I am hoping to return to my beloved Tasmania before the end of the year so that I can catch up with all my friends and clients. I miss the island terribly and I am looking forward to settling in Hobart.

In the meantime, I am still doing past life and personal readings and my books are still available.

Contact me by email here.

And also like the rest of us, they have many lessons to learn, such as patience and tolerance, and will have to keep coming back until they get things right.

Most of us are reincarnated with people from our past lives, but not always in the same relationships. For example, our husband, brother or son could previously have been our wife, sister or daughter, and so on.

Either way, we keep coming back to work out problems in our relationships or to pay off karmic debts. We are not forced to come back – we freely chose to do so.

The memories of our past lives are erased when we are reborn, but some things can linger. If you ever take an instant dislike to someone, or feel an instant attraction, then you probably knew that person in a past life.

Reincarnation explains why some people feel a sense of déjà vu when they go somewhere for the first time, or they have an affinity with a certain country or period of history. It also explains how child prodigies such as Mozart can be so remarkably talented at a very young age.

By the way, humans to not reincarnate as animals so don’t fear that you will come back as a cockroach if you do something wicked.

Writing Celebrity Past Lives has been a great learning experience for me. I have been doing past life readings for many years, but never on such a large scale.

Buy it here for $29.95 including postage anywhere in Australia.

Celebrity Past Lives Book — $29.95

Here’s a gift for you: my eBook, Teabag Reading.

It shows how the humble teabag can act as a guide through life’s journey — and it has lots of offbeat and interesting facts about tea, dowsing and how pendulums have been used down the ages.

You can download it here free. Read it on screen or on a portable device, or print out just the sections you want.

Convict gravedigger Mark Jeffrey was, and still is, a very unpleasant character though his comments about the worms were 
unintentionally funny. Mark spent most of his days alone among the headstones on the horrific Isle of the Dead off Port Arthur. After claiming he saw the Devil one night, Mark was relieved of his caretaking duties.

So you think my face is grim? So would yours be if you had the life I had. Being the gravedigger on the Isle of Dead was no picnic.

The only thing I ever received for such a rotten job was the odd shot of rum and no-one knew I had an extra bottle hidden amongst the graves.

This I did to keep out the chills as it could be dastardly cold on the isle.

Try digging a grave when the ground is frozen and you will soon see what I mean.

You say I claimed to have seen the Devil. Well, there was no claim about it­—I did see him.There was a time I saw his very likeness staring at me through a window, but that wasn’t the only time I saw him.

One evening I had a grave to dig for a burial next morning, and up and out of the ground rose the Devil himself as I was halfway through digging.

I let out a bellow loud enough to waken the dead. The only thing I could do was run like hell, but in doing so I had forgotten a previous grave I had dug and down I went smack into the hole.

It scared the living daylights out of me and I swore off rum for good except, at that time, I needed a lot to steady my nerves.

The bottle I had hidden could not be found. After digging around and searching in the half dark I had to give up.

I really did dig my own grave, as this was the only way I could be sure of being buried deep enough.

You see, what you might not know, is that worms don’t go very far underground, only a few feet, so if you dig a grave deep enough the worms won’t get you.

In physical life I didn’t get away with much and I wasn’t a very nice sort of person, but I fooled those worms.

Sitting on a park bench outside Anglesea Barracks one evening, I met a handsome man in an officer’s uniform dating from the late 1800s. Colonel Edward spoke perfectly in a beautiful accent, which proves that physical handicaps disappear in the spirit world.

My name really is Edward but my friends called me Ted. I was sent out in the very first days of establishing an army quarters in Hobart. Which year it was befuddles me and perchance you may be able to check the records; what I do recall is that the town was in its infancy and very small compared to now.

When I arrived from England the amount of organising and work was daunting. The soldiers who were sent out from England were a smart bunch, but the ones recruited here were an unruly mob with no discipline. My job was to whip them into shape and get some organisation into the regiment.

I was a tall, erect man of good physical appearance and one look from me could make a private’s knees quiver. But as soon as I opened my mouth the discipline I had established from my stern appearance crumbled away and the men I was addressing had trouble to stop themselves from falling down laughing.

You see, I had this terrible affliction­—a shocking lisp—and, to make matters worse, a stammer. Although not serious, it made me sound like a fool. I had a great deal of trouble establishing respect with the men and it was eventually decided that I was best to occupy a desk. This did not suit me at all and I was stifled by the paperwork; but nevertheless, good army training stood me in good stead and I accepted my responsibilities as I must.

War broke out and I knew I would get my chance. Lisp or no lisp, I would be sent to battle, or so I thought. But alas, I never was given the oppurtunity. No horse and sword for me, but this damned desk I was to ride.

The fear was that at the front I would give an order and the men would be so busy laughing they would get their damned heads blown off.

So, being a frustrated colonel, I return to the barracks from time to time, just to soak up the atmosphere and to see the way things are run today. Much too lenient to my mind, and not enough discipline; but now it’s not for me to say, especially with the way I talked.
I am not unhappy when I return here, just curious and in need to get the feel of the old place again.

—Colonel Edward

I hear you ask about Port Arthur but my memory of that terrible place has dulled, I am pleased to say. You are right, I did escape on a number of occasions and I did swim the dreaded shark-infested waters at Eaglehawk Neck. Only a fool would have believed whole-heartedly the story of the sharks.

Bessie was the love of my life and without her life would have been very empty. I have been with Bessie on the astral planes, but for now she has gone onto a higher learning. I will also reach this point very soon and I strive towards this as I wish to be with my Bessie again.

I was a rebel in my younger days, but I was also blamed for many things that I didn’t do, and I always will feel a sense of injustice. I don’t mind being blamed for things that I did, but I’ll be damned if I’ll take the blame for some other fool’s doings.

What stands out in my memory, what’s left of it, is the one-way road. It really was a bad mistake and one I will always 
regret. I was forced to do what I did without being given the time to rethink.

I did, I feel, try to make good in my later years and I know I did win the respect of a lot of people.

I did enjoy my life out in Glenorchy and it’s a damn shame the orchard is no longer there for it was a fine one in its day. It was for me a haven and I did enjoy walking amongst the fruit trees, especially when they were out in blossom in the spring.

Often I come back for two reasons only. One is to go to the little road and lament my foolish mistake; the other is to find fruit trees in bloom, so I can walk or sit amongst them. It doesn’t have to be the same orchard but any fruit trees will do as they have the same effect.

To lament on my biggest mistake and then to soothe me, I go to the blossom trees and remember what I was at the end of my life—not at the beginning.

—Martin Cash

The first story concerns a young lady who was rushed here on a dark wintry night back in the 1930s. The child she produced was a boy but unfortunately he died not long after birth and the young mother died shortly after.

Her name was Anna and she frequents these hallowed halls in search of her dead child. She wanders about sobbing, enough to send a chill down even my spine.

After she wanders about a bit, a guide will come and gently remove her and take her away. They say she does this to herself as a form of self punishment because, rumour has it, she was an unmarried mother and suffered the shame she brought upon herself and family.

This was all very heart-wrenching, so I looked for a happier story and found a rotund cheerful soul called Minnie. She was assistant cook and a funnier soul I have yet to find.

Minnie unfortunately sampled too much of her cooking and grew rather large. Not my type. I like a lady with a bit of meat on her bones but I draw the line at ten tons of blubber!

Now Minnie was a great cook and was always cheerful and when she laughed it was like the rumbling of Mount Vesuvius and each chin would wobble and shake like a plate of jelly.

Minnie was a treasured cook and all who tasted her cooking and saw her ready smile loved her, but some years later she had to be put off the job. Why, I hear you say, if she did such a great job?

Well, as the years went by, she grew larger and larger and was discovered one morning framed in the scullery doorway. She had been on her way out with a tray of dishes and there she stayed stuck in between the doorframe, dishes all over the floor, crying her eyes out.

Her hips had caught fast and workmen had to be called in and the frame and door locks were prised off in order to free the poor lady.

Minnie herself agreed she should leave the job rather than risk getting caught in doorways again. Minnie returns and wanders about and often she bursts out laughing thinking of the sight she was on that hapless day.

—Errol

Every small town has a busybody like Mrs Buscombe. Since channelling her story, I have learned that her husband owned the Richmond store and post office, plus many other buildings, in the 1830s. Mrs Buscombe has been seen many times at Prospect House, which is now a hotel, and she still travels far and wide in the town listening to gossip.

I like to be called Mrs Buscombe, as I am not a believer in being called by one’s first name. It shows no respect for one’s elders and is not considered to be good manners.

My fondest memories of Prospect House, and Richmond in general, was the mail, with letters and cards of all description arriving from locally and overseas. There would be an air of excitement when the coach pulled into our store with a lovely bag of mail and goods sent from Hobart Town.

People clustered around to collect their mail and the smell of new leather and liquorice was overwhelming.

What joy it was to see children’s happy faces when those who could afford it bought liquorice for a farthing. There was always time for a cup of tea and a good old gossip on mail days.

I remember when young Mary, the eldest daughter of one of our most prominent elders, was found to be with child. What shame to bring into one’s family. She was sent away and never returned to Richmond, and I often wondered what happened to Mary and her illegitimate child.

I like to wander through the old house, and I often come when there are visitors, as there is sure to be a bit of gossip or snippets of news.

Things are not the way I remember them, in the late 1820s and 30s when the mail was the most important thing of all.

I no longer savour the scent of liquorice, nor the smell of new leather and these delights now elude me. But there is always going to be chitchat, and perhaps the odd bit of gossip, for these are the things that will never change.

All the way, since man began and language was invented, the need for talking will never end; and just so long as I don’t miss anything of importance, then I am happy.

They have been married once before, with Bill as president – of a village glee club! It was in Wales just over 100 years ago.

Bill had a great voice and led the choir from town to town performing at concerts. Hillary supported Bill and often travelled with him.

One morning, Bill awoke and found his voice had gone hoarse. It was soon obvious that Bill’s singing voice had gone forever so he couldn’t remain as club president.

Hillary offered to take over, but the other members would not accept a woman as president.

Hillary still has this unfulfilled ambition. She has a salmon spirit for determination while Bill is a typical Leo who loves being the centre of attention.

Barack Obama was born into a very wealthy white family in America’s South in the early 1820s. His parents owned many farms and had once been slave owners.

He never worked a day in his life despite being given the best education. He was highly intelligent but the only motivation he had was to gamble.

When Barack was 25, his father gave him a large sum of money and sent him away, telling him not to return until he had doubled the money.

He sank most of it into real estate, but kept some money for gambling and partying. His idea was to wait until the value of the properties had doubled, collect his money and march triumphantly home. He likened it to an African tribal ritual where the young man would hunt and kill a lion to prove himself.

Unfortunately he bought most of his land sight unseen and left all the dealing to his land agent. Two years went by and he was almost broke, having lost heavily at poker. He decided it was time to collect his money and return home. Barack instructed his agent to sell all the properties and to send him the titles to sign.

By now the agent had disappeared and so had the original investment. He soon discovered he was the proud owner of nothing but mosquito-infested swampland. His laziness and lack of motivation had brought him undone and never returned home, too ashamed to face his father.

In this life, he has the lion spirit with him.

Mr Howard was born into a middle-class family in Wales in the 1800s. All the family, except John, had beautiful singing voices and could play any musical instrument. Whenever his father tried to teach John a new piece of music he would get furious and slam down the piano lid.

John left school early and set out to become a leader of men. He formed a union and held meetings to spread his ideas. But his lack of education and political skills were obvious and he was booed off the stage.

In this life, John achieved his ultimate goal when he became Prime Minister of Australia but, if he stays in power too long, the boos and insults will get louder.

John has a jackal spirit for cleverness.

Mr Rudd was born in Wales around the mid-1800s, the only child of wealthy parents who doted on him. He was a brilliant student and his parents hoped he would become a lawyer or a doctor – but Kevin had other ideas.

He was a loner who whiled away his time designing odd-looking contraptions and building small models. But nearly everything he invented was ridiculed by others, or laughed at by his parents.

Kevin became quite eccentric and very quick-tempered, so people thought he we was mad and tended to leave him alone.

One of Kevin’s inventions was a double-headed toothbrush that brushed top and bottom teeth at the same time. But, of course, it was no good for the back teeth.

Kevin spent most of that life inventing things that no one wanted, but he didn’t care.

In this life, Kevin is shrewd, methodical and clever, but under pressure he can become very critical. The spirit of the black crow is with him for counsel, wisdom and resourcefulness.