Therapy

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Journalism

Therapy

Therapy Overview

Background & Accreditation

My Way Of Working

Client Contract

Book

Journalism

Rum ‘n’ Coca

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Synopsis
Excerpts
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Illustrations

Within one, a pale young man languished on the floor in silence, stripped of purpose. He was its only object.

As the needle ground to a final halt, I was pondering philosophically how much air remains in the tank when all measurable indications suggest there is none.

Turning quickly, the tableau of an otherwise deserted street was rudely broken by the discovery of a man falling towards me, arms outstretched, hissing something about money, wallets, possibly the dangers of Keynesian economics.

The fiddle was as scratched and worn out as its owner and the awful screeching notes they emitted suggested the soundtrack to a shattered dream.

All around, the crowd danced, sang and drank, as if there was no threat, no undercurrent of destruction bubbling up beneath the innocent seeming surface.

The hill we found was unusual. Like a pimple of magma erupted from an adolescent volcano, it was small, dark and perfectly formed. To complete the cartoon picture, its earthy whole needed a black Hitchcockian house etched against the night sky. And

I gazed up to see a well-built young man dressed in the pristine white garb of an indigenous tribesman. He surveyed me – sprawled and discombobulated on the bed of the studio flat – with a look of proud disdain.

I was surprised to see what looked like a large black hand detach itself from my wrist and move slowly towards the other side of the table.

I smiled back shyly, briefly giving into the daydream that an entire group of nubile young women were flirting with me… Rather strangely – perched on a platform above the bar – sat a bedraggled man hunched over a pipe organ – the like of which migh

Suddenly, the swirling couples parted. In their place stood a fearful vision of Colombian beauty, arms crossed, head shaking in disbelief, finger wagging in admonishment… She beckoned me over with a dainty finger, her eyes mischievously narrowing.

We will walk by the light of the full moon!’ exclaimed the romantically-inclined Angelica as we slunk beneath a canopy of trees obscuring the sky and all its earthly objects in total blackness.

On Ayahuasca: We all have a lot of clutter in our minds, let alone issues of one kind or another, but quite where the baby-eating, Nazi demon pigs came from is beyond my ken.

Artur’s novelty top hat extended his full height to around nine feet – the top third of which was poking over the parapet in front of me.

A rotund man with an extravagant moustache slouched against a wall – his face glowing in and out of focus with each drag on his cigarette. ‘I can take you across the border…’ he growled, ‘…for a price’. I appeared to have been transported into a Spa

My first night in San José was rather traumatic thanks to a series of nightmares in which I was visited by a motley crew of menacing figures from the darker recesses of my unconscious.

Gary spoke terrible Spanish in a low growl. The barman – to whom he addressed much of his aggressive banter – looked nervously at the holstered handgun. Its owner was on one of his drinking sessions – a situation only enjoyed by himself. He was also

He wore the expression of an angry sullen child who has just discovered he is a clown.

With an imperious upraised hand, the angry policeman commanded us to halt. Behind us, two more officers blocked our exit lest we were tempted to outrun their guns.

My misery plummeted further with the unexpected barrier of a crevasse materialising in our path. To me, it revoked the reassurance that the tariff of technical difficulty was rated ‘negligible’.

A mongrel mix of man and toad, he materialised alongside us like some shady archetype from the dim margins of my subconscious. His Mafioso facade was gilded by a medallion that nestled in his chest hair and large sunglasses that in the shade of the

The threshold was filled by a fulminating man-mountain. In one outsized fleshy paw, he brandished a thick, gnarled branch of wood threateningly – his butcher’s choice sausage-fingers inches from my face.

I’ll sue you, and I’ll sue your newspaper,’ hissed Frank, leaning his gaunt face close enough for me to smell his sulphurous prison breath.

One slightly too early morning, she responded to the latest stirring of alarms by calmly walking off without a word, but cradling a large bag of flour.

The inside of the disco had an outside theme – its dirt floor enclosed within its poorly-insulated walls. A blanket made for an unusual door, while a fire smouldering in its centre made it vaguely reminiscent of a Viking mead hall.

A few moments later, a small, angry man burst in from a side-door. He glared at me and demanded my business.

The former guinea-pig wore a death-mask of angry surprise on its little upturned rodent face.

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