Choosing a therapist must be a tricky business. This amiable, trendy, child-psychopatherapist man struck me as just the right dose of happy-go-lucky potion when he first arrived into the studio. He was looking to have some promotional gift mugs designed to give to people who, presumably, he had gauged as prepossessing of some deep-seated mental deficiency or psychological darkness that would soon need the delicate probings of a penis envier with a couch. He was all talk of the developing id and the importance of helping a child to share, emotionally and I have to say that we were all quite taken. Little did we suspect the boiling Versuvius that slept restlessly beneath this sunny facade.
He arrived back into the studio about ten minutes ago, snarling and finger-pointing and smashing his mugs.
(That's him in the picture)
Never leave your child alone with this man!
Oh, and retrospectively, I stand by my typesetting.
Sometimes no amount of proofs can save you!...
I have to shake my shaggy head at the proportion of classless yahoos that cling like ass-worms to the notion that the makings of a man are a really big spoiler and blue downlights. Nowhere is this more true than in the primordial ooze of Ireland's midlands.
