freaky friday...

I had an almost surreal day last Friday. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a poster for a film called 'Surreal Friday', so I had to make do with this one.

My day began with me sleeping in. Something that I haven't done for ages. The problem for me is that I am terrible at rushing around in the morning. I need to have at least an hour sitting doing nothing but drinking coffee and smoking fags before I can even contemplate getting dressed. I gave up the rushing around stuff years ago, and now if I am late in the morning, then that's that. I phoned my therapist to let her know that I wouldn't be able to see her for my 8.30am session, and settled down to a relaxing morning. I don't work on Fridays anymore, and use the day for all my therapy stuff, supervision, seeing clients, those sorts of things.

Got a phone call just after 1pm from the place where I see my clients to find out where I was. Doh! The week before I had arranged to meet with a fellow therapist, who I hadn't actually met before, at 1pm to talk about us running a group together. I had forgot all about it. I spoke to him, and apologised profusely. The problem with forgetting anything in therapy is the niggly idea that maybe you just didn't want to do it. And if I am honest with myself, I guess there is some truth in that. When I spoke with this fella the previous week I had finished the telephone conversation thinking "he sounds a bit strange."

I asked him if we could rearrange the meeting, and he said, "well...what's to prevent you from 'forgetting' that meeting to?" To which I answered, "abolutely nothing!". By the end of our conversation we had agreed to meet that afternoon at 4pm, and I felt absolutely raging angry with him. More convinced that ever that here was a very strange person, but willing to consider that maybe I was picking up on how angry he was with me for standing him up.

We met as arranged. I noticed that his right hand was covered in sticky plasters. He had a plaster on his wrist and every finger had a plaster on it. In fact, his index finger had three on it. I did what anyone would do in the circumstances and asked him what had happened to his hand. In a deep, droning, monotone voice, he said, "Well I got myself into a bit of a to-do last night. I was being bullied by this man in the pub and he pushed me into a corner, so I smashed a glass over his head." He went on to decribe a chase through the streets of London, and how he eventually found sanctuary in a Chinese restaurant. As he was telling the story, he kept glancing at me and smiling, as if he was looking for my approval. You know, just lads together, that sort of thing. I listened to him in a slightly shocked silence, and eventually said to him, "I don't want to work with you. I don't want to run a group with you. I am very concerned about what you have told me and I don't want to work with anyone who thinks violence is okay."

At this point he surprised me by suggesting that we move things forward and talk about our different therapeutic techniques! I said, "NO! I do not want to run the group with you, and I am so concerned by what you have told I feel I have to report our conversation to...[the manager of the agency]."

Things just kept getting stranger. He then said, "I told you all that in confidence, and now you are going to grass me up..." It was a bit like we were adolescent boys, and he was invoking the secret rule about grassing people up.

I just couldn't be bothered talking to him anymore, and told him that our meeting was over and I was leaving. As I got up to leave, I said, "I'm sorry that this has been a wasted day for you." I am not entirely sure why I said this. My only excuse is that I am British, and I often feel the urge to apologise for things, even when they have nothing to do with me. He replied, "So you won't be reimbursing me?" I said, "Pardon!" He finished by muttered something about, "Oh, it doesn't matter."

It didn't occur to me until much later that all of this had happened on the same day. I had felt kind of disconnected from the world all day. I think it started with sleeping in, and continued through to meeting with this fella. Everything had a slightly dreamy, surreal, quality to it. I felt a bit like Tim Robbins in 'Jacob's Ladder'. At least his problems turned to be drug induced, or maybe they were, who knows.

There is no moral to this tale. Just the telling. And I am done.