Dark Star

I had to take a trip to London yesterday to get some "market airtime" or whatever ridiculous name they have for such things at a "focus workshop" for my upcoming project management book with PrenticeHall; in other words a dreary self congratulatory meeting of agents selling such works in order to sign up some pre-sales agreements.

The food was a dreadful mix of limp canapes, processed chicken pulp, wet pastry, dry salad and the hotel itself, (although hotel is scarely the right term for such a place) was ghastly beyond all imagining, not having seen a coat of paint since the Crimean war. Having retreated from the party to my room at the earliest opportunity, I then retreated as fast as possible back to the street, where I joined a group of cheerful gentlemen evicted from a nearby pub for a smoke.

Two stars ????? what on earth are the two stars for ??? If one was running water and the other clean sheets then it certainly didn't qualify. Who comes up with these ratings and how often are they reviewed ??? All of which begs the question what does a one star hotel look like ? - are there any ? If you know of a one star hotel please email me so I can compare and contrast !!!!!

Swan Lake

A glorious day at last, and I have decided to make the most of it by going fishing, work can wait !
Fishing is an excellent way to start the week and really puts everything else into perspective. Firstly you are at one with nature, a part of nature, and you realise your transitory and insignificant position in the scheme of things. Secondly you realise how artificial our modern day world with all its stresses is, and that outside our cars and offices with their computers, telephones & deadlines is a real world that progresses at a more sedate speed. And thirdly there is always someone much uglier than you sitting around the opposite edge of the pool with his fat and trashy wife. Fishing should be a recognised form of therapy.

Personally I'm never bothered how much I catch, as long as its enough to feed a man for a day the time has not been wasted. I'm actually allergic to fish, and you wouldn't want to eat most of the standard fish anyway, but its the principle of self sufficiency that counts, and if ever I get a blank with the rods, its waders on and out with the shotgun !

As the Smart bumps down the muddy tracks winding its way between fallen trees and burnt out ford escorts, I wind the window down, pull out my WWII luger pistol and take a few potshots at the passing wildlife. A bunch of reeds beside the road explodes and the luger leaves a 9mm hole in the head of a rather surprised duck. Excellent - thats dinner sorted already.

As I sit by the bank wreathed in a private cloud of pipe smoke, a swan slides silently into view from behind some bullrushes and I am reminded immediately of Wagner's opera Lohengrin. I close my eyes as the gorgeous music from the prelude to act 3 swells up in my mind, my right hand subconsciously conducting with a polaris float. The swan's foot catches the line and the rod begins to bend ominously, but I am oblivious as by now Ortrud has rushed into the bridal chamber to confront Elsa and Lohengrin has been betrayed. With a neat kick the swan pulls the ledger rod into the lake snapping the quiver tip as it does so and knocking my thermos of coffee over.

A loud crack echoes suddenly across the lake. Gottfried drifts for a few feet more his right wing flapping feebly in the air before slowly rolling over on his left side and sinking beneath the surface. For once Lohengrin is avenged....

Hells Bells

Agreed to see the Reverend Spencer at last, but only because I need the cash (one session only you understand - I'm not making this a regular thing). At the appointed hour the girls all slink off into the shaddows, best mugs are hidden, cake is carted off, wraps thrown over chairs....

He's come as usual "in disguise" in his "civies", as he likes to call it, by which I mean cords, jacket, jumper, scarf instead of priestly garb, so he doesn't draw attention to himself visiting the Shrink or get the church into trouble. However he still arives in his bright yellow Nissan Micra and parks directly outside the door. The girls have great fun placing large signs in the car park around it saying "Space for use by psychiatric patients only !".

Spencer's problem is that he falls between two worlds the priestly one with little boys and closed doors, and the normal one with women and mortgages. He likes the free house, free car, little work, extensive social life etc that comes with the C of E vicar package. He's not so sure however about the dodgy uniform, dodgy boss, dodgy sexual advances from work colleagues, or indeed the whole sleeping with men thing. Not a problem you say, there's plenty of straight C of E vicars out there some married, some actually women ! But as I pointed out to him myself the problem was the uniform, the boss, the advance, not the fact it was dodgy. Oh no ! Dodgy was in Reverend Spencer's eyes very good.

Spencer enthusiastically talks about everthing (or rather everyone) since his last visit; a 13 year old girl playing tennis at the sport centre, a confused old pensioner in the park behind tescos, a middle age teacher at the bus stop, but mostly, endlessly about Miss Scott. Miss Scott is one of the bell ringers at Cleeve, a strapping country women in her late fourties with two dogs and a freelander. (She also goes to Weightwatchers). He's almost drooling as he describes how he looks up through the cracks in the tower's floorboards and suddenly he whips out a digital camera.

I light up and slowly help myself to another cup from the blackened old Samovar in the corner. I do not want to see or even imagine thunderous thighs clad in Burgundy woollen tights flying around Cleeve's beautiful norman church. I remind him that Miss Scott is a wealthy lady and not married, has he talked to her about this ? He looks horrified, what would be the fun in that !!

I glance a look at the clock, and stir the slice of lemon in my tea slowly. I realize that sometimes if you cure a person they'd have no personality left.

Sicko !

Argh I am overcome ! The grey weather, a sudden lack of cake at the village hall, a corrupt save game file, and listening to a succession of patients (ok three), whine about their own problems has left me feelling depressed and considering my own. Most psychologists have their own problems (that's why they are interested in the subject) and I often wonder how we are supposed to empathise with a patient when our own experiences are so much worse.

Now I additionally have deadlines for two large manuscripts, a report on the Nailsea archealogical dig and the first chapters of my project management manual. I can't bring myself to touch either of them. My depressed mood rapidly turns into a cold, then full blown influenza.
Only today, after burning through Oliver James'es latest, a book on dueling, one on the summer of 1911, one on Elizabeth I, Helen Mirren's autobiography and finally Heston Blumenthal's Perfection do I stagger back to the surgery for tea and cake.

Jane's therapy is coming along well, she is beginning to find certain types of comfort food distasteful, my coughing mucus all over the cake no doubt adding to the effect...

On a Roll

Second session with Jane this afternoon and I have rigged up the playstation specifically.
A minor modification now delivers a strong electric shock down the cable and through the controller whenever a food item is displayed on screen. The system works well but there are a limited number of food related two player games available on the playstation at the momment. I shall have to consider modifying the graphics files on Medal of Honor & Black.......

The Back of Bracknell

Travelled to Bracknell yesterday with my agent to meet the publishers Prentice Hall who are, or perhaps that should be "were", interested in my new book on project management. What a god aweful place that is, and for a momment I thought of Alison on her beach in Turkey. I knew the day was going to be depressing when after emerging from some bombshelter/carpark I asked a stall holder where there was a Starbucks or simmilar, and he asked me what Starbucks was ! I could have cried. Personally I'd swap Surrey for Siberia any day of the week but the agent says I don't actually have to come here for him to be paid so not to panic, and produces a cardboard mug of some steaming Americano style coffee beverage from behind his back. I wipe away the tears and follow him to the brick and concrete bunker that passes as the publisher's HQ.

Three judges sit behind a desk and scowl at me. They tell me to get on with my pitch - luckilly they publish thesauruses and what with the help of these and the odd translation from my agent I was able to understand most of what they said. I was certainly happy to enthuse about the book but theirs looks were as blank as their cheque books.

"So what's special about your new technique ?"
"I'm not advocating a new technique" - my agent coughs,
"Sure, sure but what are you teaching them ...Whats the big message ?"
"I'm not teaching them anything, the message is to carry on as before...."
My agent coughs again and tries to interupt. "what my client means is....."
"Positive reinforcement eh.... I see- So how do they know which bits they were doing before were right?"
"No you don't see. It doesn't matter what they were doing before, however bad it was, my book says that was great. Everybody's great already, that's the point"

Everybody didn't look great and my agent forcefully ejected me from the room while he went back in to explain on my behalf. I shrugged called them idiots and lit my pipe and sauntered off down the corridor. Clearly these people weren't thinking straight, perhaps that constant alarm in the background had dulled their senses. It was as I was wondering about this that I was forcefully ejected from the building by a mad woman in a luminous yellow jacket. I was surprised to see my agent along with the panel of judges and two fire crews, already in the car park.

I can only assume that my agent was annoyed at himself for failling to adequately explain the intricacies of my book to the publishers as the journey back was in stoney silence appart from an occasional abusive shout when I lit my pipe in the car. It seems there will be no advance at this time and some mention of fines being deducted from royalties, whatever that means. To be honest I shall be happy to see the back of Bracknell.

Getting Somewhere

Spent the day yesterday on the big dig at Nailsea enveloped in a cloud of pipe smoke and expletives, trying to scrape away 200 years of mud that swamped the site in last week's heavy rain. I am due to write a report on medieval Nailsea by the end of the month and at this rate I'll have to make it all up.

Checking the messages on the answerphone this morning reveals that Reverend Spencer has called from the neighbouring parish of Cleeve. I am always loathed to get involved with councelling members of the church (although it always pays extremely well), as their problems are always deviant in the extreme and I find it difficult to be empathetic with bishops who are serial poisoners or priests that are serial sex offenders. Still I may have to consider this option if cash isn't forthcoming soon. I decide to put some more effort into this project management book inorder to avoid Rev Spencer for another month. I pack my pipe carefully with my best Borkum Riff tobacco and light up ....

I note down many potential links between psychology and project management on my pad but nothing seems like the starting point for a methodological vision and after half an hour stomp off after Mrs Huggins for tea & cake. Despite the obvious warming benefits of my pipe there are great cries of ""Get that bloody thing out of here !!!", and grabbing mug of tea but not cake, I am forced to comply.

From the carpark I watch the feckless citizens of Backwell lost in their own little worlds trudge their way to Spar, the doctors', or whatever equally depressing destination they have that day. It occurs to me that people do not on the whole want advice or guidance, and that when they do seek the opinions of others it is only in order to confirm their already existing opinions and to reassure them that what they have done all along is correct. An elderly lady in a headscarf billows across the busy road with her two carriers of shopping oblivious to the squeeling of brakes, whilst a young mum chatting on a mobile phone launches her toddler in its pram off from the pavement. These people are not project managers scanning the shelves of Borders for the latest career saving guidebook, but perhaps deep down their basic human requirements are the same. Perhaps my methodolgy should treat the reader as the patient not the pychologist (its never good to share trade secrets anyway there are far too many amateur psychologists as it is). How much better to soothe the reader's professional fears and anxieties than to present them with a completely new set of practices, methods and phrases they will have to actually learn at a time in their life when they are already stressed and anxious. Think how much more financially successful a book that says "you're great" would be than a book that says "ha you know nothing !". Now we're getting somewhere.

A loud blast from a horn wakes me from my revelry. "Oi mate are you getting on or not ?" From nowhere a bus has appeared and through steamy windows I notice about 40 of Backwell's finest shaking their heads and tutting at me. "You'll have to put that out too we're no smoking now- mores the shame !" For the first time I notice the sign on the metal post I'm leaning against. 34,40,43X Clevedon via Nailsea. "In that case no thanks " I reply cheerfully "I've got work to do"....

Food For Thought

My agent has phoned to tell me that there is a 8 week contract in Bracknell as 2nd french horn in the children's musical "Little Johnny and the magic green hat"which, no offence to the producer, I think I'll pass up, and has instead suggested that I write a project management handbook of some description. He tells me there is a taste for such things at the momment and if I linked it to Secret Six (or whatever its called) I could jump on the popular bandwagon. In some ways I like the idea of combining psychology with project management, and I particularly like the sound of the advance. I quickly scrabble for a catchy title made of acronyms - it shouldn't be hard - Create, Requirements, Analyse, Perform etc, or my favourite Analyse, Record, Stage & Execute. Perhaps there's something in this. I'll give it a go.

First session with Jane this afternoon went well. Psychologists normally just get the patient to talk while they listen vaguely for the first few sessions. Personally I find that a two player playstation game is an excellent way to let conversations flow without much thought or fear of intimidation - and I managed to complete the level where you storm the ruined church much more easily in two player mode.

We decide to connect her fridge to MSN Messenger using some software I wrote in order to help her keep a diary of what she eats when, and I show her how she can use the same connection to automatically re-order food on-line from Tescos.

No charge this time..

Foul

Its a foul day and the rain continues to lash down after an equally foul night, through which I hardly slept at all thanks to a late night call from the Inland Revenue. Concerned about the amount of rainfall I take a detour into work via the big dig in Nailsea, only to find that a collapse of the walls of the digsite has buried my excavations in nearly 200 years of mud !

At the invitation of Steve Williams (President of Nailsea's historical society) I had only begun a dig in late June to explore medieval Nailsea (or "NaySay" as it was then called), and this morning all that hard work seemed to have been undone - but more of that on my main site.

Once back in Backwell, neither Mrs Huggins or Miss Grey could improve my mood, and I apparently ate three flapjacks in a row whilst listening to the cancellation messages on the answerphone. I need to find a serious cash source, especially after my expensive weekend in Bavaria. I call my agent (and search the web) for Contract french horn playing positions. Nothing ! Can you believe it ! - I stomp off outside with my tea mug for a long smoke and don't return.

Rocket Man

Back again in dew & frost clad Somerset after a fabulous weekend in Bavaria, which has left me somewhat out of pocket, and I must confess that I feel every bit as depressed as my ex-patient Alison must have done. I had if you remember used the excuse of a patient with an eating disorder to fly out to the Oktoberfest and visit Dr Bayer of the University Hospital of Straubing.

After a beer soaked evening at the fest on friday, the following day I attended Dr.Bayer's clinic, an incredibly modern hospital full of glass walls and chrome seats, housed as it is in a fabulous medieval building up in the wooded hills above the river Danube.

Dr.Bayer's work is at the cutting, nay bleeding edge of modern psychology & psychiatry, but after bandaging his patients up, most make a full and remarkable recovery. Whilst discussing treatment for eating disorders, Klaus showed me a patient (a typical German male) who was hooked up to a computer via a large bundle of cables and munching on wurst. The computer slowly tracked the chemical changes in the brain as sausage after sausage raised the pleasure levels, before the anxiety of an empty plate dragged them down again. Another patient was drinking beer from a metal stein and received shocks of increasing voltage with every swig.


I took the most of this opportunity to absorb as much knowledge as possible, and toured the facility for myself. The town of Straubing floods regularly and Dr.Bayer has a whole department dedicated to overcoming flooding and other water related traumas. Here I met one of his patients a certain Herr Hartman totally submerged in a glass tank full of water with only a small air pipe to keep him alive and struggling frantically.

Klaus explained that Herr Hartman was planning to become the first Bavarian in space after collecting a number of old U-Boats which a friend of his was going to blast into orbit from a disused brewery near the airport. But Hartman himself was both claustrophobic and scared of the dark, and facilities for experiencing zero gravity in NiederBayern are limited.

On Sunday, after another evening of heavy drinking, I decided to visit the Bavarian rocket expert Professor Koenigsbauer and was whisked to the old brewery in Erding by Dr Bayer in his huge bulletproof Mercedes, (who was clearly after a new client).

Amongst the forest of conning towers, funnels and communication masts of the brewery we found Professor Koenigsbauer and joined him for lunch (half a pig with a jar of sauerkraut).
"Oh yes.." he explained as if space travel was the third most popular hobby in Bavaria, " we are sending small rockets and payloads into space all the time. Normally small things like beer cans or bottles, (sometimes we put messages or cameras in them, its very funny) but we are very close to launching something much bigger.....The U-boat is ideal really as it is already air tight and aerodynamic...."

Being careful to only mention the first world war, I suggest that U-Boats were scarcely airtight at the time, never mind in their rusted condition nearly a century later. Koenigsbauer seems unconcerned. Hartman it seems has a veritable collection of specimins to choose from stored in temperature and humidity controlled conditions in his garage on the outskirts of Munich, and
Gunther von Hagen has apparently agreed to seal the casing in plastic. I ask Professor Koenigsbauer how close he really is to launching something as heavy as a U-Boat. He grins and mumbles something into his Handy. My cynism begins to fade however as a deafenning roar breaks out and we are consumed by heavy oilly smoke. A dark shaddow followed by a long firey tail streaks before my eyes. When the smoke has cleared it reveals the hideously mutated shape of what might once have been a 1992 Nissan R32 Skyline with an Energia rocket bolted to the chasis. With an estimated 46MN of thrust its certainly Bavaria's scariest Nissan, and at the wheel grinning ear to ear is Herr Hartman.

Its all a very far cry from my poor little blue plasticy Smart car as it skins its way to the village hall in Backwell this morning....

Oktoberfest

I write this entry through the heavy fog of a hangover, with the strains of Anton aus Tyrol still thumping in my ears. Fortunately Dr. Bayer has a patented antidote for this very state although I have chosen to skip the Spice Girls part of the cure....

Klaus met me at the airport and immediately whisked me away to the Marienweise where the party was in full swing. As no spaces were available in the Paulaner tent he pulled the old trick of calling an ambulance and carting a whole table away to be sectioned. Statistically he points out the majority would have needed treatment anyway.... Oh to be a respected professional.

As usual Dr. Bayer begins to recommed advanced treatment that either involves surgery illegal in the UK or some type of therapy involving bondage, however when I show him Jane's photos he quickly agrees that councelling is the best way forward. He has of course several cases he can show me tomorrow. More wurst and brezl please.

I quiz Klaus on the habits of sausage eating and mustard in Bavaria as we down our third mass and I note that Dr. Bayer himself meticulously skins the sausage before eating it. What does this tell a German psychologist about a person and how does this differ from an English psychologist's analysis. "With wurst it is politics not psychology" states Klaus, "you are brought up in one camp or the other", and speaking of camp the Tyrolean Dancers (all men) crash onto the stage to much applause.

In a land where the women are all so butch, I wonder as I take another litre stein from our formidable waitress (a brunnhilde carrying at least 30 of same), is there additional pressure on the men to express their feminine sides ? Dr. Bayer dismisses this with a large belch. "These guys are Rheinlanders" he says, "this is why they are gayish. In Bavaria even the men are manly" and as if in support of this statement everyone rises to their feet with a great fanfare, holds steins aloft, and following a signal from the brass band downs the remainder and puts the glasses upside down on their heads. Like most of the foreigners there I spill most of mine.

"Noch mal ein Masse fur der Englander !!!!"

I am still enclined to disagree with Klaus, as midget sized gentlemen with bells on their shoes, flowers on their jackets and feathers in their hats stomp about on stage raising toasts, to everyone and everything. But as my vision is now seriously blurred around the edges, and my third attempt to physically pick up a Brezl fails, I decide to leave the discusssion to tomorrow.

"Ja noch mals bitte...."

Weight Watchers....

Attended the Weight Watchers meeting in Backwell Village Hall last night as instructed by Mrs Huggins, and it was every bit as bad as I'd feared. Was horrified to see Miss Scott there but more of her later...

Much like the Church of England, Weight Watchers appears to be a social club for middle aged women who sit about in drafty halls discussing who should be voted off on the latest reality tv shows and slagging off whichever of their colleagues aren't there that evening. Cleverly the weight watchers organisation has cashed in on this phenomena which it uses to sell its own products, particularly receipe books, which to my untrained and sceptical eye (I'm only a Leith trainned Cordon Bleu cookery school chef) seem to contain recipes that are no less fattening than those in any other book. However unlike the C of E cakes and other goodies were brought in and distributed by all, and I'm not afraid to say that most I sampled were excellent. Clearly some practicing has gone on here behind the scenes.

I nursed my mug of tea at the back of the hall and munched noisilly as the weigh in proceeded.
Although all of the attendees could clearly have benefitted from psychotherapy, with the sole exception of one poor girl who weighed a gazillion tonnes and was obviously not part of the normal group, it would not have been their weight that was causing the problem. Freud's speciality was the neuroses of middle aged, middle class women and he'd have had a field day - what with the cakes and everything - but I did not feel that my standard sales pitch ("You're clearly a nutter, would you like to pay for some professional help....") would have achieved much success.

I decided to speak to the young girl at least with a view to saving her from having to attend such a dreadful social event again. As with so many people her current obesity stemmed from comfort eating, although by now she had compounded the problem with periods of bolemea and other problems. I decided to take her on as a local authority sponsored patient as I do not currently have any patients of this type on the books, and she infinitely preferred the sound of a warm afternoon with the Playstation 3 to a night in a cold old church hall.

With the Munich Oktoberfest well under way, I have decided to fly out to the beer halls before my first session with Jane in order to drink/consult with my old friend Dr. Klaus Bayer from the University Hospital of Straubing. Dr Bayer is an expert in using Suggestion Theory & hypnosis in order to change the everyday behaviour of his patients, and is most famous for his success getting Germans to actually cross an empty road when the traffic lights still said don't cross.

We shall see if between us we can subconsciously get Jane to regulate her eating habits by inducing a mild food phobia.

Shocking

No patients again today so after a morning of repeatedly dying miserably on Medal Of Honor Vanguard ( I do love killing Germans - I blame being brought up by my grandmother....), I decide to practice my ECT for re-certification. Like most sane people, (and everyone insane) I am completely opposed to the use of ECT, too many bad memories of it being used on me I suppose, (you need an ECT to get over its effects), however its great fun to administer to others and these days you need a certificate.

I spent a great deal of time searching for a power socket in the drafty old hall you'd be amazed how few these old building have. No I'm not going to unplug my playstation, its on pause to save the game at that particular point where my sniper's taken out the guy on the MG42 and I'm about to rush the barn.

Having located a suitable socket I then proceeded to administer shocks to anyone passing - the cables don't reach very far. Great fun especially hearing Mrs Huggins scream as I fired the paddles across her backside.

She wasn't impressed and refused to pour me a cup of tea from those vast teapots they keep permenantly manned like some WWII airraid gun. Aparently I'll have to offer my services at wednesday night's Weight Watchers class by way of compensation, although I received another slap when I said I'd see her there then !

Holiday Blues

It is a typical dreadful autumn day here in Backwell. It is cold and blustery, the skies are leaden, and drizzle lashes fat middle age people in waxed macs and oversize wellington boots as they slip across the rotting leaf mulch caught in the broken pavements on the way to the old village hall where the locum psychologist holds court. How far they seem to have fallen from the heady baccardi breezer nights of last month, when beautiful young people writhed with their partners on the dance floors on the seafront all the way round the mediterranean.

Perhaps a fall too far, at least for this morning's patient.

Alison had been coming to see me since the start of the month to help her cope with depression following her return from holiday last august. Everyone experiences those holiday blues when the plane touches down again in Gatwick, and understandably. Its not just an end of fun and a return to work, but its also a return to the responsibilites that we have either been temporarilly relieved of (eg feeding, housing and employing ourselves), or have simply ignored (eg finances). This depression affects us not just mentally, but in terms of a real chemical reaction too.

For most people the depression passes in a couple of days with the return to the usual routine and our bodies chemically isolate us from these euphoric experiences so we can cope with everyday life. But after a month Alison was still suffering, and showing the clear chemical imbalances caused by depression. For Alison a depressive state was beginning to become the routine.

If Alison was expecting a course of positive re-inforcement therapy and a free handout of prozac she was to be sorely mistaken. I have lived abroad for many years, and travelled widely (not always entirely by choice). I know what it is like to socialise in the cafe societies of the continent, to belch in time to a brass band, to collapse unconscious in a heap on a sandy beach and wake up with the sunrise next morning. I know that there are many countries with warmer weather, lower taxes, lower crime rates, better healthcare and education, that make better cars and have a more sustainable approach to the environment. I have seen outside the box so what to suggest.

For a plump depressed 43 year old single mum, who worked parttime in the Co-op in Backwell the answer was simple.

I applied to the Local Health Trust to release funds for Alison to receive extensive long term treatment in a private clinic. Once cleared I used the cash to buy Alison a small apartment near Marmaris . This morning I finally waved her, and her son, (renamed Sakir after some bloke she met last august) off from Bristol airport on a flight to Turkey where she can start a new, and certainly less depressing life than would be possible for her in the UK.

Case Closed !