On Shopping And Being Rude...

Pen-y-Ghent, Yorkshire Dales

I am rubbish at shopping. Really, spectacularly rubbish. Although I dabble, I remain an unreconstructed lefty when faced with the opportunity to become a proper player at consumerism. I balk at the opportunity to hand over sums of cash in return for a fleeting glimpse of happiness. God knows I see enough ordinary human misery in my job to realise that consuming like there is no tomorrow brings little more than debt and a hollow feeling that you have just been had.

Obviously there are times when I have to go to a shop and buy things. My general rule of thumb is that if something comes in a brown paper bag I can manage it. Anything bigger, and it means that somebody is trying to sell me something and the rubbish shopping thing kicks in. I can just about handle the over stimulation of the senses that goes on in a large store. I can switch off to the ‘buy me,’ ‘no, buy me instead’ from every product. What I can’t handle is the fact that every single transaction with a sales assistant has a psychological ulterior. Nothing is as it seems in the world of shopping. These people are trained to take my money. I am trained to understand unspoken and psychological communications. It is a match made in hell and makes me a little unruly.

I survived Ikea this week, with barely a scratch. Well, just one minor hiccup:

Me: (very loudly) who in their right mind would buy a suite in such a dreadful colour?

Kooky hypnotherapist: perhaps that man sitting behind you?

His partner was clearly quite taken with the dreadfully coloured suite. He smiled at me conspiratorially, and so I rather suspect he wasn’t. I said sorry quite a few times. I think I just about got away with it.

I left Ikea empty handed, apart from a battery operated milk frother which cost £2.50 and I am really rather taken with. No need now for that hugely expensive cappuccino maker.

I was feeling quite pleased with myself that I had managed a full circuit of Ikea without falling out with my companion, ( although the kooky hypnotherapist is particularly difficult to fall out with), without stropping like a twelve year old and having only slightly offended one person. All in all a good shopping day. (I know we didn’t actually buy the chairs we went for, but that really is a minor detail. Not having a nervous breakdown is a good shopping day as far as I am concerned.)

I took a call from The Husband on the way home. I had to meet him at a local bathroom shop because, apparently, we have an urgent need to fit a new bathroom. I was bemused. We have lived in our Old-Lady-Style-House for 4 years, in the full knowledge that it needs redecorating and that neither of us can be arsed to do it. But suddenly WE NEED TO FIT THE BATHROOM THIS WEEKEND.

(Ouch, so sorry for shouting, but that is what the message said.)

So I met him at a major retail outlet and frankly it was a bridge too far. Sensory overload. Too many special offers - a veritable Woolworth’s pick ‘n’ mix of taps, fixtures, fittings and toilet seats with sweets embedded in them. (What's that all about then?) The background music was way too loud, and I maintain that 70's disco music is only appropriate for.....well, a 70's disco really and then only under sufferance. It was all too much for me.

I felt sorry for the twelve year old assistant who tried in vain to interest me in her lovely (?) bathrooms. She should have been sitting in a park drinking Diamond White with her friends. I should have been somewhere else sticking pins in my eyes. I ended up sitting on a toilet rocking gently whilst The Husband translated her sales speak to me, and I told him to tell her to speak up and stop mumbling, as if she were the one with the hearing problem and not me. I can’t imagine how rude she found me. Sorry little sales girl. It really wasn’t your fault. I think my Old-Lady-House has turned me into a grumpy old woman.

Operation Bathroom started yesterday. I shall be glad to have rid of my Old-Lady bathroom. I already have sciatica and greying hair, and was concerned that the shell-style bathroom suite and maroon patterned tiles would soon start looking quite attractive to me.

I escaped Operation Bathroom with my son. The two of us took a wonderful walk up Pen-y-Ghent and I began to feel human again.

The workings of capitalism are clever. They needle our inherent desire for satiation, knowing that when it is within our grasp they will needle once more. We sublimate our core relational needs into the need to consume, and neatly side step the issue of built in disillusionment that accompanies the built in obsolescence.

I would like to claim that this is why I hate shopping, but that would be just too pompous. Really, it’s because I am rubbish at it. Very, very rubbish.

I Like Thyme With Chicken....

I have had some back pain today. Just a little more than I find tolerable (although The Husband claims that I am a man when it comes to tolerating pain.)

I went to the first aid box at the complimentary therapy clinic where I work, hoping it might contain something to ease the pain.

I found a collection of Bach remedies, some arnica (gel and pills) and a bunch of thyme. I took the Bach remedy for 'disappointment' and went to Boots for some Nurofen.

My back was much less painful as a result. Please don't tell my colleagues.

PS. I was joking about the thyme.

On Tit-being-ness...**

I started to watch Obedient Wives on TV this week. Based on the insane ramblings teachings of one Laura Doyle, who wrote The Surrendered Wife, the programme followed the lives of a number of women who have achieved total domestic bliss by handing over control of their lives and their relationships to their husbands. If you have a penchant for being treated like a juvenile domestic slave, then I could see how it might appeal.

It was really, really funny for about three minutes. After that I found that pushing cocktail sticks under my finger nails was more fun. I can’t bring myself to critique it. You know it's pants.

Predictably, it featured a deeply unattractive misogynist who had travelled to Thailand to find a wife, because ‘Thai women know how to treat a man’. That reminded me…..

…..when I first moved back to Yorkshire I made contact with two old school friends, whom I had not seen for 20 years. We met at one of their houses for dinner, partners in tow. A lovely evening ensued, involving copious amounts of wine and fond reminiscing about our school days and how much the old town had changed. I told them that I had driven past The George* – a grubby side street pub famous only for its bar room brawls and after hours drinking.

“It still looks as rough as a bear’s arse” said I, “but it’s now got a Thai restaurant above it. Isn’t that weird?”

Total silence. You’d think that a therapist might have just picked up on something, but no, I ploughed on regardless.

“I expect some ugly fuckwit has bought himself a Thai bride, and tied the poor cow to the kitchen stove” said I.

“Yes” said friend-whom-I-had-not-seen-for-20-years. “Actually, it was my dad.”

Ouch.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent

**Thank you to the lovely Caroline for coining this phrase.

Sometimes I Am Lazy...

I am a very lazy blogger at the moment. And I think I may be having a little bloggy wobble. There are a number of things that I feel I ought to be blogging about, to justify the ‘psychotherapist’ part of the title and not just indulge the ‘confessions’ part.

I really ought to be blogging about the Layard report, which has called for 10,000 more NHS therapists to meet the challenge of our poor emotional well being as a nation. I ought to be blogging about the government’s Skills for Health consultation paper, which is a first attempt at producing National Occupational Standards for psychological therapies. And I ought to be blogging about the UKCP’s excellent response to this consultation exercise.

I really want to blog about the emphasis on Cognitive Behavioural Therapies in the consultation, and the absence of any thoughtful consideration of the very different principles and philosophies of Humanistic Therapies. I want to blog about why CBT is not a panacea, and how the government is in danger of disregarding 70 years of marvellous theoretical developments in Humanistic therapy that have embraced post-modern philosophy and seen sophisticated developments in practice.

But I find that when I get home from work I am tired and my brain is foggy. All I want to do is play Guitar Hero with the children (I have just completed 'More Than A Feeling', level: hard for anyone who is interested.) So instead I blog about things I have seen on TV, tourist induced pavement rage and nice things I do at the weekend. I am sorry for being so lazy. The only other option is to take the word ‘psychotherapist’ out of my blog title and replace it with something else. But I can’t think what.

I go away on Thursday for a few days. Please feel free to chat amongst yourselves and bounce on my bloggy couch. It might be glad to be of use, for once.

There Are Three Types Of Clothes In My Wardrobe:....

…night-clothes, which for me include a collection of Malaysian Kaftans and flannelette pyjamas; going-out-clothes, which are basically anything you would be willing to wear in public, and in-between-clothes, which are those snugly-buggly favourites that you wear around the house but would really prefer not to be seen out in.

I am enormously fond of my in-between-clothes. They mostly consist of jogging bottoms (haven’t jogged for the best part of eight years), old baggy t-shirts and a very embarrassing collection of velour leisure wear. I kid you not. I love that velour is just so tactile, and I like to think that I look like Pammy Anderson in them. (I don’t. I look nothing like her at all. But she went through a period of being papped in velour leisure wear and Ugg boots and I took it as an excuse to delude myself that I don’t look anything other than ridiculous in them.) I am so keen these days to get straight into my in-between-clothes that I start undressing the minute I get through the door. The Husband must think that I have lost my sartorial mind, because he only ever sees me in my in-between outfits. (Occasionally we go out together, and he always looks at me fondly when I am scrubbed up. I must be such a disappointment to him most of the time.)

My in-between-clothes are currently exceeding my going-out-clothes in number, which is something of a worry. And now I have been caught out doing the unthinkable: going outdoors looking like a total loon.

It was Sunday morning, and I was nipping down to my local garage to buy a newspaper. I was wearing a pair of grey velour baggies, and an outsize pink fleece which had seen better days a decade ago. On my feet were my favourite pair of flowery fabric wedgey clogs and a beany hat on my head, as I hadn’t washed my hair. I looked like a bag lady who had forgotten her bags. As I queued for my newspaper I recognised the woman at the side of me, perusing the chocolate. I couldn’t quite place her, but I smiled anyway. She looked embarrassed because she clearly couldn’t place me either. I paid for my Observer and turned to leave, almost bumping into the woman whom I still hadn’t quite placed.

“Oh!” she said, with a look of incredulity. “It’s you!”

I placed her. She was an ex-client. I tried to say “hello” in a breezy and unconcerned way, but I don’t think she was convinced. She looked like she had just discovered the Queen going commando.

Note to self: in-between-clothes are not, and never will be, going-out-clothes.

Anyone For CBT...?

The government is proposing an expansion of psychotherapeutic services within the NHS. Fabulous news. Currently, the only modality being considered in this expansion is Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Not so fabulous news. Please sign this petition, asking the government to give due consideration to other psychotherapeutic approaches and modalities. And then tell your friends.

PS. Following a lively debate with the lovely Clare at Boob Pencil some time ago, I promised a follow up post on the whys and wherefores of CBT and other therapeutic approaches. I still haven't got round to it. So in the absence of a post discussing why CBT is not necessarily a panacea for all mental distress, I refer you to the aforementioned discussion which just about covers the issues. I can only apologise for my inefficiency....

I Feel A Serious Post Coming On....

Checking my stats I notice that I have quite a few folks landing on my blog having googled 'how to be a psychotherapist'. I can only imagine the disappointment they feel when they come across sentimental posts about my family, the odd bit of pinko ranting and my idealising transference of 80's indie pop figures. May I take this opportunity to apologise for wasting their precious time...