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Become a counsellor

You’re good with people. Always have been. People are constantly asking you for advice, confiding in you, telling you their secrets. True, they only do this because you beg them to but you know you’re a good listener: you’re patient, insightful and, when appropriate, happy to dispense a timely kiss. Which is why it was inevitable you’d quit the rat race and become a counsellor. “Just remember,” said former colleague SuperSteve, “there are loads of women out there who are fit and vulnerable. Cash in, my friend. If not for yourself then do it for me!”

It’s your first ever proper appointment and you’re shot through with nerves. Sue is depressed and dissatisfied with her life. “Why,” you ask Sue, “are you depressed and dissatisfied with your life?” You employ that special voice you’ve developed over the years when trying to sound sympathetic. “I don’t FACKING know,” Sue replies. “That’s why I’m FACKING ‘ere. You TWAT.” There’s a short pause. “Sue,” you venture calmly, “how would you describe your childhood?” Sue goes silent. A reflective expression passes over her face and the hint of a tear glistens at the corner of her eye. “FACKING SHORT,” she barks. “You’re no FACKING genius are you, posh-boy?” During your training there was a module dealing with difficult clients, but you were hung-over that week. “Sue,” you say again calmly, “Are there any dreams that you would like to bring?” “Yeah,” says Sue, smirking. “Last night I dreamt that I was driving along the road when I swerved onto the pavement and ran you over!” Sue’s shoulders start bobbing up and down as her laughter fills the room. She looks happy for the first time since she arrived. “That’s funny,” you say, “because last night I dreamt that I stuffed a letter bomb down the back of your jeans and blew your anus clean off.” Sue goes silent, scratches her nose then looks at her watch. “I’ve always been a good girl, daddy,” she says. “Can I go home now please?”