Therapy

‘Hello, my name’s Rupert and I’m a writing addict. I haven’t written anything now for ooh… must be four, five weeks. It’s a struggle but…’

Rupert breaks down to murmurs of, ‘We’re here for you man’.

The community centre room is decked out with pre-school depictions of “people who help us”. I spot a yellow and brown stick man bent hopelessly backwards eating flowers or it’s possibly a horse. As Rupert begins to lose the will to live, I slide backwards and reach for a pot of play-doh to sniff. Oh YES! That stuff is surely good enough for kids to eat, mm-mmm!

Angry Ange, the ex-hippie who’s not written anything happy since 1967, beckons me (angrily) to join the pity party. But I’m cured now.

‘Rupert!’ I shout, ‘Sort yourself out.’

Ange blows a fuse as shocked silence ensues. Just the hum of the night storage radiator and the echoing clank of a corridor door.

And an author’s ‘later!’

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