Are they spying on me, are they?

I pay my professional body sixty pounds a year for the privilege of practising my trade and now, in gratitude, they spy upon me. And so it was, searching for Canto XXV of Dante's Inferno on my car stereo, I left for work reflecting that paranoia is, indeed, the most tiresome of all defence mechanisms and yet how else can I explain my new client, Colin. What a prick, is Colin. He has come to me to explore his depression. Normally, I would approve the humility of this and yet something in his tone wanted me to understand, rather desperately, that in this exploration we were equals. It soon transpired, of course, that Colin is a counsellor himself. He failed to reveal who recommended me and, aside from admiring his absolute baldness, I spent a fair portion of the session wondering if he was a plant, a spy, and if not from the BACP then perhaps a friend of Gareth's? He was clearly gay. Also, like many contemporary men, he is an expert on his feelings but knows nothing of soul. Of course, his access to his feelings allows us the semblance of a therapeutic session and yet I grew tired of his quick and felt discriminations for they are always temporary, without the reach of soul. It was a deeply superficial session but Colin seem to like it. It occurred to me that Colin, in his choice of career, may have wasted his entire life and I began to rather hope that he was a spy, a plant, if only for his sake. I shall send out some feelers, but if Gareth is behind this then I shall break his spine.