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When the hairs on the back of your neck tingle

No but all results had to go to the Lab .


I miss my Labrador.
 
Oh, and there’s an old lady, clad in shadow, that stands at the foot of my bed while I sleep sometimes. Creepy as fick, but nothing bad ever happens so I just ignore it now ....
That's Sluggy. One morning, you'll look in the mirror and there'll be your face. Gone.

Anyway, it's late. Sweet dreams.
 
One day, when I was four, I was chatting to my mother and told her that I was a Spitfire pilot. I also told her that I lived in Orwell Street and that I died.

I have no recollection of this conversation but my mother remembered it vividly. She later told me that the conversation was like that between two adults, not one between a mother and child. My mother packed parachutes during WW2 so she asked me questions about parachutes and dinghies, to which I furnished correct responses.

As I said, I had no recollection of this conversation and was only told of it when I was 16 - my mother started a job as a carer and , in order to find her clients, she bought a street map from the local newsagent. They only had one map and it was very old but Middlesbrough hadn't changed much at that time so it was adequate. As she started marking up the map with her clients' addresses, she came upon Orwell Street. She'd never heard of it before (other than in our conversation).

She got my dad to drive her to it, only to find that it had been demolished. About 12 years earlier. Round about the time that I had my childhood conversation with her.

It was then that she told me about our conversation. I'm fairly dismissive about religions but, because of the above, and despite common sense insisting that it's a load of bollocks, I retain a tiny thought that just maybe, reincarnation might be possible.

What I'd really like to do would be to search RAF records to see whether there ever was a pilot who lived in Orwell Street (Middlesbrough is a presumption but there must be others) but with no name to go on, I doubt that any search would be successful - at least not unless the records have been rewritten in electronic format and I could gain access to them.

I doubt that this will happen in my lifetime and I probably won't remember to do it in the next.
 
I'm have a great interest in the unexplained and unexplainable. I witnessed a few things I cant explain myself over the years, nothing that's scared me but it's definitely given me a few wtf moments. I moved in with my current missus who lives in a lovely converted mill house that was built in 1792. Ever since I've lived there I've always had a feeling about one of the upstairs spare bedrooms. Nothing bad, it's just like a feeling you have when you know someone is at home and in the house, but it's only me and the missus that's in. Maybe it's just an old lodger that hasn't moved on, or some kind of memory imprinted in the building. Who knows?

As for feelings of dread! I bought a house with my ex. The relationship was as fine as any relationship was when you get to the point of buying a house together. The day we went into the lawyers to sign the mortgage agreement we were happy and excited about the future. As soon as I signed on the dotted line, I just had this horrendous feeling that I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.
We moved in together and didn't even last a year. She turned into this fecking horrible, nasty creature. Made me wish I'd ripped up the mortgage agreement once I got that feeling.
Always trust your gut.
 
One day, when I was four, I was chatting to my mother and told her that I was a Spitfire pilot. I also told her that I lived in Orwell Street and that I died.

I have no recollection of this conversation but my mother remembered it vividly. She later told me that the conversation was like that between two adults, not one between a mother and child. My mother packed parachutes during WW2 so she asked me questions about parachutes and dinghies, to which I furnished correct responses.

As I said, I had no recollection of this conversation and was only told of it when I was 16 - my mother started a job as a carer and , in order to find her clients, she bought a street map from the local newsagent. They only had one map and it was very old but Middlesbrough hadn't changed much at that time so it was adequate. As she started marking up the map with her clients' addresses, she came upon Orwell Street. She'd never heard of it before (other than in our conversation).

She got my dad to drive her to it, only to find that it had been demolished. About 12 years earlier. Round about the time that I had my childhood conversation with her.

It was then that she told me about our conversation. I'm fairly dismissive about religions but, because of the above, and despite common sense insisting that it's a load of bollocks, I retain a tiny thought that just maybe, reincarnation might be possible.

What I'd really like to do would be to search RAF records to see whether there ever was a pilot who lived in Orwell Street (Middlesbrough is a presumption but there must be others) but with no name to go on, I doubt that any search would be successful - at least not unless the records have been rewritten in electronic format and I could gain access to them.

I doubt that this will happen in my lifetime and I probably won't remember to do it in the next.
William Ernest Gore. From Stockton on tees.
 
I remember once getting an explanation of ‘ghosts’ that was generally something like this

Walls, or other physical item like abandoned buildings, configurations of rocks/trees have an electromagnetic field that basically ‘captures’ A snapshot image (either static or like a movie image)( sort of how old school cameras used to work) and given certain conditions replays it - sort of like a natural hologram/ movie.

It was much better explained, and somehow is quite comforting.

It may or may not be bollocks.

No less an inventor than Thomas Edison apparently had something similar in mind, although no trace or plan of his possible "Spirit Communication Machine," exists.

Edison's Quest to Communicate With the Dead
 
I don't know about the hair on the back, but if you are outdoors and the hairs on your head start to stand up get the f out of wherever you are and try and get into a car or indoors. Or just run as far away from that spot as possible.
 
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One day, when I was four, I was chatting to my mother and told her that I was a Spitfire pilot. I also told her that I lived in Orwell Street and that I died.
.....
What I'd really like to do would be to search RAF records to see whether there ever was a pilot who lived in Orwell Street (Middlesbrough is a presumption but there must be others) but with no name to go on, I doubt that any search would be successful - at least not unless the records have been rewritten in electronic format and I could gain access to them.

I doubt that this will happen in my lifetime and I probably won't remember to do it in the next.

Perhaps you could search the census records for 1900 - 1940, and cross reference any names with the list of dead pilots. Alternatively, you could search the property records, but most of the pilots were very young, and unlikely to own their own houses. Property searches for a whole street would also add up to a lot of money. You might get an unusual family name which may help.

Good luck with your search.
 
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Ravers

LE
Kit Reviewer
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One day, when I was four, I was chatting to my mother and told her that I was a Spitfire pilot. I also told her that I lived in Orwell Street and that I died.

I have no recollection of this conversation but my mother remembered it vividly. She later told me that the conversation was like that between two adults, not one between a mother and child. My mother packed parachutes during WW2 so she asked me questions about parachutes and dinghies, to which I furnished correct responses.

As I said, I had no recollection of this conversation and was only told of it when I was 16 - my mother started a job as a carer and , in order to find her clients, she bought a street map from the local newsagent. They only had one map and it was very old but Middlesbrough hadn't changed much at that time so it was adequate. As she started marking up the map with her clients' addresses, she came upon Orwell Street. She'd never heard of it before (other than in our conversation).

She got my dad to drive her to it, only to find that it had been demolished. About 12 years earlier. Round about the time that I had my childhood conversation with her.

It was then that she told me about our conversation. I'm fairly dismissive about religions but, because of the above, and despite common sense insisting that it's a load of bollocks, I retain a tiny thought that just maybe, reincarnation might be possible.

What I'd really like to do would be to search RAF records to see whether there ever was a pilot who lived in Orwell Street (Middlesbrough is a presumption but there must be others) but with no name to go on, I doubt that any search would be successful - at least not unless the records have been rewritten in electronic format and I could gain access to them.

I doubt that this will happen in my lifetime and I probably won't remember to do it in the next.

I’m not for one minute calling you out on this, but it’s funny how little kids always remember their previous lives as fighter pilots. There are literally hundreds of similar stories and it nearly always involves the kid being a fighter pilot in a previous life.

You never hear stories about young Jonny remembering his previous days as a postman or chartered accountant do you?

And it’s easy to see why. Fighter planes are cool as ****, kids relate to them. My lad knows everything there is to know about planes and can regurgitate every top trump fact and figure for most of them, I could easily pass him off as a former pilot based on his few snippets of general knowledge. I wouldn’t put it past him to make up a story about a former life, at the moment he thinks he works for Airbus designing A380s.

As for recounting names of places like the street etc. You said yourself the place was demolished at about the time you were recounting your tale, is it not possible that you heard the name of the street on the local news, radio or in conversation because it was being talked about by grown ups at the time?
 
I’m not for one minute calling you out on this, but it’s funny how little kids always remember their previous lives as fighter pilots. There are literally hundreds of similar stories and it nearly always involves the kid being a fighter pilot in a previous life.

You never hear stories about young Jonny remembering his previous days as a postman or chartered accountant do you?

And it’s easy to see why. Fighter planes are cool as ****, kids relate to them. My lad knows everything there is to know about planes and can regurgitate every top trump fact and figure for most of them, I could easily pass him off as a former pilot based on his few snippets of general knowledge. I wouldn’t put it past him to make up a story about a former life, at the moment he thinks he works for Airbus designing A380s.

As for recounting names of places like the street etc. You said yourself the place was demolished at about the time you were recounting your tale, is it not possible that you heard the name of the street on the local news, radio or in conversation because it was being talked about by grown ups at the time?
That's pretty much the line of argument I put to my mother when she told me. Had I been seven, I could have attributed any knowledge of Spitfires to reading or perhaps a film but my reading interest was "Around the World with Freddy Frog" and "The Battle of Britain" wasn't even scripted at the time. It would be another five years before I opened my mother's copy of "Parachutes in Peace and War".

Orwell St in Middlesbrough was pretty much a slum area by the early 60s, an area to be avoided but people wouldn't generally have used the name. The area was known by the more prominent street, Cannon Street, the legacy of which is the Cannon Park (industrial) estate. So it's unlikely that Orwell Street would have been overheard in conversations a couple of miles away.
 
Ages ago in York, my brother a policeman sat in his patrol car waiting for the night to pass, he heard a child crying in the night.
Telling Aunt Cherry about this, she said the block of flats he was parked up against had been a childrens home a hundred years ago, they used to bury the dead children in the garden, in fact she said a friend of hers had one of these flats, and if she left a window open, sometimes she could hear...............!
 

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