Sunday 3 November 2013: Documents of a Discussion With My Shrink - A Work of Fiction

This here following is a piece I wrote because I got bored on Friday afternoon, instead of studying for Economics and English, which incidentally I should be doing now, not writing this blog. So I'll be off, but not before I post the writing, obviously.

This here is a transcript of the events of a meeting with my behavioural psychologist, one Tuesday evening with rather warm weather for June, accounted for by the fact it was December.
The man was short and balding, and I feel this transcript adequately describes our relationships.
“The question, Mr Gardner, is ‘how rich is this cake?’”. The behavioural psychologist had been acting weird for the past three weeks. I couldn’t figure out why, but then again, maybe it’s my mannerisms. I’m never sure with these things.
“If the question is ‘how rich is the cake’ then tell me, how much cash does the cake have?” The question was delivered straight and punctually, although not in a box; we’re not talking about pizza.
“I don’t know, but if you want to existentialise about the socio-economic status of cake then I suggest you go elsewhere”. The therapist had this manner with all of his clients; a wry, sceptical and dry wit that often beat his clients to punchlines.
“To a … cook?” Genuine confusion, I was lumbering on after the uptake.
“No, that’s a half-baked idea. Go to a shrink or something”. Short joke setup #1. Self-deprecation gets no bonus points with me, especially when I’m in this office, with this person, in this mood.
“What, like a dwarf?” Deliberate mis-interpretation. Short joke #1.
“You’re the one with the eating problem. Do you want me to sling fat jokes at you?” He snapped this back at me, and it became clear I’d touched a nerve.
“No, I apologise.” At this point, the therapist buzzed the intercom for his secretary, who was too short to reach it mounted on the ceiling.
“Quite right, so stop throwing short jokes at me like tomatoes at a One Direction concert”. He sat down and combed his fingers through a non-existent beard.
“Well. That’s sorted. So what was the reason you called me here?”
“Discuss the cake.” Flat, deadpan. He’s serious. Or good at joking.
Either way, I have a reply … “Do you mean “Discus the cake? Like as in throw it at you like a discus. Don’t mind if I do …”
I move to throw the cake at him leaning across his desk and buzzing the intercom for the maid again while I do this (she’s short, as I’ve said).
“No! Stop!” He wasn’t entirely serious, but neither was I. I put down the cake. “Well okay. So the cake’s a cake. Just a chocolate cake with bobbles on the ends.”
He looked at me. I looked at him. Mexican standoff. Except there weren’t any guns. (Don’t make a biceps joke, it isn’t worth your time).
“Okay, fine. Eat the fucking cake.” I win. CAKE! But at the same time, fat joke #2.
“No! I won’t be spoken down to by you, of all people!” Short joke #2.
“Okay, short joke for fat joke. We’re even. Now, how’s your wife …”

This took forty minutes to write. Enjoy it? Anyway, off to study Economics ...