8 am, client L.

One of the disadvatages of saturday morning sessions is that I never see client L. in her work clothes. She arrived in jeans and a blouse. I couldn't begin to describe the blouse but her purple coat was of interest- is that not the colour of mourning? Nevertheless, I find that clients who arrive in their work attire will also bring their essential self image, and that is the most revealing of masks. I made a mental note to arrange our next session for the friday.

So, how can I access soul, then?

She sounded interested, genuinely curious, and I sensed why she was good at her job and, clearly, was capable of bringing out the best in her team of male scientists. But I wasn't having any of it. The phrase itself annoyed me. Access soul? One downloads it? Like many people, she has the impatience of someone who spends hours on a computer. But she was trying to enter my world so I took a breath, smiled, and grabbed my Dante.

I am going to read some poetry. Canto XIII. Now, I will read this to myself, for my pleasure, for about fifteen minutes. You will do something else entirely. I gave her a pen and piece of paper. You are right handed so I want you to write a letter to yourself as you were when you were eight years old. And you write it with your left hand. Now, I will be sitting here, immersed in the poetry. You may flicker across my mind once or twice, I may even glance at you, but you will not be in my thoughts.

Always the good student, client L. began writing. And true to my word, I was soon in the seventh circle of hell with Dante and, apart from glancing at her ankles, I never gave her a thought. After fifteen minutes I looked over and saw her blouse was soaked in tears.