Sherry Cracker Gets Normal. D. Connell J.

my legs. Would you like me to describe it?’

      ‘No.’

      I was taken aback by this abrupt response but reminded myself of the ‘Psy Dram’ after Bijou Poulet’s name. ‘Earlier this week, I had another dream. It was quite strange.’

      ‘I’m sure it was.’

      ‘In the dream I was sitting in the therapy room of Mr Harrison Tanderhill, a registered hypnotherapist.’ I looked at her. She nodded for me to continue. ‘I was speaking indiscreetly.’

      ‘Filth, shame, childhood guilt. The hypnotist takes away your sense of responsibility. You’re under his control, free to pursue sexual fantasy.’

      ‘Mr Tanderhill then said, “I just love the Neapolitan lifestyle”. That’s the part I don’t understand.’

      ‘Suppressed sexual feelings for the maidenhead. Textbook case.’

      ‘He then started asking about money.’

      ‘Pure greed. It starts at the breast.’

      ‘I was bottle fed.’

      She glared at me. ‘Get on with it.’

      ‘Then the dream seemed to jump ahead. The hypnotherapist was laughing and doing the Macarena.’

      ‘Release, sexual freedom, cork popping. You’re frustrated, craving sexual expression. If you dig deep into your subconscious, you’ll find that the hypnotist in your dream was actually a woman dressed as a man.’

      ‘I’m not sure it was a dream.’

      ‘The dreaming mind can be compelling but reality is reality, full stop.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the full stop. ‘An averagely abnormal person knows the difference. A chronically abnormal person should be put on high-quality psycho-pharmaceuticals to suppress the imagination, to kill it dead in the parlance of psychotherapeutic dramatology. I’m not licensed to prescribe but I can point you in the right direction. For a fee, naturally.’

      ‘The thing is, I did go to see Mr Tanderhill last week. He’s a certified hypnotics expert.’

      ‘Poppycock.’

      ‘I was mesmerised with a small medallion.’

      ‘In your dreams, sister.’ She raised her eyebrows and made a whistling gesture with her lips without actually whistling.

      ‘He said the medallion was of Hindu origin but I recognised its image. My mother’s butcher had worn the same talisman. Mr Da Silva was Roman Catholic and Portuguese. He had considerable body hair.’

      Bijou Poulet frowned and shook her head at the mention of body hair. ‘We’re wasting time. Have you ever dreamed you’ve forgotten to put your underpants on?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You dream you’re back at school and suddenly realise you’re not wearing underpants.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You’re sitting an exam and panic when you realise you’ve forgotten your underpants.’

      ‘I have never dreamed about underwear, with or without.’

      ‘For God’s sake!’ Bijou Poulet exhaled loudly through her nose and slapped her notebook on her knee.

      I did not need to be a psychological expert to recognise frustration when I saw it.

      She let out a long, irritated sigh. ‘Tell me about your anxieties, worries, qualms. Give them to me in a nutshell.’

      I tried to think of something to say. What I was most worried about at that moment was displeasing her but I doubted this was what she wanted to hear.

      ‘Hurry up!’ She tapped her wrist. ‘You’re over halfway through your session.’

      I was thinking how best to describe Mr Chin and explain that my education and career plans were in jeopardy when Bijou Poulet’s words cut through my thoughts.

      ‘Hello, anybody home?’

      I felt a jolt as if an alarm clock had gone off next to my ear and a small flash bulb had popped inside my brain. I started talking rapidly. ‘Dirty washing worries me. If I think about the way it piles up, I get an empty feeling in my chest. No matter how often I wash my clothes, there’s always more. The clothes I wear while doing the washing will be the dirty clothes I wash tomorrow. It’s endless, like infinity, the universe. It makes me feel small and meaningless.’

      ‘Ridiculous.’ She tilted her chin and tapped her lips with a palm to demonstrate a false yawn.

      ‘Could we discuss abnormality?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I’d like to talk about how I feel disconnected from the human context, encased in Perspex.’

      ‘Think of a family member, a key family member with breasts.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Starts with M. Sounds like “other”.’

      ‘Mother?’

      ‘It’s like pulling teeth with you.’

      It felt good to get something right. I smiled at Bijou Poulet and received a frown in return.

      ‘Describe a traumatic incident with this woman.’

      ‘You mean my mother?’

      ‘Whatever. Just pick up the pace. I haven’t got all day.’ She click-clicked the fingers of one hand and made an upward swirling motion with the index finger of the other.

      My mind whirred, went blank, whirred, went blank. There had been many traumatic incidents but at that moment I could not think of a single one. I watched Bijou Poulet tap her pen on the notepad with impatience. I closed my eyes and heard her snort, a long ‘Hnihhh.’

      Suddenly I could see my mother’s face. It was poked between the curtains of the fitting booth in the ladies department of Trout and Son and she was breathing heavily through her nose. I was naked from the waist up, struggling with the clasp of a Miss Teen Starter. Perspiration was running between the two things that had brought me there. They were as round and hard as walnuts and burned on my chest under my mother’s gaze.

      ‘Stop sweating. You’ll soil the thing and I’m not paying for soiled goods.’ She spoke in a hoarse whisper, twisting her neck out of the booth to make sure the shop assistant was out of hearing range.

      The plastic clasp, slippery with perspiration, miraculously clicked shut. I pulled up the straps and raised the twin apricot cups over my breasts where they puckered for want of fill. My mother moved in close, breathing relentlessly through her nose. Her eyes were fixed on the cups.

      ‘Just lean forwards and fall into them.’

      I bent at the waist and urged whatever flesh there was on my chest and underarms to fall into the cups. Nothing fell. I had no moveable flesh on my fourteen-year-old body. My mother looked at the empty cups and sucked air between her teeth before expelling it through her nose in a dissatisfied ‘Hnihhh.’ It was clear by the way she frowned that my chest was not good enough and never would be.

      ‘That’s it?’ Bijou Poulet raised her eyebrows and gave me an incredulous look.

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘That story has no entertainment value whatsoever. You need to learn the value of a good punch line. It makes all the difference.’

      ‘But I wasn’t trying to entertain. I didn’t think it was expected.’

      ‘What do you think it’s like listening to someone ramble on about personal problems? Psychotherapeutic dramatology is a two-way street. What did you expect from me?’

      ‘Mental therapeutics. I was hoping you could help me iron out the kinks of abnormality.’

      ‘I’m