There are many infuriating things about my therapist, but the worst one is how little she talks about herself. Usually, I just fill in the gaps myself. ‘I’m going away,’ She tells me. ‘So let’s see each other before I do.’ I pop along for a very helpful session.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask her. ‘I don’t actually know,’ She tells me. ‘My husband has organized a surprise trip.’ ‘Hmm,’ I reply thoughtfully. ‘Probably Eastbourne.’
My therapist stares at me. (She does this a lot, but this is a particularly startled stare). ‘I don’t think it’s Eastbourne,’ She replies slowly. ‘I’m pretty sure it is,’ I tell her kindly. ‘Eastbourne is lovely. A bit cold, but lovely.’ I can tell from the look of horror on my therapist’s face that I have not yet convinced her of Eastbourne’s charms.
‘You can go for long bracing walks on the sea,’ I explain. ‘And they have mini-golf. And it rains a lot.’ ‘I haven’t been on holiday for a while,’ My therapist begins. ‘I’m pretty sure my husband knows I would like to see some sunshine.’ ‘There is a small possibility of sunshine in Eastbourne!’ I reassure her happily. ‘At least for a few hours.’ Later my therapist emails to confirm our next appointment. ‘Great,’ I email back. ‘Enjoy Eastbourne!’ I feel that we have made a real break-through. I imagine in the future my therapist will be much keener to talk about her personal life with me.
unfashionablylost 