Little Arthur loved it so much because it was a long way to his school and he felt excited about the boat and the animals. It was only night times and its isolation scared us both.
We bought birds and watched the Red Kites who would swoop in the trees opposite.
The remote country house was the best home we had ever had.
I was very grateful to Graham Johnson and Hacked Off for saving us from the streets and my unemployment.
Three weeks after we moved in, we were leaving for the school run at 6.30am and I couldn’t shut the front door.
Later that night I searched for my lap top. It was gone. I looked and found my other computers all missing. One computer belonged to my ex and it was gone. All my cameras were missing. Graham told me to buy a new lap top with money he gave me and that was disappeared too.
I dialled 999.
CID showed me how the thieves got in – the door had been professionally broken into. They took none of my few bits of gold from my days of working, even though they were laid out just to pick up – they just wanted all my computers and cameras.
Graham joked, ‘…lucky you and your son weren’t beaten up – just think about that and move on. It was only drunken scallies.’ (on tape)
‘Move on?’
‘Yes, move on. ’
My little boy couldn’t sleep; he was scared of Graham bursting into his bedroom at midnight.
CID say they had done the burglary at night whilst we were sleeping. The cops said the intruders would have been masked incase we woke and caught them at it.
I had already been threatened I would have kilos of cocaine planted on me by bent cops and arrested if I didn’t go along with them.

I had come across an influential hive and the Hollywood bees were out in full force.

Being called The Devil’s Daughter at 22 had reinforced the knowledge that the press was not to be trusted. I had been exceedingly careful – and I had never done anything illegal that they could turn on me for, let alone data theft.
Yet the Hollywood Cabal was determined to make sure I was discredited as dishonest.
Sir Elton James, Liz Hurley, Heather Mills and others like Lily Allen were queuing up to say I had accessed their private data in The Priory even though the owner said it was impossible.
Geri Halliwell said I spied on her as she had Bluebell. Impossible.
Graham Johnston boasted to me, ‘…you were the Daily Mail’s sole, senior investigator for over decades, probable cause on times they were spied on, it must’ve been you – so they’re coming to prosecute you, even if you didn’t do it. They can come for you and finish you off – put a charge by your name, so you’ll be forever in debt to us– forever known as a thief scumbag – unless you help me destroy Paul Dacre and The Daily Mail. ’
I had recorded him saying this to me in a French restaurant.
According to them I had spied on the great and the golden.
The court case was set to continue at the High Court in October 2018.
I would be lucky if I got a job waiting tables after they had smeared me to suit their agenda and extract millions out of The Sun and The Mail; my old employers. At my expense they hoped to close down both newspapers.
I had talked out about Monarch – this ‘weird occultic, secret thing’ that I barely even believed was true.
So what the hell was going on?

A dark force has long taken over the Media, Banking, Education, Hollywood and all seek to keep us enclosed like animals on a farm.
Make no mistake.
We are at WAR.
This war has raged through layer upon layer of dimension and throughout time.
Despite Jesus coming to save us from this evil – (and being murdered for his trouble) – we still forget who we are – we def forget who they are.
Two types of people – Red pilled or Blue pilled.
Time for the those wishing to continue to sleep must move out of the way and let us…. all rise.

Copyright Christine Joanna Hart – September 2018.

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Do We Blame Liam Neeson?

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Liam Neeson isn’t just any old actor, he has been revered for decades. He is part of the Vanessa Redgrave Dynasty via his marriage to the late Tasha Richardson.

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He first appeared as Blackie in Barbara Taylor Bradford’s, Woman of Substance and was generally respected as a family favourite.
One must ask, was it appropriate to release a ‘story’ of this very private and hateful reaction to a friend’s rape?
As a journalist myself for over two decades with News International, I know that when you are building a relationship with an interviewee you ‘advise’ them if they have said something you think will make them look bad.

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Clemence clearly had no such conscience searching. She had no feeling for Neeson as a human being.
It seems like it was out of the question for her to not include that confession in the ‘story’ as it was too personal and too offensive to black people had it come out.
She took the decision to put it out there and add to it – (as if it wasn’t life wrecking enough) that Liam had also threatened to kill her – even though it was clearly a joke.

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It is also why celebrities loathe journalists.
This isnt a great ‘story’ this is just gossip.
It is just completely out of the question that we journalists behave like human beings?

Although Clemence will have made her name out of this it is at not only the expense of Neeson’s career, but the black community. Trying to get on with their lives did they really need this insult waved in their faces?
It is not ‘news’ neither is it a ‘story.’ it is something Neeson’s should have saved for the psychiatrist’s chair – as it is appalling and also a priest because it is violent and sinful
But it has been compounded by another sin – that of Clemmie M – who in trying to ruthlessly build her career has stamped another person’s into the ground – when she could have said – ‘you know what I’ll leave that out, as it will really offend people. But I know the same of a good shrink you need help for that reaction.’

It is the sin of greedy ambition.
The reason why we are traumatised by this is because it has been inflicted on us.

No one wins except Ms Micallon.

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Excerpt From my Unpublished book.

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Duncan is covered in expensive Dior lavender aftershave.
In the dark street, Duncan automatically opens the door of the sports car that now seems different with the top put up and flashing it’s opulence in moonlight.
We leave lovely Eaton Square.
I settle back into the front.
Duncan starts the car and pulls off with a throaty throb.
Here we go – get ready to be watched by passers by.
I do my best Kardashian pout and imagine us being filmed for a movie.
I glance at myself and my low-cut green dress in the wing mirror.

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The sumptuous scent of the red leather seats makes me feel self-confident and lucky.
Where am I going? What’s going to happen? Jesus – I’m so excited.

My sky-high Jimmy Choo sandals match the low-backed, emerald dress; my shapely legs look polished poking out of the slit, a La Cera Ruffled-end Shawl draped about my shoulders.
We drive out of London and the night seems to swallow us alive.

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Out in the country-side we meander down winding, pitch black country lanes until a final sharp turn and there it is.
As we enter the drive, you can just about see it.
Magnificence.
I cant breathe looking at it.
It was once owned by Jenny Agutter.
Boy she was one lucky bitch.
Cliveden is a 17th-century house built on the Thames by the Duke of Buckingham.
I gasp.

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‘This is the one and only Cliveden House; I’ve seen it in movies about Christine Keeler and John Profumo, about how they met and made love in the outdoor pool; it is a house of political scandal and intrigue.’
‘ – Hitler stayed here so they say.’
Duncan slows down the car.
‘Micheal Jackson too.’
He leans down and kisses my shoulder through my shawl.
“Eden, this place is magical – there are literally secret rooms and we will be going inside them.”

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I turn to him, my eyes shining.
“What do they do in the secret rooms?”
‘Sexual stuff –we dress up, wear masks.’
‘Oh pervy?’
‘You ok.’
‘I hope you won’t want to screw me in these rooms – upset the other guests and get thrown out.’
He looked at me puzzled.
‘I’ll try to contain myself.’
He seems relaxed and happy, but I haven’t quite forgiven him for earlier.
Black-suited butlers leap on us at the door front of Cliveden House.
I clasp on to an outstretched hand. I step out of the car feeling inconceivably special.
Their butler assists me out like a noblewoman.
I glance around; the entrance is lit by sturdy golden cone of fire.

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There are sandstone pillars and a large front door like a resplendent fortress. They are courteously led by butlers into ‘Clivedon House’s’ Great Hall, with its tall stone fireplace.
Inside, a magnificent, roaring fire blazes inside a grate in the centre of the drawing room.
I blink and flush up. High ruddy flames fan out the scent of wood smoke.
Around us drape bright shiny silver suits of armour and faded gold thread tapestries hanging on high-ceilinged walls.
I see a great winding chestnut oak staircase.

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I have seen this powerful and decadent world in movies, but never dreamed of entering it.
I feel out of my league as my sandals click too loudly on the white marble floor. I walk around each room; curiously exploring the immense library and the neat old-fashioned dining room with its high blue ceiling frosted with plaster angels.
“Thank God my clothes and shoes match this place, or I’d feel like shit”.
“That was the general idea behind this afternoon’s trip, Eden, it’s the world you’re just about to enter, you’ve to fit in.” He bows as he passes me a mask.
It is Venetian and it is the mask of a little beaver. He puts his on; it’s a fierce looking lion.
An elegant gentleman in his forties wearing a beige suit slips out of the shadows wearing the mask of a white rabbit.

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Colonel Jack Vexler wears his full American military regalia.
I note the glint of medals on his white uniform.
“Hello Sir”.
“Jack will do, Eden”.
He smiles politely and leads me into the main dining room.
This room is red and lined with leather bound old books.
“Please sit down, let me retrieve you a champagne aperitif and fetch you a menu”.
“Champagne, yes, thank you.”
I feel slightly unreal – he’s being subservient, it is fake.
I sip the frosty champagne aperitif.
His public-school boy accent is pitched deeper than Duncan’s and of course he looks nothing like him, but he is good looking, for a man in his sixties.
His jewel green eyes coil around my body.
I feel stupid wearing a mask but it is a ball night and all around me even the waiters wear masks of animals. Its more than a little creepy.

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Damn posh people!
I acknowledge the Colonel’s power by a direct look back at him – over the champagne glass.
I am suddenly aware: I’m not being me. I think I’m being Dolores whoever that is.

Am I split into many parts? Is this the witch that Duncan warned me about?

The room spins… spinning and spinning and spinning.
Something’s wrong.

His mouth appears closer. His currant-rich cologne heavy with clove saturates my mind. I feel my head spin; my mind throws up weird pictures.
Suddenly I feel the butlers carrying me down many flights of stairs.
I can just see Duncan or is it Duncan?
I can smell cloves.

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I slip down a stem of a tall white lily and at the base of the giant flower there lies an entire world at the base of this long slippery flower stem.

Cushions – cushions made of petals of lilies – so sleepy now.

I glance around me and I can see loads of masked people all watching me – they are naked -so am I. I can hear laughing.
I know for sure it’s Duncan.
All around me the naked bodies are all wearing the mask of a lions.
Wo! – I feel odd.

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Suddenly I am back upstairs and wearing my dress.
I am opposite the Colonel, but in the drawing room.
“My son has brought you here, so I can have a talk with you about your future with me at Argen.”
“My future?” I respond, nervously sipping at a glass of water infront of me to try to straighten up.
“O’ yes”. His deep green eyes fix on mine.
I begin to perspire slightly more and I dab my lips with a napkin.
“I’m all ears, Jack.”
My words come out far more confident than I feel. Duncan sits in silence.
It’s like he’s not here.
His mask is off and he looks pale. Sick.
I notice his Father’s skin . . . how soft it is.
I want to be small so I can slide down its slippery silky.. to another time or place …. I pull my mind out of its weird state.
“What did you do in the military, sir?”
“I like to call it trans-humanism”.
For some reason, I can see a locked heavy oak door in front of my face.
The door has wet blood seeping underneath it.
My heart shutters faster.

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Duncan interrupts.
“Look, many years ago, my father was in the U.S. military and then he was asked to experiment on some high-tech stuff for the NSA”.
“The NSA?”
Duncan looks irritated. “The National Security Agency, Eden; it protects national communications systems, among other things”.
“Oh”.
“My father dealt with what’s known as psy ops – black-bag stuff. Our team of specialists handle certain operations in trouble hotspots around the globe, when the government is unable to handle any of this new stuff”.
“New stuff?”
“ISIS – we’re in trouble . . . the Caliphate is taking over the UK. ISIS stands for Islamic State in Iraq and Syria and is an extremist militant group that rules by Wahhabi/Salafi law”.
“Sorry Duncan, I just don’t read the papers”.
“Well begin to educate yourself, read up on Jihad” .
I feel a ripple of anger – where’s the benevolent dude from this afternoon?
“I read all the Theosophical books you give me…”, I word my rejoinder to sound chic, but then feel momentarily afraid. “Why’d you need a dumbbell like me anyway? I’m sure there are lots of first-degree graduates wanting to work for you”.
I glance around me as I glug at the glass of water and eye the sumptuous red dining room; lined with old books and the candelabras cut shapes into the blue frosted soaring ceilings — Glorious Cliveden – what has this place got to do with the likes of me?

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Jack whispers across the table, a raised hand halting Duncan.
“It has to be you, Eden.”
I feel dazzled by his grin.
“Don’t be ashamed of your class status, ever heard of Eliza Doolittle? A lot of money was invested in you – to get you right – it doesn’t work on everyone – Father Vaughan put in much time and effort.”
“What can Eliza Doolittle possibly do for you?”
Jack stares hard.
“Time travel – read minds”.
I feel as if he knows what the whole-world is up to just in the nucleus of his green perceptive eyes.
‘No one can time travel.’
“We’ve put a lot of time and effort into you”.
“Oddly I don’t remember that time and effort.”
He smiles.
“If I may be so rude to say . . . you wouldn’t”.
Duncan turns to me with a tight little grin.
“We’re more like spies who don’t know they’re spies; it makes us better spies”.
“How can a working-class girl ever become a spy? The Mitford’s of this world are spies — who move in high society.’
Larry dabs at his mouth with a serviette.
The contrast between Cliveden and the dirty hostel makes me willing to indulge their crazy.
They know what they’re doing.
I’ve no choice but to indulge them.
Inside my head runs picture shows:

Father Vaughan scoops a glinting golden goblet down inside a bath.

He is laughing – screaming with laughter over his giant bath of blood which he leans down and drinks from. Victor Vaughan wears a hooded cloak and he turns but it isn’t him, he is a green lizard with metallic scales and hands like claws.
A voice inside my head calls my name, Eden, Eden come on wake up.

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I reach for the water and sip it feeling really ill.
…………….straighten up stupid; you need this job whatever it is . . . they won’t want a nutter who thinks weird shit like Father Vaughan supping blood from a golden bath. Maybe I’m a schizophrenic. If I’m then I’ll need help in life – they’re offering me help – a job – money – even if they are crazy and obsessed with time travel – which is so damn nutty.
I probably need sheltered housing.
“Ok, I’ll do it”. It was just like that – “Ok, I’ll do it”.
I feel relieved after.

The silk mulberry cushions on the giant embroidered sofas feel comfy and soft – a hot fire burns in the fireplace and I feel suddenly very relaxed. The vintage brandy flows and I can still hear the playing of robust piano music from the bar.
Duncan sits back comfortably, “That’s based on Rigoletto, ahhh, my favourite opera — plumbs the depths of nastiness and the bad guy doesn’t get a comeuppance”.
“I thought Rigoletto was a pasta shape, Duncan.”
“Not quite,” he whispers.
He glances over at the Colonel who is reading a copy of The Times he found on a side table. All is redolent with money and an invisible power.
“Baby, focus on the fancy clothes, holidays, glamour and power you’ll have that all women desire.”
‘Don’t diss me that I crave materialism.’
He looks serious. ‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, anything is better than the stink of fish shit and loneliness. As if I’d fit in with the normal people in life after being dumped as a baby.’
‘Shhhhh relax.’
At 1:30 a.m. Jack got up.
‘Thankyou – I enjoyed knowing you – we all did.’
I had an eerie feeling, but I batted it away.

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As he kissed my cheek I could smell my own perfume all over his face.
I stared into the flames after he left wondering about drugs and slipping things into people’s food and drink.
Duncan led me along a winding corridor to the Mountbatten Suite.

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It was a large affluent suite with wood panelling, a massive carved oak bed with a black leather chesterfield settee, a large satellite TV and lots of movies to watch.
“Live here until I can find a cosy apartment for you”. He touches my arm gently as he shows me around the old-fashioned suite. “Hmm, not bad for six hundred a night. Father got it free, of course, you’ll wield that kind of power too – one day when you join The Order”.
‘I don’t join clubs.’
‘You have to at least have 5 million in the bank to join this one.’
’“Well, I guess I’d be rejected.’
‘For now – but let’s be grateful for what you have got.’
‘Yeah a six-hundred-pounds a night suite is some step up from the filthy cockroach ridden hostel”.
“With me by your side you’ll begin to fly really high, ok.”

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Goodbye John Boyall.

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Today I had to see someone about no work.
He was the nicest man.
I had to explain about how we’ve been asked to leave our rented flat.
That’s me and my young son – I’m single.
How weird to be in such a position when I’m so old. I never thought it would happen
Infact at one time I used to dread the idea of living in a house in Hayes when I was this age.
Not being a famous writer.
Now I’d kill for that. (Not literally.)
The work coach asked me what happened. I had to tell him that you happened, John.
I carefully explained how I’d built myself up after years and years – since 16 actually of being an investigator – working for peanuts for others – like you infact. How I’d slowly got clients – literally bits and bobs for years.
Even when I got the papers, a mix of letters and cold calling and meetings – it was years getting little dribbles of work but over time and hard work – I proved my worth.
I built up a good strong business I was proud of.
I even became a journalist. I was doing good investigations – nothing illegal – nothing hurting as well you know I was shot by the press back at age 23.
I stupidly rang you up when I was doing well. Loneliness I suppose. Workaholics don’t have friends and I didn’t.
You took me in a cab back to my flat and started commenting, ‘How can you afford to live around here? It was Shadthames. I felt a cold chill. I knew you were a predator. I knew you’d try everything to find out how I was affording it. Even though you have an 8 million pounds home.
I bought you into my clientele – I knew I didn’t have much choice.
I changed my mind so many times – but in the end Sister Mary Lou got me and you got bought in.
And it wasn’t enough I gave you Greg Miskiw and The News of The World.
You had to hack me and see who else I worked for. You took all my clients that way didn’t you. The Sunday Mirror. Remember. You’ve not doubt forgot, not important enough am I – to remember. I didn’t have a choice – in forgetting you.

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Its kind of despicable to hack a friend for their clients – but I expect someone like you sees it as good business.
All the things you got given – Argen’s client list, his Chelsea council flat and yet you had to take what I had built up for literally years without even a second glance.
I’m guessing you told yourself I didn’t matter or I was a worthless slut. Let me tell you this I didn’t like sleeping with you – I hated it. I just wanted freindship.
That was me paying for company.
What you did – stole my clients and then of course you were that idiotic you couldn’t even keep the clients you stole.
You let your office nerd Glen steal them. You bought in crime that crashed my whole industry.
Out of sheer greed.
You and your two rats that spread all round Fleet Street.

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You’re that obtuse, yet you see yourself as clever, I know that.
Why? You’ve earned only off crime.
I actually used to use my brain to work. I actually didn’t like that side of PI and refused to do it. Why werent you like that?
Why did you find phone hacking and get wet panties for it?
Don’t you think it’s a little scummy?
You enjoyed the scummy side of PI even with your millions that I eschewed even with my nothing.

You with your millions aren’t worth a tinker of me
I’ve nothing, but I’ve so very much more than you
I wouldn’t dream of stealing clients or hacking; it’s a pathetic trick that anyone can tell would get found out. You prat.
Because I built my niche – and it had taken me ten years or more.
When it crashed ten years ago, it wiped me out
I never recovered.

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But you – you were fine in your gated mansion in Peasmarsh next door to Paul Mc Cartney.

What does your spoilt wife Ann who has never worked a day in her life think of that – that she lays around on another woman’s suffering? A single Mother.

I tried to write, but that didn’t sustain me – I was finished.
I lived in pain ever since. It’s been like having an illness
The hate.

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That hate for you – burning me inside like acid.

Not being able to get over the  betrayal by you
Admit to yourself John that you hacked me;  even though you never could to me.
How could you be happy?
The man who got away with creating phone hacking. Even Greg did prison, but you you don’t do anything and you’re the mastermind Mr Big Boots.
With the millions.
Do you know I got tarred with our idiotic brush, John? It was assumed as I’m a PI that I was doing it. Even to this day greedy celebrities accuse me and I don’t even know how you did it, John – you know why I’m not interested. As it’s the most pathetic shower of shit silly worthless criminal blag you ever dreamed up John and destined to end up in the nick
Oh, but you didn’t do you – just Greg and Andy Coulson.

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You’ll get your karma I know enough about spirituality to know that
Tonight, I want to let go of the hate that I have carried for you for the last ten years.
I have a lot to give others to help others.
I can go out there and help them and earn money out of it.
Clive Godman used to call my skills – brainy real skills – the ‘Christine Hart Magick’
That was what I enjoyed most – sharing my Magick where there was a problem and I could close my eyes and meditate or sleep and wake and know how to solve it – psychic skills.   Clive was correct, but he was brighter than Miskiw.

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My psychic skills that made Daily Mail’s Peter Allen ring me and ask if he could borrow my genius
No one has that gift in the way I do – that gift is mine.
I didn’t much like giving it to journalists to crack stories
I feel that there is a better – kinder use for it
Solving the depression of a teenager who feels suicidal
Knowing about why a pet is not eating.
Sorting out a decision about work or money or love.
Helping someone contact a partner who has died.
I have got the magick – a gift and I know there is a better place for it than Fleet street.

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Yes, I miss the utter power of working with Rebekah Brooks and Andy Coulson and Liam Clarke at The Sunday Times  – I climbed very very high and I was very valued and renowned.
So, I’m going to trust God will show me the way to share my gift to support us, Mr. Multi-Millionaire – John Boyall
That I will be able to house my son and I.
We have known struggle while I wrote and tried to get a book deal as I was already published, but we didn’t,  but I worked until I was blue in the face John, Unlike Anne.

After tonight I’m going to forget you, and idiot Fleet street and the morons who thought your wares were anything but dirty.

You haven’t worked.   Crime isnt work.   Its crime.
What is there for you after death?
You’ve built treasure here but what about death, you’re in your 60’s now.

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Thou shalt not steal
Remember?

I’ll flourish – I’ve been blessed with a gift and I was worried about using it – I’m Catholic and it seemed wrong to be a psychic – but I am going to use it now to help others – with God’s blessing.

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Good bye John.

Id like to say it was nice to know you – but it wasn’t.

It was like meeting Satan.

The Magic of KISSING.

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Romance novels these days seem to just focus on the ball bag, the penis and the raw smelly straight away sex.
When do we ever get to just enjoy that savage bewitching first kiss?
The success of Sex and The City, although we had sexy Samantha pounding away on top of gorgeous looking men.

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We still had Big and Carrie and their sweet romance – the subtle glimpse of Carrie’s black bra – the wet, white post coital sheets- the musky scent of his aftershave inhaled by Carrie off of her skin afterwards…. and oranges eaten in their shared sex bed.

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My first teenage crush was on Mark Lawson. Lawson was lanky, spotty and 15. I watched him from our girls’ school across to the football field of the boy’s school next door. He had dark hair and a long white shirt, he wore pulled out of his trousers. He never liked me back of course – but there were others boys I crushed on, Robin Jones, (hint hint – I know you’re on Facebook)

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That sparkling delicious feeling of having a heater on right under your skin – the heady alive feeling when you set eyes on them – the sweaty jolt of that electric current that tugs you out of the everyday into the magic.
Why does adulthood cut us off from that magic?

Why do we accept a life without it and call it growing up?

Isn’t it really death in life?

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I went to Belfast in my late 30’s and went out clubbing with my best friend’s Mother, Pauline.
Yes, we weren’t young – but we went out to night clubs crushed on boys and kissed in dark corners to the slow dances.
Choosing clothes for each week’s disco was fun. We got ready round at my house the three of us – and we called ourselves – Sex n’ The City of Belfast – but we weren’t having sex.

I felt as if I was sixteen again.

We were out kissing boys.

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I met a boy, kissed him – then everything was lit up. I was amazed that by walking into M and S you could get clothes in the same style in different sizes.
As we get older and settle down with partners, or even get too old to go out and kiss boys.

How do we connect with that Magic?

It is within ourselves?

It exists in everything and in nothing but all I know is – if we aren’t feeling the magick of life – we arent living.

Isn’t it time to put on some good clothes, play some 90s disco music, get tipsy on something insane like Babycham,  go out to a night club and just deeply kiss a complete stranger?

Just like you did when you were sixteen and life held the endless summery possibilities of Magic?

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My Shame at Being Working Class.

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I was first bought to a council house in Hayes after being dumped outside a Catholic Orphanage run by clergy of the Roman Catholic church. How working class can you get.
I was the unwanted product of a 13-year-old school girl with a precocious sexuality and an Irish road mender from Tipperary, she had the hots for. He was 17.

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Being under age, I assumed she was a victim until I spoke to her when I was 41 years old for the very first time, over the phone. She had slept with two road menders, luckily, they were brothers but I’m not sure to this day which of them is my father. I met both. One is a priest and an ex professional fighter – I plumped for that one, Seamus.
‘They were two a penny, the working-class Paddies back then,’ – she boasted – ‘my family didn’t want Irish blood linked to them. Scummy Irish. If you’d been a boy, they’d have kept you – but not a girl – they just wanted to get rid.’

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I hated her – never met her – just to assuage her curiosity – I was dirt according to her – the drippings of what she termed – ‘a working-class Paddy.’
My adopted parents moved into the house her parents owned, a large, cool house full of classy things owned by my military connected grandfather. I become his favourite going everywhere with him. I adored him he was handsome and stood so tall in his army uniform.  He died when I was aged nine.

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My Mother hated me because he chose me to sit on his bed as he took his last breath.
The family was very close to the Vatican – my aunt a sister in the Order of the Daughters of St. Paul. In my youth I had spent many hours at the convent with the clergy and then at 13 was taken to Boston, America to join the Order.

I grew up to be a terrible snob eschewing my working-class background, – first by a grammar school in Pinner attended by the daughters of doctors and lawyers, then by a white-collar job as an investigator and later a reporter.
I bought a matching house near to my grandparents’ house; but it had changed in to an area peopled by working classes and I moved out before my son got to school age to a middle-class area where I stupidly rented.

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I didn’t want my son to have a cockney accent, or to know working class areas.

Now with my career lost through the scandal of phone hacking (I don’t know how and wouldnt have ever of done anything so stupid – but I had introduced a man called John Boyall to the paper and it was Eton educated, Boyall who had bought it in.)
I put my brain to writing and although published my last book hadn’t made anything – then years spent working like a beaver on a novel that I couldn’t find an agent for. I grew bitter. I was a very hard worker.

I felt bitterly that I didn’t deserve to be looking at social housing in my middle age where I might have to live beside people rougher hewn than me.

I stood looking at a high-rise tower in the dark one night – knowing that it might be my future.

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I suddenly realised that I had spent my entre life looking in the direction of the middle classes. Aspiring we called it.
I realised as I stared at the ghastly tower block, I might be put in – that I knew nothing about the working classes -who they were and how they lived.
Because my adoptive parents were working class, I truly knew little about the middle classes – preferring to keep a bit of a distance, because the always scented me out and I could feel it their ‘quiet knowing’ that they had sussed that I wasn’t quite ‘one of them,’ not a blue stocking.
What of the gentle working classes whose unsung bravery was an unheard song?
Their grey existences? Their dependence on books and maybe spirituality to aid them to cope though the uncertainty of life?

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Seamus invited me to come and see him ‘oop North’ and to get to know him.
‘Its rough that area, said my middle class friend Suzy – so I hadn’t gone.

Snobbery meant I had never gotten to know my own Father.

I got news he had died of cancer.

He had wanted to know me – told me with tears in his eyes, how he had thought she was same age as he was –  how their family had shouted at him when he went ot the hospital to see me – ‘Get lost you dirty Paddy, this has nothing to do with you. Get lost or we will have you arrested.’

How had it affected my writing to not be a part of any community? To somehow feel ashamed of who I was deep inside – feeling it as inferior?
I was no Jimmy M c Govern but maybe I should have been, or could be
God steers you in the direction he feels will heal your soul.
It was mine to know the lower echelons of life. To dwell amongst the rougher hewn people, I had seen as beneath me and my grammar school privilege.
People who had never stayed at The Clivedon or read Shelley, who I felt that the very material of their DNA, I deemed as less than mine.

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It would bring me to humility, it would heal my hatred of myself.

It would make me forgive my seedy skanky natural mother for her pitiful snobbery of the Irish.
God knows the ways he wants us to walk.
While we might not agree with them and we might have to be dragged kicking and screaming.
He wants us all back joined as one with Him. For that to happen – we need some painful sanding down of us down of our sinful ego.

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The Gardener.

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I moved twice in a year – once from our long term rented home into the countryside – but it was too far for school.

So, I moved again. It was a flat nearer to my sons’ school, but it was above a shop and I didn’t much like it.

My son was growing older and at 15 past the age of needing me so much – he preferred friends to my company.  I missed how it used to be and I felt sad.

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I had lost my career a long time back and was busy trying to build a business and sell a book I had worked on for years but nothing was going right.

Nothing was working out so I felt sad.
I also felt a pit of ache of loneliness.
My friend Paul knew I was sad and he looked at the scrap of land I had round the side of the flat.

It was miserable though the rents were high.

The flat was inspected every few months which made living in it unlike a home.

Paul knew the colour yellow would lift me up.

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He dug flower beds in the scrap of rough land round the back of the flat.

All through the summer he made the grass green with seeds and cut it with a lawn mower that smelt of petrol.
He worked hard though the summer –finding all kind of yellow flowers.

He planted the yellow flowers in curves in beds in the garden so I could sit and smell them as I sat in the garden.

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He bought the plants from his gardening job – as much yellow as he could  – he said would help me feel happy.

After the school run and on downer days looking at the window, I would see all the yellow and it would make me feel happy.

He had been right.  Life was getting colder and crappier but as soon as I saw the yellow I felt ok.   I had hope.

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In the summer I sat out in my garden and I read books and I felt better as I inhaled mint and rosemary he had put into the garden and an adult swing.

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In January of this year I was told by the owner that he was selling.

Leaving would be hard.  Not to leave this flat.

But to leave all the yellow my friend had planted.

It had lit up my life.

it made me hold on.

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I would take photographs of my garden that he had built for me

I would blow them up and I would never forget my yellow garden that my friend had made for me to stop me from slipping away.

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God Wants us to Sing Elvis.

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I remember when I was twenty, I had a boyfriend called Ray who was excellent at singing Elvis.

Ray was gorgeous – he looked like him, he had a very powerful voice. Ray would hold court in his small bedroom and belt out Elvis greats. He deserved fame but it ended up being his little sister Jess Kidd who got what he so heartily deserved too.
Ray would call me ‘Cilla’ with a lip curl.
I felt like a princess.

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Back in those days the days, we were all about driving down to Cornwall staying in various b and bs and getting drunk on Baileys in country pubs and then sleeping in the car and driving home.

We had an entourage – of course-  just like Elvis – his friends Alan and Jim.

The four of us would sing all the way back home to London.
Driving back into London and my parents’ home in the hot morning sunshine – I’d bunked the day off work and we would all be singing – ‘Get up in the Morning with the rising sun – one more day and closer to the Lord as he drove his battered Capri in the dawning of a new day.

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‘One more day’ – Ray would sing
And we would all echo back. ‘One more Day. ‘

As we passed the 9 to fivers getting the bus into work.

We were drop outs.

But we sure did worship God – in the Gospel songs of Elvis.

Fear wasn’t present in my heart.  Money was for the soulless.

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What had I got back in those early days? ….. that I had somehow lost along the way?

I had found another God – money.
It was when I found work as an investigative reporter for News International and found ambition.

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I wanted to make a name for myself as a somebody.
I made money – I got respect from my peers – but I had lost something else.

My dependence on forming a name only grew – it wasn’t enough to be a reporter I wanted to be known as an author.
After I made this bench mark – then a Sunday Times best-selling author, it wasn’t enough.

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I yearned to be a household name – a Jackie Collins or a Stephen King.

As I walked out of my publishers Hodder and Stoughton after getting a five-figure book deal – I said to my beautiful editor Helen Coyle -as I passed the fiction room full of their horror writer Stephen King – ‘That’s where I want to be, I want to be a novelist – not nonfiction.’
She gave me a look – I think back then look said – ‘aren’t you happy with what you have just achieved – a major book deal for a hardback?’
I was not.

 

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I bought a house, but it wasn’t in a middle-class area – I couldn’t play Queen of Sheba.

I wasn’t grateful – I never thanked God for my lovely safe house I owned.
I hungered for more – not satisfied with my beautiful house I’d covet the mansions in Chiswick beating my breast and comparing about if only I had bought in late 90s, I would own a multi-million pounds Belgravia mansion.
When I befriended Anne Hardy Mother of Hollywood star Tom Hardy. She got me together with her psychic and the psychic told me I’d be successful. She went on – you will only work part time….. somewhere like a University

I said, ‘Hold up – why would I work –  if I was successful?

Anne said to her – ‘She doesn’t just want to be successful – she wants the whole deal – she wants success like my Tom has.’

<> on July 13, 2010 in Los Angeles, California.

 

I didn’t even blush at her statement reader – I just nodded sagely.

So, what was the craving at the bottom of all this activity and why when I looked back to the mornings in Ray’s battered up Capri singing Elvis about God’s rising sun.

Why was I so much happier with nothing?

It was that somewhere along the line I had lost a CONNECTION.

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That girl back then knew JOY.

She knew the letting go and LOVING GOD that only FAITH can engender.

I was bunking of work that morning that we drove back into Hayes after a hangover on Baileys and feeling like shit. I ended up getting sacked from the Detective Agency I was working for – good pay – but I gave not two shits.

I got chucked out of my parents’ home.

I ended up in a dossy Hotel in east London.

But I was just fine.  I was singing Elvis.

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What was it I had – that now I have lost?

I have replaced not caring – and trusting that it will all be Ok because well it just was ok when JOY led you around – like a sparrow flying through the sky – who do not fret or worry where they will feed or nest – they just enjoy to soar.

I had become someone who distrusted God – who went my own way – who walked – not flew  – who walked in my own direction.

 

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But the only adulation  I ever needed was the far superior love off of God – as he watched me live in his light as I soared carelessly across the sky – trusting in Him to support me, to not let me drop

I have become disconnected and discoloured.

I depended on money.

Money and ambition became my God.

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When I was dependent on God – I could soar in the sky – I was held fast by a supernatural source that held me fast – I could soar in the sky and was led to many unexpected finds and adventures.
When I found wealth – I spent my days gloating at my bank account and my published books – congratulating myself on my skills and wealth.  I had no time for God – I wasn’t needy of him.  I did not fly.
God (in his wisdom) lost me my home and my job and I was led into poverty.

He knew just what I needed.

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He was calling me back Home and hoping I would sing some more Elvis.

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My Energy Healing Shop.

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I buy my herbs and oils from the same place as Neal’s Yard.

I have been growing roses in my back garden for the past two years, I was terrified to make Rose essences for my clients without knowing that they were pesticide free.

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I take my own Rose essences myself.

When I have worked out what you need, I will do you a bespoke mix of other flowers also organic, from my garden.

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Poppies are healing for restoring parts of the soul that have been split off.

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Red Rose for a damaged sexuality.

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White Rose for a squashed femininity.

Essential oils have to be mixed to cure addiction, depression and anxiety.  Along with a flower essence – you will be mixed a bespoke essential oil to support the former.

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I reccomend you purchase a mix of herbal tea mix to facilitate both.

 

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