Loading ...The highs and lows of life in Joburg, a personal curiosity that kicks in after thirty and probably a little peer pressure (everyone else does, so shouldn’t I?) has led me to explore the Western concept of the shrink.
I’m on visit number four and Floppy is starting to get interesting. It’s a bit difficult to take someone seriously who is dressed from the seventies, complete with shiny large belt buckle, too short trousers and a diamond stitch jumper. But he has me intrigued.
Our sessions are gratuitous and self-indulgent. For an hour I get to witter on about the paltry issues that are getting up my nose — the complexities of work, wanting to travel more, will I finish my next epic cycle ride, why do I struggle to get out of bed for a run in the morning, will I ever understand the rules of rugby?
He listens to my vapid prattle with a finger across the chin and a look of intense seriousness.
Occasionally he’ll come out of his reverie and throw in a line, so bland that it actually gets me thinking, and I leave justifying the small Ferrari he is clearly buying on my personal account.
But on Tuesday he climbed out of his Thinker pose (I was chattering about cycling — a topic which induces much eye-glazing and a bit of drool amongst those who can’t balance on two wheels) and suddenly declared to the room that the reason I am so topsy-turvy and sport-focused is because I am missing my penis.
And as a result of this affliction, I suffer an intense form of castration which affects me in my daily life.
I sat in the wing backed chair and had a long think. And then a quiet laugh. And then I looked at him a little nervously and said I don’t think I would look good with a penis.
He spent a while telling me that I need to face up to my feelings of castration before giving up on this monologue, and slowly sank back into his diamond-patterned jumper.
Leaving me to muse about the fun I could have scratching my bits and making jokes abut my ball-ache of a week.
Now that really would be therapeutic.
