Alanis...!

Who...?

From the exhibition?

She wants to book a session. I suggested we go for coffee first, get an idea of her needs. It must have sounded an unprofessional proposition but, in fact, it was either coffee on a wobbly, metallic table or my black leather couch with wall to wall of, currently, Japanese erotica. The young have no idea that to do a decent job of work you have to get your hands dirty. So, I was protecting her, no?

I'd rather meet at your office, if that's ok?

Well, that's possible, but it's normal practice for me to have an initial chat, usually in a cafe.

Yet, she agreed. But there was a method to my madness. We had met in a social context, one where flirting is the currency, and we exuded the appropriate hormones until George intervened. If we are to do any therapuetic work we will have to acknowledge my attraction in the very first session. It'd take us a year to work through that revelation, segueing nicely on to three years of father issues. She's pretty, but not for me. I'll have coffee and warn her off. Give her Gareth's number, or Helen's. Nice to have her round the place. Mmm, Helen's number. Gareth has no time for people's dreams. For him, her tunnel would be Freudian, and that would upset everybody.

An early night. I'll take Walter's Secret Life to bed, volume one, god help me.