It amazes me, bemuses and confounds me that clients see me as this pinnacle of virtue and purity.  I feel I should climb on my chair and scream like a virago that I have sex, have taken many, many pharmaceutical substances in my time, am sloppy at home and sleep with my dogs in my bed.

That I had a client who was the daughter of a hugely famous writer and I had to sit on my hands to stop slipping scripts in her bag whilst distracting her with a ‘lets try some relaxation but first close your eyes’ type of scenario.

I’ve also learnt to falsify my profession.  I once spent an hour and a half helping a British Rail Guard comes to terms with his brothers booze problem on a journey to Dorset.  I missed the bloody wheelie bar three times as I desperately tried to manage his hysterical tears and grab a miniature brandy simultaneously.

On reflection, I’m not surprised that the wheelie woman gave me a wide berth.  I was trying to attract her attention with a grotesque pantomime of winks and head twitches as the Guard buried his head in my shoulder sobbing.

And picking up blokes at parties?  Sod that for game of soldiers.  Men react in three ways.

Firstly, there is ‘Terrified Man’ with a wild-eyed look of terror as he backs away slowly, casting left and right for the exit.

Then we have the ‘Funny Boy’.

‘You’re not going to mind read my mind are you?, Funny Boy giggles.

‘No, I’m not’.

‘Or analyse me here and now. Ha ha ha? Or head shrink me? Ho ho ho!’

‘No, I’m pissing off to the bar now’.

And the third.   And by far the worst.  Mr ‘I’m going to guffaw at your qualifications whilst asking you about my intimate problems’.

‘So a psychiatrist eh?’

‘I’m a psychotherapist, not a psychiatrist’

‘So, a reflexologist eh?

No, I’m a psychotherapist, its slightly different’.

‘In what way’?

‘I don’t treat psychotic feet’.

‘Well, maybe you can help me with this strange rash on my…

(Leans forward furtively)

… on my balls!’

So I end up getting smashed, avoiding all men and getting picked up by bi-sexual investment banker chick.

But that’s another story.