The fear of the dark and the fear of the dead and the fear of running towards the phone box on the hill. I went to talk to someone who might be able to help me with this. I was ready, I thought, ready to talk, ready to explain and to describe the ploughed field on the hill and the red telephone box that rang and rang and rang. Really, I was tired. So tired.
The room I was ushered into was calm and quiet, with books on the shelves and charts on the walls and an ambient lighting system.
Oh yes, I thought. This will be okay. It will be fine. And I talked, and I talked, explaining and describing to the man who nodded intelligently and made small noises that were mostly made up of the letter M.
I had a horrible moment when I thought;
"This man has no idea what I'm talking about!"
But I pulled myself together. This man is used to his visitors thinking that. He knows that I'm thinking that. But he's still listening to me. He's an experienced man, and whenever I telephone him he answers without fear. That's good. Isn't it? Surely?
And after I don't know how many sessions, how many hours, here I am. Waiting to hear what it is that I want to hear. Wanting to hear what I wait to hear. I love to hear it. It's a waterfall to a man who's dying of thirst. It's electricity to a man who's out of battery. It's an alternative to the ploughed field, and not having to answer the phone in the telephone box. That's what it's like. But I must tell you. I'm still tired. So tired.
Again. Again, I was running through the sticky claggy ploughed field, up the hill, and the phone is ringing.