away his cheque book.
‘I’ve a few more medical articles on the stocks. I’d also thought of trying my hand at a bit of copywriting – you know, “Don’t let your girdle be a hurdle, we make a snazzier brassière,” and so on.’
Miles winced. ‘Gaston looking for another job?’ asked Connie, appearing with the coffee. ‘That’s no problem anyway. A bright young man like him should he in demand anywhere.’
A bit infra dig , I thought, a doctor going to a psychiatrist. Like a fireman ringing the station to say his house was alight. I didn’t remember much of the psychiatry course at St Swithin’s myself, except the afternoon Tony Benskin was left to hypnotize a young woman with headaches, and once he’d got her in the responsible state suggested she took her blouse off. Apparently Tony’s hypnotic powers are low voltage, because the girl clocked him one against the corner of the instrument cupboard. Quite some confusion it caused when the chief psychiatrist came in, to find the patient stamping about shouting and the doctor unconscious.
But I dutifully appeared at Dr Punce’s rooms in Wimpole Street the following afternoon, and found him a tall, thin fellow in striped trousers, a pince-nez on a black ribbon, and side-whiskers. I was shown in by a blonde nurse, which put me in a awkward position at the start – if I gave her the usual once-over the psychiatrist might decide something pretty sinister, and on the other hand, if I didn’t, he might decide something even worse. I hit on a compromise, and asked her what the time was.
I took a seat and prepared for him to dig into my subconscious, shaking the psychopathic worms out of every spadeful.
‘I don’t suppose you treat many doctors?’ I began.
‘I assure you that all professions are fully represented in my case-books.’
‘Psychiatry is the spice of life, and all that?’ I laughed.
But he had no sense of humour, either. ‘The note I have from your cousin mentions your difficulty in finding congenial employment,’ he went on, offering me a cigarette, as psychiatrists always do.
I nodded. ‘Miles seems to think I should find a job with security. Though frankly I rather prefer insecurity. But I suppose that’s a bit of a luxury these welfare days.’
‘H’m. I am now going to recite a succession of words. I wish you to say the first word that comes into your head in reply. Light?’
‘No, it’s going very well, thank you. I’ve got some matches of my own.’
‘That is the first word.’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry. Yes, of course. Er – sun.’
‘Night?’
‘Club.’
‘H’m. Sex?’
‘Psychiatrists.’
‘Line?’
‘Sinker.’
‘Straight?’
‘Finishing.’
‘Crooked?’
‘Psychiatrists. I say, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to say that at all.’
Dr Punce sat for a while with his eyes closed. I was wondering if he’d had a large lunch and dozed off, when he went on, ‘Dr Grimsdyke, I have had a particularly heavy month with my practice. I fear that I am sometimes tempted to be rude to my more difficult patients.’
‘If it’s any consolation,’ I sympathized with him, ‘I’m tempted quite often too. But don’t worry – the feeling will pass. I recommend a few days in the open air.’
‘Have you heard the story of the donkey and the salt?’ he asked bleakly.
‘No, I don’t think I have.’ I settled down to listen, knowing that psychiatrists pick up quite a few good ones in the run of their work.
‘I’d like you to follow it carefully. There was once a donkey who fell into the water, crossing a stream on a very hot day with a load of salt. Eventually he got to his feet, feeling greatly relieved because the water had dissolved his burden. The next day he was crossing the stream loaded with sponges. This time he deliberately fell, but the sponges soaked up so much water the donkey was unable to rise at all. The animal succumbed. What do you think of that?’
‘Ha ha!’ I said. ‘Jolly
‘I’ve a few more medical articles on the stocks. I’d also thought of trying my hand at a bit of copywriting – you know, “Don’t let your girdle be a hurdle, we make a snazzier brassière,” and so on.’
Miles winced. ‘Gaston looking for another job?’ asked Connie, appearing with the coffee. ‘That’s no problem anyway. A bright young man like him should he in demand anywhere.’
A bit infra dig , I thought, a doctor going to a psychiatrist. Like a fireman ringing the station to say his house was alight. I didn’t remember much of the psychiatry course at St Swithin’s myself, except the afternoon Tony Benskin was left to hypnotize a young woman with headaches, and once he’d got her in the responsible state suggested she took her blouse off. Apparently Tony’s hypnotic powers are low voltage, because the girl clocked him one against the corner of the instrument cupboard. Quite some confusion it caused when the chief psychiatrist came in, to find the patient stamping about shouting and the doctor unconscious.
But I dutifully appeared at Dr Punce’s rooms in Wimpole Street the following afternoon, and found him a tall, thin fellow in striped trousers, a pince-nez on a black ribbon, and side-whiskers. I was shown in by a blonde nurse, which put me in a awkward position at the start – if I gave her the usual once-over the psychiatrist might decide something pretty sinister, and on the other hand, if I didn’t, he might decide something even worse. I hit on a compromise, and asked her what the time was.
I took a seat and prepared for him to dig into my subconscious, shaking the psychopathic worms out of every spadeful.
‘I don’t suppose you treat many doctors?’ I began.
‘I assure you that all professions are fully represented in my case-books.’
‘Psychiatry is the spice of life, and all that?’ I laughed.
But he had no sense of humour, either. ‘The note I have from your cousin mentions your difficulty in finding congenial employment,’ he went on, offering me a cigarette, as psychiatrists always do.
I nodded. ‘Miles seems to think I should find a job with security. Though frankly I rather prefer insecurity. But I suppose that’s a bit of a luxury these welfare days.’
‘H’m. I am now going to recite a succession of words. I wish you to say the first word that comes into your head in reply. Light?’
‘No, it’s going very well, thank you. I’ve got some matches of my own.’
‘That is the first word.’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry. Yes, of course. Er – sun.’
‘Night?’
‘Club.’
‘H’m. Sex?’
‘Psychiatrists.’
‘Line?’
‘Sinker.’
‘Straight?’
‘Finishing.’
‘Crooked?’
‘Psychiatrists. I say, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to say that at all.’
Dr Punce sat for a while with his eyes closed. I was wondering if he’d had a large lunch and dozed off, when he went on, ‘Dr Grimsdyke, I have had a particularly heavy month with my practice. I fear that I am sometimes tempted to be rude to my more difficult patients.’
‘If it’s any consolation,’ I sympathized with him, ‘I’m tempted quite often too. But don’t worry – the feeling will pass. I recommend a few days in the open air.’
‘Have you heard the story of the donkey and the salt?’ he asked bleakly.
‘No, I don’t think I have.’ I settled down to listen, knowing that psychiatrists pick up quite a few good ones in the run of their work.
‘I’d like you to follow it carefully. There was once a donkey who fell into the water, crossing a stream on a very hot day with a load of salt. Eventually he got to his feet, feeling greatly relieved because the water had dissolved his burden. The next day he was crossing the stream loaded with sponges. This time he deliberately fell, but the sponges soaked up so much water the donkey was unable to rise at all. The animal succumbed. What do you think of that?’
‘Ha ha!’ I said. ‘Jolly
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