In the waiting room

In the waiting room, there are tiny canvases, about six inches square, with foreboding messages. Protect yourself against the dangers! Some are addressed to children, some to women:

With the glitter, even with the Rothko colours that could go either way. “Hello”! How lovely! But-

If you find a new friend, it is too good to be true. “The man I met was nothing but a scam.”

Bully and victim.

Disconnected. Mental. Hate. Confused. Fake. Insecure. Disgusting. Vulnerable. Stop.

The word on Olly’s phone is “Target”. Is it too much?

All too much? After the session, in the supermarket I hear a man snap out an order- as if he has had to fire his underling for stupidity and uselessness, but the underling has been made to work her notice by his managers specifically to belittle and insult him, and he has not the grace to rise above it but wants to make everyone else as miserable as he.

“Put the milk in the buggy!”

Surely, that could not be his partner? That could not be their child, in the pushchair?

I retuned the radio from the local station to Radio 3. “Hello,” said someone behind me. I ignored her. “Would you like us to move the tree?” The potted shrub was tickling my neck. “Maybe later,” she said.

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