Time for a bizarre experience

When I was talking about my sceptical views on psychic ability (or whatever), I think I was half-expecting “something” to happen in the near future.  It just seems to work that way and I have grown to accept it.

Thus, the scepticalometer goes off and somewhere in another dimension, something or other decides it is a good time to give me a prod in the psychic regions - and so I have to think and reconsider a little.

It’s happened already with a most peculiar experience just an hour or two ago.  Part of the new job involves investigating incidents, some of which are rather unpleasant.  One of these landed on my desk yesterday and I was required to try and ascertain whether proper and decent standards of care had been applied to a very elderly lady who had died recently in very sad circumstances.

Mindful of the legal implications, even in this anonymous arena, I can’t be specific, but this poor little soul has died in a way that implies neglect on the part of the people who were caring for her before she came into hospital and would not be the way I would want any human being to leave this life.   No overt brutality, but what seems to be a wanton lack of care towards a frail and vulnerable individual.  It’s not right under any circumstances in what is supposed to be our civilised society.

I was therefore charged with examining the details, to see where the “i’s” had not been dotted and the “t’s” had not been crossed, where systems had failed.

Whilst trawling through the pile of medical paperwork, I became aware of a very strange smell, one I have only ever encountered once before.  It immediately took me back to 1992 when my very elderly grandmother died and I had to help clearing out her flat.  There was a distinctive smell in the place, a sort of age-laden fustiness that I immediately associated with the stubborn nonagenarian who had lived there.

I could smell that same scent here, here in this modern office building.  It permeated my nose to the extent that it is still here faintly as I type.  It wasn’t attached to the medical files, nor me, nor anything else in my office.  Nobody else could smell it - I asked and received blank looks from the rest of the people here.

So, who was it watching over me whilst I searched for the facts?  Was this to make me aware that my Irish grandmother was making sure I did the job right - or was it the lady herself, curious to know whether justice will be done for her after her death?

Who knows, but I get the distinct impression that I have been given a prod.