In the last week, I’ve had two experiences with well-meaning but grimly determined people who want to heal me with their various cure-all’s. (This is how you know something is quackery - if it cures literally everything, chances are it cures virtually nothing.)
Yesterday, a woman I’ve known for twenty years, came round to do some traditional “healing”.
“Do you have fire alarms in your house?” She asked, clutching a bag full of sticks and a handful of green leaves.
“I think we’d better go outside”, I said.
Just as well, because she lit a fire in a terracotta pot and put the leaves on the coals. As we disappeared in a vast cloud of smoke, she said, “Breathe real deep, Sharnie. I’ve seen this smoke do wonderful things.”
“You know the fire station is just around the corner?” I spluttered, fully expecting to hear sirens at any minute.
“Nah; don’t worry,” she said wafting smoke in my direction with my power bill. “Can you feel it?”
“I can certainly smell it,” I replied.
My hair, my washing, my clothes and my house still smell like the aftermath of a bushfire.
Fortunately, the same supposed health benefits come in candle form.
“Have you got any water?” she asked.
The other one turned up on Friday with a batch of “home-made healing oil”.
“It’s cannabis oil, isn’t it,” I said, after having a smell. It truly smells vile and it tastes even worse.
“It has the good stuff in it,” she said, plonking herself down in a chair. “It fixes everything. I take it all the time.” She then told me how sore her back was, and how bad her arthritis is.
I didn’t like to say it didn’t seem to be doing her much good. But I didn’t.
Seriously, if people would really like to help, how about doing my laundry?
Yesterday, a woman I’ve known for twenty years, came round to do some traditional “healing”.
“Do you have fire alarms in your house?” She asked, clutching a bag full of sticks and a handful of green leaves.
“I think we’d better go outside”, I said.
Just as well, because she lit a fire in a terracotta pot and put the leaves on the coals. As we disappeared in a vast cloud of smoke, she said, “Breathe real deep, Sharnie. I’ve seen this smoke do wonderful things.”
“You know the fire station is just around the corner?” I spluttered, fully expecting to hear sirens at any minute.
“Nah; don’t worry,” she said wafting smoke in my direction with my power bill. “Can you feel it?”
“I can certainly smell it,” I replied.
My hair, my washing, my clothes and my house still smell like the aftermath of a bushfire.
Fortunately, the same supposed health benefits come in candle form.
“Have you got any water?” she asked.
The other one turned up on Friday with a batch of “home-made healing oil”.
“It’s cannabis oil, isn’t it,” I said, after having a smell. It truly smells vile and it tastes even worse.
“It has the good stuff in it,” she said, plonking herself down in a chair. “It fixes everything. I take it all the time.” She then told me how sore her back was, and how bad her arthritis is.
I didn’t like to say it didn’t seem to be doing her much good. But I didn’t.
Seriously, if people would really like to help, how about doing my laundry?
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