Poor little pumpkin - Mummy Griffin, you are NOT going to trot these out for the first boyfriend, are you? 
She's coming along well, isn't she? Lovely roundy face, and very bonny.
I reluctantly admit to something strange happening to me about 40 years ago. I was trying to think up a fresh, exciting way to sell the subsidiary rights to another of our rather dry railway monographs at David & Charles, the now-defunct publishers where I was then working, in Newton Abbot (Devon, for non-Devonians). My pen was resting on my memo pad when I realized my arm had started to tingle a little, and my hand was rearranging itself into a position I didn't use when writing. Okay, to cut down a yawnathon, I then got, when I allowed it, three days of on/off automatic writing.
The writing was nothing like my own hand, with very characteristic swooping big Ns for No and a huge Y for the Yes answers. The 'writer' was a young widow, probably turn of the 20C, whose husband had been killed in a fall from horseback (possibly hunting - that was a bit fuzzy). They had lived in Newton Ferrers and she described her house to me clearly. I had a mental picture of a slim young woman with her back to me, looking out of a ground floor window to a garden. I didn't see her face, although the 'idea' that she had brown eyes - which she then later wrote she did indeed have - occurred. She gave me her name and her husband's name, but sadly I've forgotten them now. I showed my Mother the pages and pages of notes, who was intrigued and said I should follow up on them. I didn't, and I haven't encouraged anyone to use my pen again, either!
