Do you ever think that medical professionals run on a different time system to the rest of the world? Right now, as I sat in what was a deceptively uncomfortable low-backed chair in Dr Moskowitz's waiting room, I was one hundred percent certain that they do. They must do. There was no other legitimate explanation for the fact that I had been sat out here so long. I glanced fleetingly up at the ornate clock hanging above the lone brown door on the opposite wall and confirmed I had been sat here for forty-five minutes now. My appointment was due to begin half an hour ago, and yet here I still was. Alone in this tiny, windowless room at.. Hmm. What time was it? Isn't it amazing how you can look at a clock and have forgotten the time within microseconds? I looked up again before swiftly returning my gaze to the scuffed brown brogues impatiently tapping at the carpet beneath them. It was half past six on a Friday evening and it would seem that I had nowhere better to be than here.

At least there wasn't anyone else in here with me. I'd take bored, impatient solitude over awkward phatic chatter with some mundane stranger any day of the week. Although I guess, technically, I'm not really alone in this room. I ever so gently flick my eyes to the right to look over at the good doctor's secretary. This stone-faced woman, comfortably in her mid fifties and then some, is about as far removed from the image of the idealised “sexutary” that mainstream porn has perpetuated over the years. Sullen, uncompromising, and not even half attempting to mask the fact that she'd rather be literally anywhere other than here, she looks back at me from behind her horn-rimmed glasses, a few stray waves of black-grey hair partially masking her beady little eyes. I give that sort of half-hearted smile that you have to give to strangers when you make eye contact with them, that look that says “Yeah, isn't it awful that we find ourselves in this situation. I guess all we can do is grin and bear it!”. Her seemingly perma-frowned mouth does not contort in the slightest. The look I get in return says “I will be a very happy woman if I never have to see you again.” Now thoroughly convinced that she doesn't want to even pretend to be friendly, I swiftly divert my gaze back to my shoes. Just keep looking at the shoes, I think. Just keep looking at the shoes and hope that this self-engineered social nightmare comes to an end soon.

More time passes. Could have been seconds, could have been minutes. Could even have been (but, let's face it, it probably wasn't) hours. The nondescript brown door directly opposite me opens slowly, and I just have time to sneak a glance at the bearded face of a man with what I'm fairly sure are tears still cascading freely down his ruddy cheeks. Poor bastard. Even though I know I shouldn't, I can't help but wonder what deep-seated emotional traumas the doctor has spent the last God knows how long unearthing from the deepest recesses of his subconscious. Moskowitz is now standing in the space once occupied by a closed door, peering down at me from behind his quite frankly irritating glasses. You know the kind, the ones that look like there's a good chance that the wearer doesn't even really need them? The ones that are more of a fashion statement than an optometric aid? Yeah, those. I manage to resist the urge to roll my eyes at this complete stereotype of the new-age faux-hipster yuppie masquerading as a psychoanalyst, although I am most definitely not too happy about the fact that I'm going to have to spend the next hour trying to convince myself that his outwardly abhorrent appearance is not in any way representative of his professional ability, but I know that's going to be much easier said than done. Sigh. He gives me an almost genuine-looking smile and beckons me toward his office with a single finger. It looks kind of ominous, if I'm being honest.

I take to my feet and trudge across the carpet towards the door. He turns and walks into the dimly lit space ahead of us, half-heartedly holding the door open with a single trailing hand just long enough for me to put my foot in it and prevent it from slamming in my face. As it swings closed behind me, he strolls calmly to his desk and takes a seat in a very worn, comfortable looking leather office chair. I take a few seconds and look, almost hesitantly, around the room. It's pretty much what you'd expect a therapist's office to look like. Bookcases line one of the walls, filled with thick, musty texts that the sceptical side of me would snarkily imply had barely been opened and were there to inspire thoughts of “Wow, this guy must be seriously clever” in those who enter. Behind his desk are the stereotypical framed certificates from the University of Wherever (I don't want to look too obviously like I'm scrutinising him – even though I am – so I can't squint to make out their exact text) hanging either side of a large window looking out of the city which looks surprisingly pretty in the early-evening Autumnal darkness. Notable in its absence is the leather couch. Much less movie-like is the single, not-too-pleasant looking seat positioned directly opposite Moskowitz. Because God forbid I should be comfortable when baring my emotional soul to a complete stranger. Seriously, would that be too much to ask?

“Please,” he began. “Do take a seat.” There was a level of calmness in his voice that almost bordered on smug. I'm not too sure why I've taken such an instant disliking to this man. If I were to mention it to him he'd probably bring it down to intimacy problems. I decide to not to mention it to him. Instead, I wordlessly approach, removing my jacket as I go. Hanging it on the back of the chair, I drop myself down into it. Where the chairs in the waiting room were deceptively uncomfortable, here the reverse is very much true. Perhaps sitting in here for the next hour won't be so bad after all. I gesture to Moskowitz that I'm seated and ready to go. He smiles at me warmly once again but as before it just looks so.. artificial. He takes a pen from the pot on his desk and sets it down next to a notepad. “Alright, why don't you tell me a little about yourself before we begin?” He asks.

“No, I'd really rather not,” comes my cold reply. It's interesting that I definitely didn't come here with the intention of being so uncooperative but that just seems to be the way that my gut reactions are steering the conversation. Unfazed, Moskowitz lifts the paper and jots something down. In the reflection of his fashionable non-glasses I can just about make out the word “hostile”. How very astute of him. He lets my statement hang in the air for a few more awkward seconds before continuing. “Okay then,” he responds, maintaining that same unnerving level of calmness. “Then perhaps you'd like to tell me why you're here?” The intonation he uses suggests he means it as a question, but it feels much more like an instruction. A command. Nonetheless, it's a command I can deal with. It's not like I came here (and paid all this money) to sit in silence for an hour. I take some time to compose myself before sitting upright and meeting his gaze.

“Look, I'm not going to waste your time, Doctor Moskowitz. I'm not here to tell you about how I'm all fucked up because my parents were mean to me as a kid, or that I need you to help me conquer an irrational fear of cabbages. I'm here to tell you.. Well. Not a story, per se. But it's going to go down like a story. No questions, no input. Nothing from your side. I'm paying you to listen. I need somebody to listen.” He nods understandingly, furrowing his brow slightly and jotting a few more words down on his notepad. “I take it you are okay with me making notes, yes?” He asks in his irritatingly incessant pleasant manner. Once again, it's phrased as a question but it feels much more like a declaration of facts. Like it's something I don't really get a say in. “Of course,” I begrudgingly acknowledge. “I'm not here to stop you doing your job, after all.” He breaks his cool exterior with a faint laugh, but much like his smiles and calm attitudes it seems ersatz. Hollow. A formality based on assumptions about how someone in his position should act when they have what could, by all rights, be a complete and utter fucking psychopath sitting opposite them. He draws a deep breath. “Good, good.” A minuscule pause as he allows those words to sink in. Almost as if he's reminding me of the fact that he's the one with all the power in this situation, before he continues. “Whenever you're ready, then.” I stare down at my lap. This time I need a little longer to think. To steady myself. To brace myself for the mammoth task ahead of me. This is something I have never told anyone else, nor is it something I ever intend to tell anyone else. I'm only regaling Doctor Moskowitz with this tale because I know, by the laws of his profession or whatever, he can't share the information confided within him with anyone else. He's an anonymous sounding board more than anything else. A sort of fire-and-forget audience, if you will. A couple of minutes pass before I finally look up again. “Alright,” I say. “Let's get this over with.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I mutter to myself as I step out of the office block into the pouring rain. Naturally, I don't have an umbrella or even a waterproof coat. The sun was shining this morning when I left for work. The bus stop might only be 250 yards away but this rain is really coming down. Lifting my jacket above my head, I break into a sort of half-jog and bob up the pavement, improvised umbrella impotently buckling under the sheer weight of the rainwater that has already begun to pool on top of it. I make it to the bus stop within a couple of minutes, soaked from head to toe like the proverbial drowned rat and silently wishing death on the half a dozen drivers who felt it was necessary to barrel directly through the puddles and coat me in wave after wave of murky liquid. The elderly lady already seated under the shelter gives me a look of genuine pity as I stumble out of the rain and sit down next to her. Thankfully the bus arrives within a couple of minutes and although every fibre of my being is telling me to just stampede straight on and into the welcoming warmth I manage to just about maintain some basic social decorum and allow my old-aged sheltermate to – painfully slowly I might add – make her way onto the bus first. I hop on after her, wordlessly slap the exact change down in front of a driver who looks just about as bemused as I do, and trudge towards the first open seat I can see. I press myself right up into the corner in a vain attempt to somehow absorb more sweet, sweet warmth from the heater on the floor. My head pressed against the window – almost as a declaration of defeat, as if yelling “You win this one, world!” - I gaze out at the city and sigh as the bus pulls away from the station. As a final punch in the gut, the sun begins to shine through the heavy grey clouds before me.

The journey back home usually takes around half an hour, so I've got plenty of time to reflect on the day's happenings. Not that I particularly want to. After all, it was yet another monumentally uninspiring day. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to break the banal cycle that my life seems to have become. As I watch the just-lit streetlights, just-closing shops and just-about-still-awake commuters flash by out of the window, I spare a thought for everyone else who must be feeling exactly the same as I feel right now. Dissatisfied. Mentally exhausted. Relieved about the fact that it's Friday for all of ten seconds before the unpleasant realisation that it's only two days until Monday sets in and the weekend becomes forty-eight hours of trying to maximise your free time only to find yourself somewhat constrained by Monday's impending arrival. It's certainly a vicious cycle alright. Before too long the bus pulls up at the stop opposite my apartment block and I quickly jerk out of my trance. Grabbing my sodden jacket I briskly walk to the front, mumble an incoherent “Thank you” to the driver and manage to step out before he snaps the doors closed again and I'm forced to stay on here until the next stop. Sure, it's only another 500 or so yards down the street but that's an inconvenience I just don't need right now. Or ever. Anyway, I'm off the bus now, and thankfully the weather decides to avoid adhering even more agonisingly to movie-style cliches and no more rain is thrown down on to my beleaguered head. I glance up to the sky, to the sun trying so very hard to force its way through the clouds, and in my mind I make a clever analogy to me and my efforts to try and force my way through the working week. Smiling wryly to myself, I head into the lobby and make a beeline for the lift. I'm not taking the stairs tonight. No sir.

I pass the remainder of my Friday evening in fairly typical style. Today's sodden outfit – the foul-smelling rainwater has, irritatingly, managed to soak straight through to my boxers, and my poor poor work shoes fared about as well meaning my fucking socks are drenched in soggy brown as well – is discarded instantly in favour of jogging bottoms and a big sweatshirt, and the heating is cranked all the way up. So what if it's going to cost a fortune to have it on all night? I'm sopping wet and sad by extension. I deserve this, okay? I mope dejectedly to the refrigerator and gaze inside,an air of naïve almost-hope coursing through my mind before I am slammed back down to earth by the sight of the bareness within. Looks like it's last nights leftovers for dinner tonight, then. At least it fits the mood of the rest of the day. Miserable,turgid, deflating. Just plain awful. I throw the devastatingly unexciting plastic multipurpose container into the microwave and paw half-heartedly at a few buttons before sulking through into the living room and throwing myself down onto the couch. The comfortable cushions, by now already slightly toasty by virtue of the thermostat being dialled all the way up, are like a safety blanket transporting me away from this dreary non-entity of a day, away to a far-off land where the weekend never ends, it never rains, your fridge is always full of delicious gourmet cuisine. Indeed, in this magical place I am gallivanting around in nothing but my underwear – underwear that is, vitally, not heavy with murky rainwater and flaps gleefully in the slight breeze rather than clinging uncomfortably to my thighs – plucking everything from sirloin steak to hot fudge sundaes from the myriad refrigerators that are sprouting from the verdant green hills at a seemingly exponential rate.

I eat and I eat and I'm happy. I'm happy because it's not raining and the food is good and work is but a distant memory. I collapse, exhausted and well-fed, at the foot of a proud oak tree that seems to extend skyward and never ever stop, with its trunk made of cushions and its chocolate leaves and its roots that aren't roots at all... No, the roots of this majestic denizen of the forest have been replaced by sentient human arms, and they wrap themselves around me tight as two fluffy bunnies come hippity-hopping down the grassy slopes with a blanket clutched between their adorable teeth. I am safe and secure as they throw this blanket –made of the most pleasantly soft material any human being could ever possibly conceive, and stitched so ornately it's almost as if the needlework were carried out by God himself – over me and in that one moment, that one moment of pure, unadulterated comfort, I am euphoric. Content. Gazing out over the lush, scenic landscape that continues to unfold before me, becoming ever more vivid every time I blink. This is wonderful. I want to live here forever. But... I can't. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeep. The microwave's obnoxious, ostentatious, attention-seeking whine pierces the tranquil skies of this idealised fantasy land. I'm confused for half a second before I realise that I must have dozed off on the couch. Indeed, I'm a far cry from the comforting arms of the cushiony human tree (which, I quickly decided, is actually quite the terrifying concept in reality) and the blanket-bearing rabbits. Instead, I'm laid face-down in a gradually-expanding puddle of my own drool, with hunger pangs shaking my stomach and the microwave in the kitchen continuing to cry out in vain for me to go and retrieve my dinner from within it. I sigh deeply and struggle to my feet. The beeping persists. “Alright!” I find myself yelling. “I'm fucking coming!”

Ignoring the fact that I just attempted to engage an inanimate object in conversation, I take the by-now no-longer piping hot plastic box out of the microwave and close the door, finally causing it to cease its plea for attention. I grab a fork from the drawer and make my way back into the living room. No need to use a plate. Tonight is not a plate-using kind of night. I turn on the television and slump back onto the couch, taking care to avoid sitting in the giant wet spot that is very much still present where my mouth had been resting minutes earlier. Gross. I look down at the ambiguous container of mush that is now resting in my lap. Whereas the dream world smelt of roses, relaxation, and joy, all I am detecting here is crushed dreams and resentment. I guess my only real choice is to just eat it too fast for my body to realise that it's fucking disgusting. Sorry, stomach. It's a necessary evil, I promise. And so I sit there, illuminated only by the ambient glow of the television, shovelling this disgusting concoction down at my gullet and lamenting the almost innumerable poor decisions of the various world leaders that tonight's news is choosing to highlight. It's enough to make my own problems seem trivial and hyperbolic, if only for a small moment. Once I've finished satiating my body's innate desire for nourishment I set the now empty plastic box down on the end table and head out onto the balcony for a smoke. Now that the rain has properly stopped, the expanse of skyline before me actually doesn't look half bad. Not that I'd go so far as to say it looks pretty – far from it, in fact, as the various pools of water collected on the city's rooftops actually manages to make them look greyer and more unappealing – but it's certainly not bad by any stretch of the word. No, it's a clear enough night and the smattering of distant lights has a certain pleasant, almost calming aura about it.