Well, my dear reader, there it was. Given and taken away. My chance at legitimate publishing dashed by the sun addled sensitivities of a colonial!
I removed my headphones, clicked the computer off in disgust and kicked back in my art decko cheque cloth recliner.
“Al!” “Al!” pause “Al” Al” pause “Al Al” This was the screech of the mad Canadian therapist as she continued in her un ending search for her husband. Al actually wasn’t such a bad bloke, but I could understand why he hid from her.
“Al!” “Al!”
I stood, straightened my boxer shorts, scratched the small patch of hair on my chest and farted quietly. If I was a detective in one of those old school mystery books, then this is the bit where my cat would demand something from me, thus entering a quasi-second character into the story so I could stop just talking about myself. I hate cats though.
“A1!”
God, I could kill that woman! That would be a story. A man that kills a useless old woman that no one would miss, just to see what it felt like. Didn’t work out well for Raskolnikov. I suppose I’d end up having to bash in Al’s head as well. If I could ever find him that is. Calling his name obviously didn’t work!
“Al!”
Fuck me! I reached over to the stereo and flicked on some loud music. Beck came on from my Ipod and I relaxed a little. I busted a few moves to “where its at” and bopped across the polished floor boards to the window. The lattice curtain rose with one smooth pull and the light that came in lit my reflection in the full length mirror across the room. I kept dancing, working on this swinging hip thing I’d seen a Turkish guy doing in a club the other week. Yeh, you got it! I winked at myself as I watched my lean body swing to the music, clothed only in Calvein Kline boxers and a mis-matched pair of red and blue woollen socks.
“Bill” “Bill” The call and a concurrent knock came at the door. “Bill.”
I pulled on the blue terry towelling robe with the gold embossed B that my sister had given me for Christmas, turned down the music, and swung the door open.
“Oh, Oh hi Bill” “Oh I do love that robe” “he he he he” “Look Bill I was wondering if you would terribly mind being a little quiet for an hour or so because I’ve got a client coming. You know that I write down the times on the fridge. Its just really important that they feel safe, you know, when they see me.”
“Yes. OK. I’ll turn the music off”
“Oh thank you so much….you know the times are written on the fridge…Ok…Thanks so much…..Al!…..Al!…..” She turned around and continued her search.
My god. Therapists! Imagine being sent to her if you had problems.
This was my plan B though. Actually it had been my plan A. Apart from the fact that I was lazy, the main reason I stayed in the house was to try and get an interesting story by listening in to her therapy sessions. Easiest thing in the world to stick a bug in her office. I’d actually given up listening to it though. Always the same story.
I’m gay, my marriage broke up, I feel that my life is meaningless, I feel like I shouldn’t get the sack, I hate sacking people, I’m having an affair. And the endless: my father this, my mother that.
And what does she do?
Yes, uhuh, yes, can you tell me more about that? How do you feel about that? Oh.. and what do you think? Lets talk about communication..lets talk about co-operation..lets talk about empowerment..lets talk about what you can do..Oh! Is that the time already?
My god. No wonder the NHS is fucked.
All these years and nothing worth writing had come out of her therapy sessions. At least the pictures of them in the bedroom and bathroom had proved popular on the net.
Grinning as I always do when I think about that, I quickly dressed and walked out of the house before the client arrived.
