I received several more phone calls from the sultan before his consort rang me. ‘Georgina, it is now time that you hear my voice’ were the words that echoed down the phone line. We chatted for some time and she told me how my predictions had given her great comfort. ‘We would like you to come and holiday with us,’ she said.
‘At the moment we’re very busy with royal duties, but in time we will have you come over and stay.’
One morning I awoke with a premonition that I would soon be travelling to their country. I pulled out my suitcase from under my bed, gave it a good scrub, dried it on the back veranda and waited. With the two eldest children now independent, working and living away from home and my youngest living on the land with his father I found myself in a unique position—totally free to be led where Spirit directed me. I just knew I was going there—the small voice in my head was telling me to be prepared. The very next day, in the wee hours of the morning, the phone call came: ‘Pack your bags—we’re taking you on holidays to the summer palace.’
I left with $150 in my pocket, $50 of my own and $100 my mother had given me. It was a leap of faith that I left with so little to stay with people I’d never met—in another country, of another faith. The initial nine days would eventually extend to a 30-day stay!
The plane was late arriving and I was concerned as a driver was being sent to collect me. In fact, the sultan and his consort had sent their own personal chauffeur, who took my bags from my hand and escorted me to a huge gold Mercedes parked right in front of the international terminus—not in the parking area, but right in front—wow!
Several days later when I became familiar with the driver, I asked why people waved and stared at the car. He explained that the car numberplates, with two gold swords and a crown, signified this was the car the sultan or his consort travelled in.
As we drove to the palace, I had a small giggle to myself. No-one was going to believe me when I get back to Sydney. Pinch yourself, Georgina. My heart was pounding as we approached two large black wrought iron gates bearing the official royal crest in gold. A policeman came forward from a little standalone booth to peer into my side of the car, then he nodded to another policeman, who hit the controls for the official gates to open, allowing the vehicle to move forward into the royal grounds.
The car slowly came to a halt, right in front of a door at the extreme end of the palace. I was to discover later that this was the family’s private entrance, used during the night or on unofficial occasions. I had anticipated a maid would open the door, but in fact, the sultan did!
‘Georgina, you have arrived! Come, come in, rest, and have a drink,’ he said. He was dressed in a very casual colourful silk skirt and slippers that made a shuffling noise as he walked on the highly polished marble floor. His consort, who was stunningly attractive, had dark brown flowing hair to her shoulders and was wearing a very vivid coloured kaftan.
It was a moment in time that was now set—friendships formed that would last a lifetime and, regardless of who we are, the universe speaks to us through signs, through others. To this day, the consort and I email each other nearly every week. We are two women from opposing ranks in society with a common bond—the love of children and family.
Over the following days I holidayed in five palaces in their capital, coastal and regional centres. It was at the main palace while standing on the large royal ceremonial balcony that I asked the sultan: ‘What are those javelin-like devices with flags attached face-down in the lawn?’
He turned to me and said, ‘Why, don’t you know, we’re known as the Land of the Swords. They’re the nine ceremonial swords for the celebrations tomorrow.’
I thought of the visitation of the Asian guide in my dreams six years earlier and what she had told me—that I would be going to the Land of the Swords as there was much work for me to do.
The prophecy had become reality.
Later that evening I shared the vision with the consort. The next morning, as per usual, the sultan and I had breakfast together.
‘Georgina, my wife tells me you have a very special story to tell me about the Land of the Swords. Can you please tell me the significance? This all sounds so fascinating.’ So I rambled on, telling him the whole story, the predictions and to date what had happened.
‘So you are saying it was indicated or prophecised, as you call it, that you would be coming to the Land of the Swords. But how can that be? Are you saying that it would appear there is some plan or knowledge that knows what lies ahead?’
‘Yes, I call it the “Blueprint of the Soul”—it is our birthright,’ I replied. ‘Through premonitions, dreams, prophecies and spirit guides and angels we can be privileged to see glimmers of this path to come. Talking about spirits, did you know that you too have spirits in this palace? I saw two last night in my bedroom wing.’
The colour drained from the sultan’s face, and he put down his coffee cup and looked me straight in the eye. ‘What are you saying?’
I could see now that perhaps I was treading on ground that could be conceived as controversial. So I back-pedalled, saying how
I was excited to be given such a huge wing to sleep in. Then I realised that although his look was rather tense and he wasn’t satisfied with my cover-up, he wanted to know about the spirits, so I told him.
‘Well, I was just getting settled in bed when two spirit children started jumping up and down on my bed. Then they played the game hide-and-go-seek, and were once more jumping on my bed.
They seemed so happy—I must have fallen asleep some time later.’
‘Oh dear, Georgina, I ask that you not tell our children of your experience in that room. You see, that’s the room we put the children in when they come to the palace.’
‘Ah, now I understand, the spirit children were anticipating guests that night as the maid prepared my room. They would have been excited and looking forward to having playmates that evening.
You know, some people say their children have invisible playmates— they chatter away to unseen children while they play with their toys, even calling them names. Parents feel their children have vivid imaginations, when in fact it is not of their imagination, they see further than most.’
I have to say the look on the sultan’s face was not that impressed, more alarmed at learning that he had ghosts or spirits in his family’s palace.
I looked forward to our morning breakfasts together, where we would read the local and international newspapers and have discussions— informal exchanges concerning the unusual world of the supernatural and spiritual kind. One morning, the sultan told me he had a dream the night before, in colour. He said he never dreamt, but since I’d come to stay and live in their palace, he’d started to have vivid dreams. He dreamt that his missing daughter would ring him and say she was coming home. And that she did.
That very morning, the telephone call they had long awaited was received. Tears of joy we all shared. How different from the structural existence the outside world observed of this family.
My return date to Sydney had been changed several times to accommodate special events and receptions the royals were to attend and I had been especially invited to, but I had only packed two evening outfits, not realising that every night was a ‘formal’ event for this family. The sultan’s father, the ruling king, had a very special event planned—The Banquet of Rulers—and an invitation had been extended for me to attend. However, the king had requested that I wear a dress. Hmm, I hadn’t packed any dresses.
A dear friend of the royal family was commissioned to take me shopping for fabric. I chose a most magnificent French fabric— of course I later found out it was the most expensive in the shop—then rushed to a dressmaker, who had to work very long hours to complete the long formal dress and jacket. My arms had to be covered, as it was a strict Muslim dress code for the grand palace function. I was also taken to the royal hairdressers for a posh hairdo.
It was to be a very official and glamorous event. The sultan
and his consort wore traditional attire—I have never seen emeralds as large as those around her neck—they were stunning. Totally gobs-macked, I asked, ‘Are they real?’
In her more than gracious manner, probably silently wondering where on earth they’d found me, she replied: ‘Yes, Georgina, they are not copies.’
It was such a regal and important event in the country’s calendar, I needed my own escort. I had seen this man often around the palace and knew he was a personal bodyguard assigned to the regent. As we drove up the official driveway to the main palace, he placed his palm upright in front of me, indicating he wanted his palm read.
‘I don’t read palms,’ I explained.
‘Well, what do you do? I know you are here to make predictions.’
‘I read handwriting,’ I said, hoping this would silence his request. Then, to my total surprise, he handed me a menu with a sample of his handwriting scribbled across the top of it.
‘Please read my future,’ he said.
I told him I was off duty, here to enjoy a holiday not to work predicting individuals futures, but he insisted.
What could I do? I had to agree.
‘You will not tell anyone what you have told me?’ he said.
‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘This information is between you and me.’ What did strike me was that his handwriting had the most amazing leadership abilities, and I silently thought his talents were wasted as a bodyguard and escort for me that night.
It was an exciting event. What a privilege it was to be invited, they even had me sitting next to two charming princes.
As was the custom for each special night out with the royal family, once back at the palace the consort and I had a cappuccino and excitedly talked about the evening’s events.
‘Did you find your escort helpful tonight, Georgina?’ asked the sultan, smiling.
‘You know, your bodyguard has far more potential than you realise. I think he’s wasted in his position.’
The sultan, who was leaning on his consort’s chair, nearly fell over. ‘Please don’t tell me you gave him a reading Georgina—you did, didn’t you?’
I explained what had happened, and I sensed I was in big trouble and had really done something to break palace rules. I had assured the escort of his privacy and now I was openly discussing his desire for a consultation. But then a huge smile appeared on his face when I got to the part where I had said I was off duty.
‘You actually told him you were off duty?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love it! You know, Georgina, he is the Deputy Police Commissioner.’
I must have lost the colour in my face, but the royals were in fits of laughter. Later the sultan told me, ‘You’re like a breath of fresh air.’
There was one more special event to occur, the eve before I flew back home to Sydney, and that was the sultan’s official birthday party. I wore the same outfit I had worn to the Banquet of Rulers— again it was to be a very formal event. All guests were asked to be seated at their tables waiting for the arrival of the royals and VIPs.
Suddenly the music started playing, and we all had to stand to attention as the dignitaries walked in. The king, queen, sultan and consort were to sit at the large round table in the centre of the room, along with other royals who had flown in for the event. Once they were seated, a ring of security personnel surrounded the table, looking more like waiters than bodyguards. Silence fell on the room, and out of the corner of my eye I could see a woman walking towards the table I was seated at. It was the queen’s lady in waiting. She came up to me, bowed and handed me a long rectangular box covered in the royal wrapping paper. It was yellow, with the crest of the royal family, and a handwritten thank you card.
All eyes were now upon the exchange of gift and words.
‘This is a gift from Her Royal Highness,’ she said. She then turned and went towards the royal table.
I had been told that it was inappropriate to open presents until you were in the privacy of your own home, but I couldn’t wait that long. I carefully undid the paper, exposing a beautiful gold and silver watch with the royal crest on the face and the queen’s name. I did so want to thank the royal couple, and luckily I was sitting next to one of their advisers, so later during the evening he sought permission to take me to their table.
As we approached, I bowed, then touched the king on the shoulder (yes, another big mistake) and said, ‘Okay, which one of us is psychic? I was going to buy a watch at the airport tomorrow!’
He grinned and replied, ‘Psychic lady, you are too funny.’ Even today, each time I return to his country for a visit and our paths cross, he never calls me by my name, always ‘psychic lady’.
As I left their palace, the consort and I held each other and cried.
Two women understanding that no matter what circumstances our birth paths take, ultimately we had one thing in common—we were both mothers who loved our children unconditionally.
My dream had been fulfilled—I had now been given the title ‘Royal Psychic’ by the ruling king—and it was time to return back to the dramas awaiting me in Sydney.
Fighting for what I belived was true
I came home refreshed and with renewed energy to continue with my legal battle over the corruption allegations. The human resources department of where I had worked called one of their regular meetings. It was always the same—would you consider resigning and we’ll give you a reference and you can go and find work elsewhere? But I’d been advised that if I did I’d only be paid up until the time I left, and nothing after that. I didn’t want to resign; I wanted to fight for what I believed was true.
I dreaded these meetings and the unsaid pressures and tension that I’d feel coming from those present. This particular meeting consisted of the human resources manager, a manager from another department, two other staff members and me. The HR manager made a comment: ‘You’re looking so much better than I’ve seen you look for a long time—has something happened?’
‘I’ve just returned from an overseas holiday with a ruling king and queen.’ Well, the body language said it all. Everyone at the table seemed to move backward, as if to say, ‘Oh, dear, she really is mad, gone over the edge, delusional’. Then I proceeded to tell them that I had ample photos to prove where I had been. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I will not be resigning—I’ll be fighting this to the end.’
Ultimately, ‘the end’ saw me winning an out-of-court settlement and the ability to resume my position in management. I declined the offer to return. I had lost faith in the system and the organisational structure. Why would I want to return to an environment that was so hostile?
There was enough in my payout to rent an apartment, which the sultan found for me and was my referee, and to buy basic furnishings and pay outstanding debts I had accrued while off work for such a long period of time. At last I could fulfil a dream of assisting people with my gift as a professional psychic.
I returned to the Land of the Swords as an official guest at the ‘formal wedding’ of the princess. Yes, she had eloped to the country and place I had predicted. The dress code was strict for a Muslim wedding—long sleeves, long dress. I had put a lay-by on a beautiful burgundy outfit, but money was still tight as my court case hadn’t been heard at that stage and my lay-by was overdue by two weeks and about to be put back into stock. I was very stressed, but Mum came to the rescue.
One Saturday morning, she rang to say she had prayed to my deceased father and told him of my situation. She knew within her spirit that she would win the major prize, $500, at bingo at the local RSL club. Would I come? She’d split the prize money with me and I could take out my lay-by. Yes, she did win. The following week she rang and made the same offer—that if she won first prize
I could buy shoes and a handbag to match the outfit. Yes, she won again. My outfit was literally ‘heavenly decreed’.
I met people at the wedding who would become lifelong friends, and made connections that opened doors for me inte
rnationally, with clients and business opportunities in every continent of the world.
6
Welcome to the world of media
Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our soul.
Buddha
When I returned to Australia after visiting the royal family, my story was featured in national women’s magazine New Idea, and I was then offered my own weekly psychic column.
Questions touch and affect not only the readers’ lives, but also those of their families. Many write on behalf of a daughter, son, sister or friend, all seeking a little ray of hope and encouragement to continue on their life’s journey. Others are looking for solace and messages from their departed loved ones—the grief almost jumps off the page as I read the words: ‘I never had the opportunity to say goodbye. Can he ever forgive me for giving permission for the life support to be switched off? There was no choice, the doctors said he would be a vegetable.’ Or ‘If there was a God, why did he allow my baby to fall into the pool and drown? Prove to me there’s a God.’ And, ‘I just can’t go on living this life—why did she have to kill herself? She had everything going for her. Why didn’t she come to me with her problems? Maybe, just maybe, I could have made them go away.’ And more unanswered questions:
‘I didn’t make it to the hospital in time; she was gone before I arrived. Did she know I was trying but was held up in the traffic?’
Sometimes, I feel overwhelmed with this responsibility. How I would love to answer each and every letter and email that comes before me, but I humanly can’t.
I ask that I be directed to letters that not only aid the writer, but others who will also read or hear and find among the words an answer to their burning questions. Some cover such thought-provoking questions as looking for their soul mate, coping with suffering and grief of a dearly departed, and there are those who ponder on or seek confirmation of the afterlife, begging for signs as proof that their loved one is now pain-free. ‘Did they link up with family members on the other side? Are they now my spirit guide, or who is my spirit guide or guardian angel?’ It’s great when I receive confirmation of this very fact—when a letter comes not asking for assistance, but telling me how, when they read a particular answer in the weekly column, it was as though the words spoke to them: ‘I was able to move beyond the standstill, at last I was free.’
Dearly Departed Page 4
