Rather lyrically, the Auckland bus system decided to solve the dilemma of my trying to leave work at eleven and get to the psychologist at eleven-thirty by having a strike. If I were merely, say, the drummer in a band, I would simply have suggested that the others record their album without me, but as it was, I think the psychologist would have been likely to notice.
Fortunately, my useful friend Alan lent me his car. I had not driven for months, but what of it? I made it safely to the potential workplace, which, incidentally, operates from a rather expansive church complex with a snazzy cafe filled with young mothers and upmarket strollers; it appears to serve very good coffee. I made a slight bish with the psychologist by taking his opening remark, a breezy yet avuncular “Who is this Betty? Why is she here? What makes her tick?”, as a rhetorical comment. While I sat politely waiting for him to put the tips of his fingers together, it turned out he was waiting for the answer.
No matter. He’d pretty much only just sat down when he got up again to draw bell-curves on the whiteboard, indicating my perceived and actual intelligence with asterisks, and then he went through the crannies of my personality in detail; nothing scary, he was careful to say a few times, although if I’m even triple as tense as I said I wasn’t, I’d still be dead on the floor, apparently. I am not of a clerical bent, should stay far away from accounting, have no particular interest in being a travel agent, and am highly sensitive, aesthetic, and sentimental. Most importantly, I have the requisite V pattern on the Kodus and don’t appear to be, as he delicately put it, “too screwed-up”. I’m still in the running toward becoming Auckland’s next top support worker with the stars.