Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Squeezed Middle

Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Squeezed Middle

Article excerpt

"So, what brings you both here today?" Dr Rosemary Nutfixer folds her hands into her lap and examines Curly and me in turn over the rims of her glasses. She looks exactly like a therapist--unsurprisingly, perhaps, as she is a therapist.

I know I'm being picky, but I wish she looked a little less like one. She reminds me of my mum, and that's not surprising, either, because my mum is also a therapist. When I was growing up almost every adult I knew was a therapist. There were so many of them that I couldn't imagine how there could be enough mad people to go around. That was before I realised that everyone, without exception, is mad.

"We, er, haven't been getting on." Dr Nutfixer nods gravely. All of a sudden I can't remember why we are here, in this sad, grey plywood cubbyhole off Tottenham Court Road. It was my idea, that's for sure. Curly didn't want to come, but I cried and threatened to buy Larry, Moe and myself one-way tickets to Rio if he refused.

It's not that we've been arguing. It's worse than that. Curly and I have always bickered away merrily, secure in the knowledge that we love each other like mad. But recently we've stopped talking. Days have passed with nary a civilised conversation in our household. Curly just watches TV and grunts occasionally. I just cry. I've been crying almost nonstop for weeks on end.

It could be because in the past two months neither of us has had more than three consecutive hours' sleep; Baby Moe is proving resistant to even the most fearsome sleep training regime. …

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