Sherry Cracker Gets Normal. D. Connell J.

psycho-sexual problems.’ She leaned back in her chair and smiled professionally. ‘The good news is, you’re not alone with your psychoses. I treat sick people like you every day. The bad news is that your psychology needs reprogramming from the brain stem up. That sort of overhaul doesn’t come cheap. We’re looking at four, maybe five figures.’

      ‘I don’t have that kind of money. My funds are limited.’

      ‘I have an instalment plan with attractive rates for bulk purchase. You’ll need to buy bulk. I can assure you.’ Bijou Poulet smiled in an unnatural way and made a T with her hands. ‘Let’s take some time out. I’ll give you a minute or two to think over my generous offer.’

      I should not have been disappointed by Bijou Poulet’s evaluation. Criticism is not new to me. I have heard it all my life and am vaccinated against it to some degree. But what surprised me was the finality of her assessment. I had naively expected some sort of miracle cure. The gift from Mr Chin and the timely assistance of Nigel had convinced me that something groundbreaking was about to happen. I should have known better. The brain is a complex and powerful organ. It consists of one hundred billion neurons and can generate enough energy to illuminate a twenty-watt light bulb. Psychology is not a simple science.

      ‘I’m afraid I can’t afford more psychotherapeutic dramatology but it would be helpful to know where my central problem lies.’

      ‘That would be revealed in session seventeen. Not before. Professional reasons, you understand.’

      ‘I don’t, no.’

      ‘I’m writing a screenplay, tentatively titled Cat Fight.’

      ‘About me?’

      ‘What kind of a psychological professional would I be if I couldn’t keep secrets?’

      ‘For a moment I did wonder.’

      ‘The content of my screenplay is private and personal, subject to copyright, patent pending.’ She looked at her wrist. ‘Your session is terminated.’

      Without warning, she slipped a hand under my armpit and pulled me to my feet. I was fumbling with the laces of my shoes as I was bundled out of the door and escorted to the bottom of the stairs. The door was opened and I was ejected on to the street, blinking at the sudden whiteness of the overcast afternoon. I turned to protest but the door was slammed in my face. My eyes fell on the buzzer and I saw something I had not noticed before. The word scratched into the paint was not ‘ITCH’ as I had first thought. In front of this was the letter ‘B’.

      Something hard poked into the small of my back but before I could react, a familiar voice spoke: ‘Hand over your crocodile bag and make it snappy!’