Diary Of A Cakeman


Let’s hope it’s cake, eh?

My first session with a new therapist starts in an hour. I don’t know if this is a preliminary meeting with somebody who then makes recommendations about who I spend the rest of the therapy working with or if this is that person already recommended. I do know that part of me is terrified I’ll go in there, dribble down my shirt and yell “I’m a loony!” repeatedly and loudly until they institutionalise me. Another part of me is terrified in case I don’t do that.

In a last bid for freedom/normality/a half decent cup of coffee, I’m in a cafe eavesdropping on other people’s conversations to see if they all sound as mental as I feel most of the time. And the good news is that, taken as random snatches of stranger’s lives, the things they say are utterly ridiculous. In fact I’m far more sensible than anybody moaning about whether they should get the phone with the slightly better camera or the slightly longer battery life. Although I’m way less together than the woman opposite me who is managing to read J.M. Coetzee whilst balancing a plate full of cake on her lap which she’s feeding herself with a small fork and not making a total mess everywhere. Skills, madam/miss.

Oh oh, she looked at me. She knows I’m a loony. She’s going to report me to the Council For The Eradication Of Those Who Cannot Read And Eat Cake From A Plate Balanced On Their Laps Without Making A Stupid Mess. I’m done for. Save yourselves.

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