In the meantime, I have been talking to Dr Capybara. I am a mess, I can't afford therapy, and I do like to be stamped on repeatedly by those pointy little hooves. Imagine I am on the divan made of pampas grass.
E: So first, this morning, I got to the tram stop with two children and three huge bags and tickets and all manner of crap, and a woman purses her lips and says to me "Excuse me? Your dress is riding up when you carry your bag over your shoulder". And PULLS MY HEM DOWN. It was just like being back in Paris. I bet she was Parisian.
Dr C: Next time you should pull your dress up to the waist and shout "WHAT'S THE MATTER? YOU DON'T LIKE MY VAGINA???"
E: The day was awful. At lunchtime I ate a Quick Mr Softy ice cream on a square of dog shit coated grass overlooking a dual carriageway. That was the high point. Look, here's a picture for light relief in the relentless gloom of this therapy session:
Dr C: Dr C says Mr Softy is not ice cream. Try again. Also, do you have some kind of skin disease the doctor should know about?
E: I like how you refer to yourself in the third person. It gives you gravitas. No, that is an inept, bordering on disastrous, St Tropez Everyday job. In the afternoon I ordered some crap for eldest child's birthday party online. It was very soothing. Especially when I ordered things called "Large eye ball poppers". I went into a sort of reverie at the thought of popping eyeballs.
Dr C: Think of any men you know who need their balls popping.
E: (Long pause). Yes. That's definitely helping. Thank you doctor. Then I took the children to the new bookshop on our street and bought violent, hideous bande dessinées about pirahnas and spiders and god knows what else eating other creatures alive. They made me feel a bit queasy.
Dr C: I diagnose your children as Belgian. And I am bored now. Do you have any actual problems?
E: I am terrified I will never have the courage to do what I want with my life because I am too scared of failure. But more importantly I have a small chicken's arse style wrinkle on the left side of my upper lip. It makes me look really fucking old. Do you have plastic surgery qualifications? Should I get Botox on the chicken's arse? Or would a hoof in the mouth have the same effect?
Dr C: I will refer you to my colleague Dr BushBaby. But you could try cracking a fucking smile once in a while.
E: Are jerboas real, Dr Capybara?
Dr C: Of course they aren't. They are a figment of your sick imagination. Even the name isn't real. TRY HARDER JERBOA. GET YOUR OWN NAME AND STOP FREERIDING ON SERPENTS. If you are pretending to be a serpent, at least have the good sense to try and look slithery.
E: And do Belgians practise tantric sex? The keyword searchers want to know.
Dr C: Dr C does not care to find out. Filthy human habits.
E: Do capybaras get blue waffle? Probably not with all that underwater copulation.
Dr C: You are a hoof's breadth away from getting barred for life from my consulting rooms.
E: Can you tell me a joke?
Dr C: I am sighing heavily here. A capybara walks into a bar. There is a horse at the bar. The capybara kicks it in the shins and walks out again. The end.
E: I feel better already. Thank you doctor.