So I’m standing on the platform of Waverley station wondering, as I take long drafts of my rum and coke not-so-cunningly hidden in a water bottle, is this seemly? Appropriate even?
Why am I hiding my alcohol? (in denial of drink problem) Are these wedges too high? (definitely, can hardly walk) Skirt too short? (no problem picking up punters tonight then luv!)
CHRIST! Is that a client?
You see, even the ‘alleged’ perfect have issues and I have more than Vivienne Eliot on a good day.
Part of the panic is that training has just finished and I’m in private practice. How grown up does that sound? Frankly, its bloody terrifying. I am in charge of facilitating clients mental health and here I am slugging back rum like a 5 dollar Caymanian hooker in Bodden Town.
I have a client at the moment and she scares me to shivers. I keep visualising her pulling out a huge butchers knife from her bag and trying to carve Labour manifesto details on my stomach.
I’m so rigid with fear that i disconnect and start thinking about what I’m going to cook for dinner. Now, for some people this is ‘normal’ thought. For me, its as alien as dating a small man.
Cooking is the western front, Thermidor in the Revolutionary Calendar, The Gulag, Alistair Campbell’s venal ambition and modern vicars who shave their hair and say ‘bollocks’ a lot.
Pretty scary places. As it turns out the woman is mad as a hatter. So I refer her to the Tavistock Clinic which is the equivalent of bid-up TV on satellite television. Fucking No-man’s land.
My mother rang today and asked what I’d be wearing for my first ‘paying’ client. As if they are special. Well, of course they are because they pay. But not in terms of quality of treatment.
I hummed over the phone and replied, ‘jeans probably’.
A shriek of outrage! ‘you can’t wear jeans. Wear a suit!!!’
Suits to a certain generation are the OBE of clothing.
‘I have to be comfortable’.
‘But what about impressions, I mean …jeans!’
‘Mama, Jean’s are not the haut couture of Satan. I think its important to show them who I am…’
And so it goes on until I say through gritted teeth,
‘I’ll wear the sodding suit!’
Trains coming in and I’ve already tripped over my heels twice.