It was clear that in the run up to my reading Sam was nervous. “There’s a lot on this for me,” he said, gathering his tarot cards, clutching his stones, and placing a tape recorder on the table in front of me.

To Sam I was a blank canvas, the scene – an interview room in the Guardian office – gave nothing away of my personality and I managed to keep even the most general chit-chat to a minimum.

The tape starts to roll and the room falls silent, strangely I feel nervous, but remain conscious of the fact that everything I do could give something away.

I’m told there is a lady in the room. She’s petite, well dressed, wearing eyeliner, and is in her late 50s or perhaps a bit older.

“Does this lady have any residence with you?” he said, to which I shake my head.

He continued despite: “She’s not leaving me, sorry,” he added. “We’ll come back to her later.”

This is the third time I’d taken a dip into the world of spiritualism.

The first was in the rather more haunting setting of an early Victorian hotel, where guests were taken upstairs, one by one, while the others sat in anticipation in the hotel restaurant.

The second, a city centre spiritualist church during an open circle night, where members, some regulars, take turns to relay messages from the dead.

I was eager to see if any of them could draw any parallels.

Sam takes a quick look around the room. “Your not actually that sceptical are you?” He’s right.

I’m told I attract lots of energies. In fact there all around me.

“The first thing they’re giving me is the number 22.

“Does that mean anything to you? It’s not a birthday is it?”

He’s a long way off. He then pictures me in a Porche. It means nothing, and it continues like this for a while, long silences filled with the occasional stab in the dark.

He then moved onto family and started listing names.

Ivy... Nigel... Michael... Nicholas.

“I hate doing names because sometimes you get them wrong and it sounds like your just guessing,” said Sam, but he needn’t have worried, every one of them was a close relative.

“Who’s Barbara?” he asked, to which I could answer with some confidence, “My mother”.

It was enough to make the hairs on my arms stand on end and I could begin to see why those wanting a message from the dead could seek comfort from this kind of experience.

He carries on, and traces my roots back to Stoke and draws reference to the pub my dad lives in.

I was impressed, but couldn’t help but feel slightly underwhelmed.

Ok, so he sorted out my family tree and told me my brother was called Nicholas, and that he was on the verge of buying a motorcycle. Close, it’s a moped, but I already knew that.

Nonetheless, it felt a bit spooky, and in some ways, quite flattering. It’s not often you meet up with a complete stranger who is so interested in the intricacies of your life, which, to most, are quite dull.

“A lot of the time when I do readings, the information I give people is mundane. In fact it’s inane,” Sam reassured me.

“The spirits are like flies on the wall, they just pick up bits of information and sometimes it’s not even that important.”

I’d have to agree, and felt I probably wasn’t the best person to be sat there in any case, as I hadn’t lost someone close and wasn’t seeking a message from beyond the grave.

However, I was happy to take the number 22, and the image of a Porche. Which reminds me, I musn’t forget to do the lottery this weekend.