30 December 2027
Thursday. Year-end review. I have read back through a whole year of notes, and I have only cried twice.
Patients seen: a great many, in Northbridge, on George Street and on Collins Street, each of them a favourite. Proposals overheard: one. Hints I was allowed to give: none, after August. Microphones: one, beloved. Boxes labelled: four.
People sometimes compare my practice to certain films with a gentleman in a mask and a fondness for tricycles. I am flattered, but I would point out that I have never once worn a mask, nobody in my care gets anything worse than a fright, and I do not own a tricycle. I simply believe in the healing power of a locked door.
I have kept my promise, too. A whole year of notes and not one answer among them. Not a code, not a hiding place, not a clue. A therapist who tells patients what to do is not a therapist. He is a satnav.
Next year: more patients, more notes, and possibly a name. I have narrowed it down to eleven. Lorraine is not helping.
— Your Therapist
