Southend U3A

October 2023

The Therapy Room - Anne Wilson

He knocked on the door with trepidation, being a man easily cowed by authority figures. A stentorian voice boomed out.

‘Enter!’

Turning the handle gently, he made his way across the room, briefly taking in its surroundings even before appraising the person sitting behind the desk. Although he was entering a clinic, he noted that everything had been done to disguise the fact. In reality, it was more like being in someone’s living room – and more importantly, someone with taste. The walls had been painted in neutral, yet pleasing colours, in order to provide an aura of calm and here and there a picture (all of soothing images) had been placed on them in adornment. Neither the desk (the only item remotely clinical) nor the man behind it, dominated the room. Instead, the focal piece was a large, comfortable-looking sofa – the sort of item of furniture into which, in different circumstances, someone’s frame could sink down, doze off and then find themselves waking feeling relaxed and contented.

‘Please sit down,’ said the analyst, gesturing vaguely at the sofa as he did so. He glanced down at his notes. ‘I see you’ve come to see me without a referral, Mr. Bottomley.’

‘Is that a problem?’ asked the patient feeling disconcerted.

The analyst smiled, which lightened up his gaunt, saturnine face and made him seem much more human.

‘Not at all. Now, what seems to be the trouble?’

‘Well, at the end of the day I suppose it is what it is,’ the patient said, his brow furrowed with worry.

The analyst looked at him quizzically and the patient lowered his head in embarrassment.

‘Can’t you tell?’ he whispered. ‘I can’t stop talking in cliches. I’ve been doing it all the time for the past three weeks. Hardly a moment goes by when I don’t think of one. I’ve got several in the back of my mind right now and I’m willing myself not to say any of them to you, but I know one’s going to pop out when I least expect it. As sure as eggs are eggs.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’

The analyst leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. Whether that was intended to make him look less professorial and therefore less intimidating, it was hard to tell.

’You’re not alone,’ he reassured his patient. ‘The problem is sweeping the Nation. So much so that the disease has now been entered in The Lancet as Cliché 23. And don’t worry, I think your last remark about the eggs may be regarded as more of an idiom than a cliché.’

‘Only time will tell,’ responded the patient without thinking and kicked himself metaphorically.

The analyst coughed. ‘Quite,’ he replied. ‘I have to be very frank with you, Mr. Bottomley, it will take some effort on your part to rid yourself of this troublesome affliction. However, you’ve already made the first move by coming to me for my help. Our organisation is a new concept and we pride ourselves in offering expert counselling and medication for addictions nobody else has ever tackled before now. Even as we speak, I’m in the throes of treating someone who is trying to wean herself off watching Bradley Walsh on television.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Not an easy task. He’s in so many things that the occasional lapse is inevitable.’

‘May I ask you something?’ enquired Mr. Bottomley anxiously.

The analyst nodded in assent. ‘Of course.’

‘Is talking in cliches contagious? I’m convinced that I must have caught mine from my wife. She always used to be a perfectly rational woman, but about a month ago she woke up with a mild dose of Cliché 23 and started referring to everything as being “the best thing since sliced bread.” It’s deteriorated from there. If I never see another sandwich again it’ll be too soon.’

‘Some experts say that Cliché 23 may become the new Covid 19 and we should all have to isolate ourselves once we’ve been in contact with a sufferer,’ explained the analyst. I have to say that I’m always very careful and protect myself when I can.’

‘With a mask?’ asked Mr. Bottomley.

‘No,’ responded the analyst ‘usually with a pair of ear plugs.’ He swivelled his chair round slightly so he was facing his computer screen. ‘I’m going to print you out a prescription, which may alleviate things. I’d like you to take these tablets twice a day on a regular basis, morning and night. In the meantime, if you get an invitation to attend a social gathering where there’ll be lots of cliché-ridden conversation, then please avoid it like the plague.’

He chortled at his last remark, but the irony was lost on Mr. Bottomley.

‘Quite frankly, all of this is costing me my marriage,’ he whimpered, self-pityingly. ‘Things weren’t too good between us before she caught Cliché 23; now they’re almost intolerable. Whereas she just used to bite my head off in plain English, she’s now doing so using every different cliché under the sun. I think she’s seeing someone else. In fact, I’m sure of it.’

‘You’re just overwrought,’ the analyst reassured him. ‘Be patient; she will improve, as will you. However, your wife is not my client; you are and what I would recommend to you is that you join a Help Group. You’re fortunate in that we run one right here in this building. We call it The Therapy Room, after the name of the room in which it’s based. It’s become a renowned specialist in Cliché 23 and I heartily recommend it to you.’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of it’ said Mr. Bottomley doubtfully.

‘It’s very new,’ he was told, ‘but we’ve had some wonderful results.’ He leaned towards Mr. Bottomley in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘We take any card. Debit or credit.’

Mr. Bottomley walked out of the clinic, if not a liberated man, then one with hope for the future.

The tablets proved to be only a partial success (maybe they were only a placebo anyway, thought Mr. Bottomley cynically) and he enrolled himself as a new recruit to the self-help session called The Therapy Room, the venue being adjacent to the analyst’s consulting room. Not unlike the neighbouring clinic, the surroundings exuded tasteful luxury, without being ostentatious. Set out for eight participants, seven posteriors had already installed their respective cheeks in the comfortable chairs – a little table set beside each, on which had been placed a glass and bottle of mineral water. He sat down and smiled nervously at no-one in particular.

Mr. Bottomley was not, by nature, an eavesdropper but, as nothing much seemed to be happening, he listened in on snatches of the background conversations amongst his fellow-patients. A motley assortment of cliches assaulted his ears.

‘Yes,’ one was saying to another. ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. At the end of the day these things happen and I suppose I just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.’

Mr. Bottomley concluded that the patient was in the early stages of their treatment.

After a few minutes, a familiar figure walked in, causing an instant cessation to the background ripple.

‘Good morning,’ the analyst greeted them. ‘And welcome. The Therapy Room is delighted to see you here again.’

It made the proceedings sound disconcertingly like a check-in at a hotel reception, but Mr. Bottomley placed all doubts aside. He was determined to get better.

‘We have a new visitor this morning,’ said the analyst, smiling to himself as he visualised the additional potential payment. ‘Perhaps he can introduce himself.’

Mr. Bottomley was unsure whether to stand or remain seated. In the end, he elected for the former.‘My name is Bertram Bottomley,’ he said in a voice wavering with emotion. There was an understated acknowledgement of welcome.

‘No surnames, please,’ instructed the analyst.

‘We’re here for you, Bertram,’ shouted out one patient. ‘Just remember that tomorrow is another day.’

‘And now over to our friend Bertram,’ the analyst said with a flourish.

After a shaky start, Bertram had to admit to himself that he found the unburdening of his soul a cathartic one. Every now and again he would feel a cliché marching towards his lips and gritted his teeth in an effort to suppress it, with varying degrees of success. A private person by nature, he spoke only vaguely of his domestic situation and concentrated instead on the ramifications of how Cliché 23 was affecting his life. By the end of his discourse he felt strangely cleansed and looked forward to his next session.

The next time there were nine settings. Bertram recognised the seven already seated from the previous meeting and saw a stocky, sandy haired man of about forty advancing in his direction towards the remaining empty chair. Seemingly mindful of the luxurious surroundings, he lowered himself into it carefully as if any sudden movement might cause it damage and result in an expensive repair.

They nodded at each other in the strangely abstract way that Englishmen have when confronted by something new and unfamiliar to them and an awkward silence ensued; the sandy haired man drumming his fingers on the chair’s side whilst they both waited for the analyst’s arrival. Around them, snippets of conversation were taking place in which neither was included. Eventually, Bertram could bear it no longer.

‘Is this your first visit?’ he asked.

‘Yes, mate,’ replied the man. ‘And you?’

Bertram disliked the expression intensely. He was nobody’s ‘mate.’

‘My second,’ he replied. ‘I need to do something about my Cliché 23 and this seems to be the way forward.’

‘Me too,’ said the man. ‘I’m told I have a mild version at the moment but I think it’s only the calm before the storm.’

Bertram nodded solemnly.

‘Do you know who gave it to you? Or did it take you by surprise following a ‘positive’ lateral Cliché test.

The sandy haired man lowered his voice.

‘I’ve been seeing somebody for a couple of weeks or so,’ he leered. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘I think so,’ said Bertram knowingly, but not entirely certain as to the precise implication.

‘Lovely looker,’ mused his new companion thoughtfully. ‘Pity she’s married, but there you are: that’s the way it goes. All’s fair in love and war. She and her husband have been married nearly twenty years and to be frank he bores the pants off her.

‘I can see she’s made her mark on you in a short space of time,’ Bertram told him. ‘You’re already trotting out cliches right, left and centre.’

The sandy haired man sighed deeply.

‘I’d be out of her life like there’s no tomorrow if I could,’ he explained, ‘I don’t ‘do’ commitment, but somehow, she makes me feel good about myself. She can’t keep her hands off me. (He winked broadly). I know it’s only the Cliché 23 talking, but do you know what she says to me?’

‘Tell me’ said Bertram, a horrible realisation beginning to dawn.

The man leaned sideways in his chair and whispered in Bertram’s ear.

‘That I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.’