I’ve just finished working with two psychiatrists on the interior design of their minimalist London home. I saved them a fortune on a cast concrete kitchen island. I was kind of hoping they might repay the favour and consider cutting me a deal on some discounted therapy. Nothing too heavy. Maybe just three sessions a week for the next twenty five years.
Every time I met them I felt like I was acting out a scene from an Ingmar Bergman movie, only without the subtitles. I half expected the grim reaper to turn up in a plume of smoke and offer to make us all some coffee. To lighten the mood I even told them my best psychiatrist joke but they still didn’t laugh. Instead they’d just answer all of my questions by posing a question all of their own. Like when I showed psychiatrist number one chalk and bone coloured wall paint, psychiatrist number two asked me how I felt about it. What I discovered he really meant was, how did I really feel about it. I didn’t know whether to say I had no particular strong personal feelings either way or just lay straight down on their leather couch and reveal my dysfunctional love for cheese.
“If you went to see a shrink what d’you think you’d find to talk about?” I asked Guido in bed last night.
I do like to probe him once in a while. Get to the root of his thoughts. God, I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that one. Can you honestly imagine Guido trying to explain to someone in the medical profession about the trauma linked to discovering a hollow meringue? I guess it’s all relative brother.
“Actually I’ve never felt the need to over analyse my life,” he said with an air of sane superiority. “But I think you could do with a bit of help on the head examining front.”
Much as I hate to admit it, he did have a point.
“Frankly I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve got such an extensive back catalogue in my brain it would probably have even bogged Freud down for years,” I said.
I thought about all of the hang-ups and fears and fantasies I’ve got. Just to give you a flavour, they include Nick Jonas with no clothes on and mung beans. Though not necessarily at the same time. I’m a car crash waiting to happen.
“Relax. Chill. Take a look around you,” said Guido. “Have you seen that guy who’s recently pitched a tent by London Bridge Tube Station? Well, today, I saw that he’s started to entertain commuters by juggling with bananas.”
A word of advice here for readers, don’t ever try that. Aerodynamically bananas end up acting exactly like a boomerang. I tried using one years ago in bed at night with Guido and I almost knocked myself unconscious when it rebounded and hit me on the back of the head.
Trust me. There’s knowing when to use bananas, and just being bananas.
By the way, here’s the joke. I hope you find it funnier than those two psychiatrists did.
Two psychiatrists meet on a blind date and hit it off so well they go to the nearest motel to have wild sex. Afterwards one rolls over and says to the other, “That was good for you. But how was it for me?”