Last winter I began saturday morning sessions. Weekends had previously been a sacred space for me but I received a referral from client L., a neuroscientist in her early forties and, partly to show Karen that I was capable of change, too, but also in an effort to accomodate client L, I decided to put her busy schedule ahead of my own. We have been meeting every saturday at 8 am since christmas. She was drawn to me, she said, because in my particulars I mentioned doing ' soul work' and that her entire working life was based on the certainty that the soul didn't exist, only the brain. I have grown weary of defending the soul. Even Gareth mocks me, seeing it as unprofessional, not to say a slur on my character. I tend to respond that noone will find soul on Facebook, but just because it's hard work doesn't mean it doesn't exist. At this point Gareth's eyes usually roll over to the rota on the wall, reminding me of my kitchen duties.

Client L. has taken a respectful interest in her own soul, but is not convinced. Of course, it is so deeply in shadow that her soul, when it appears, will knock her senseless. In accordance with her wishes we have generally done some luke warm, Gareth approved, person centred counselling. She is an elder sister and academic achievement was expected, whereas her younger sister was allowed to charm everyone and be herself. But this morning client L. rang me in distress. She wanted a session today. I said no. ' But I need help', she said. Why do you need help? 'I'm in love'. Her voice was wobbly, almost operatic. The range of her being was changing. She was in love but sounded as if she required emergency surgery. Enjoy it, I said, and put the phone down. I felt a hollow sense of vindication, for what is love if not the work of the soul? I scanned my shelves but could find nothing to read. I walked down the stairs and into the street, intent on buying a cigar and filling the kitchen with smoke.