How (not) to become a therapist Part One

Observation One: Is it wrong to pick up Clothes from Blackrock Market?

I don’t crave fashion. My sister, Janice, often complains that on some days the greyness or Karki-ness of my dress gives her headaches. She’s right, of course. I wear grey like the devil, and Karki like a Russian. In the end, only Vladmir can tell the difference. And he hasn’t been returning my calls since we last played water polo. I knew I shouldn’t have snogged that waiter.

The problem I face now is having to put on a suit again. What’s more, I hate wearing suits. And the prom's tomorrow.



But true to my requirement (not) to arrive on the job without a glovebox of strong pornography and egg on my vest, I spent some time in Blackrock market picking out a sweater.

Of course, I shouldn’t have bought it. I was waylaid by a nice stall merchant who saw a sucker coming on pay day. But that’s alright. I paid in cash. Tax man ain’t seeing that 20 euro note again. So, in my box, that’s a win. (That’s how I’m selling it to my spreadsheet anyway.)

Back at home I laid out my catch on my bed and fetched my shirts from the haunted area of my wardrobe, usually located behind the camping equipment.

Fuck me, I say, after spending half an hour staring at the array of shirts lying like discarded tissues on my duvet. This is hopeless. What do I wear? Do I put gel in my hair? Do I shave? Do I use aftershave? What is conditioner? Why is shampoo different from shower gel? Why can’t I wear my TNG uniform?

Pissed off, annoyed at myself because angry emoji face, I make a full 180 and muddled downstairs. There’s an odd few splashes of testing paint on the wall in the kitchen near where the family crest—that’s what my Da calls it, it could just be something found behind the Noggin Car boot sale one day. Me and Korra (from the Legend of) are busy repainting the kitchen as our heating system is getting a full redux in a few weeks. This happens time to time in our gaff. Nothing spectacular. We hope.

I say busy repainting, we’re still stuck on what colour to paint the blasted wall. I mean what’s the difference between silken Carl Rogerian blue and royal Tony Blair azure? Seriously. Who comes up with these names, and where I can I apply for the job? If only all jobs were as simple as taking a rhyming dictionary and stringing a few words together to correspond the wavelength of some wave propagating from the sun, then maybe we’d have world peace. Ain’t that right, Tony?

But this thing about picking a colour. Does it really matter? I mean the size of the NCC-1701, that matters. But what a client thinks of my skinny jeans and grandpa shirt. Do they really care?

I asked Janice --her Supreme Excellence –like, what’s the deal? For once, she said something very interesting, albeit laden with cusses and violent revolutionary Marxist theory, that if possession is 9ths of the law, then looking good is the other tenth.

In a sense, being looked at. Being judged by what you wear. Being asked to dress a certain way, or by law to put a one peace, is part of being “A good person.” An upstanding person. Someone who can either be elected to a board, run for high office, or slap a comedian on a stage and somehow get away with it.

Heh…Ain’t so much like a being fresh prince now, but more like a matured cheder king crisp.

Janice is right that we view the world primarily in accordance with the uniformity that is taught to us from childhood. Official people wear ties. Official people make the rules. Whenever you see an official, they are making the rules. Don’t upset them. Especially if they are in a different class. They might write to the editor…or God forbid, call Joe Duffy. And then where will you be?

I left Janice alone to plan her war against the bourgeoise and chatted with Korra, half covered in wallpaper and glue, half wishing she’d never chosen kingfisher blue pattern. She and I are currently debating the merits of the Netflix’s adaptation of the Last Airbender. She’s not keeping her hopes up, I am praying for a divine intervention. We both hold the show up as a pinnacle of psychotherapy. Not because you have to pay 50 quid per go, the box set’s less than 30 notes online, but because it shows how in keeping to your core values you can save the world. Even when the fire nation attacks.

But do we bring ourselves into the room by the clothes that we wear, or do we bring in little snippets of culture? Of mass media and such. The number of times I’ve heard the Avenger’s movies used in lieu of religion now makes me wonder if in a few years I will be bringing my daughter to her christening dressed up as the hulk while Thor channels the Odin force into her instead of the holy spirit? Korra thinks this is a brilliant idea by the way, Janice, well…Thor is bit to hunky to left to just public worship.

Back upstairs, at the godforsaken mess that is my wardrobe and camping store, I think back to Janice. She spends most of her time campaigning with the International Socialist Party, who are very different from the Communists and the Irish Socialist party. Well, they say that at least. From my perspective they all like tofu a bit too much, and porridge a bit too little.

In the end I pick out a shirt, and a set of jeans, and my new jumper. Maybe I’ll save up and get some black Converses. Like the 10th Doctor? Damn right like the tenth doctor.

In all seriousness, who cares how you dress? Maybe God does, but she and I already fell out and back in again over Lisbon Two, so I guess you won’t get any cut from her plate. Just don’t dress like your about to go on a Top Gear Christmas special through the Amazon and you’ll be alright.

Either way, it’s not like the client cares if your jeans are bought in Primax.

Oddly, enough, the jumper was made from merino wool. Apparently, I got it for a bargain. Goes to show how much of an eye for clothes I have. And maybe there’s learning in that.