At the Crossroads of Bullshit (Photo credit: Matt Niemi)

Talking to the spirit world has come a long way from the days when we used to set up a Ouija board in my mate’s bedroom and shout ‘whooooo!’ at each other through the darkness. Last night, some friends and I went to see a well-known Spirit Medium ‘On Tour’. I had considered seeing a Medium in the early days after M died, but my innate cynicism always stopped me making the call. But as we fought our way through the crowds and the merchandise to our seats, I’ll confess I was feeling trepidation. Whilst I like to think I have no truck with this sort of nonsense, part of me was thinking…”What if M shows up? And if He does, what’s He going to say about The Plumber?”

The show opened with a televised montage of the work the Medium had done – tearful women, stoic men, Danny Dyer looking bemused – then she came on stage to rousing applause and Belinda Carlisle’s ‘Heaven is a Place on Earth’.

Shortly afterwards, Don was with us. His wobbly-legged family stood up. The Medium got a waft of chips – yes, Don had indeed loved chips. He was right here, on stage, descended especially from that great chip shop in sky to tell them that he loved them and that he was OK. The spirits were lining up after that, battling for supremacy over the Medium’s spook radar. She was fighting them off – ‘Irene, love, I’m coming to you, wait your  turn!’ Baby Daniel took his cue and a couple stood up. Further probing revealed He wasn’t their Baby Daniel after all. No amount of shoehorning of dates and names could make it so. They sat down, distraught.

As the show progressed, I found my trepidation waning. Although the Medium undoubtedly gave hope and comfort to some, I realised M was not going to appear. Certainly not on stage at the Sunderland Empire anyway. Since He died, I have not felt him anywhere, not sensed his presence watching over us. And for me, that is comfort – the thought of Him roaming about an afterlife, alone, (or perhaps with Whitney Houston, who died on the same day), is too much to bear. The thought of Him having gone on to a ‘better place’ is anathema to me: for where could be better for Him to be than here with us?

Having said all that, perhaps my evening was subject to a little divine intervention. Shortly after leaving the theatre, I was dumped by The Plumber via text. M is probably on his cloud, beaming.