I really thought I’d found her. The next one I mean, just by using the internet. I love the internet. It’s so anonymous. It’s just perfect for hiding behind.
 
I’d had a crazy thought and decided to follow it up. How long will it take, just to look? First time out it worked. I felt as if I’d won the lottery. There she was. On the Arachnophobia Forum. Screenname: Miss Muffett. Just as I imagined she might be. Terrified of spiders and was that a cry for help I heard in her writing? (Perhaps, later…with a bit of luck. Aural sex.)
 
Enter stage left, Dr James Treadworthy, Cognitive Behaviour Therapist extraordinaire. Me! (Therapist seemed so apt, just one little space away.)
 
We sent little messages to each other. Over the course of the next few days I knew everything about her fears, how they had ruined her life, what she wouldn’t give to be free of this terror. So much less hit and miss than my previous experiences. So kind of her to have shared her greatest fears, and with me; the perfect person to help her confront those fears. We talked of her attitude towards drug therapy. (She didn’t agree with it). And she was so supportive when through her insistent questionning I was forced to admit that I had recently been asked to leave the BABCP as I refuse to recommend any form of drug therapy for most phobics; and certainly never for arachnophobics.  It took a few days of mentioning the regular group workshops I hold at my country home before she eventually enquired as to the cost. She didn’t like to ask. Aah! She thought she was being presumptuous. Aah!  Or would have to be referred by her GP. Aah! It’s just my regulars, says I, I could always do with some new blood, says I. How lovely, says she. It’s a bit difficult to find first time out, says I, I’ll collect you from the station.
 
I even did a bit of shopping. You’ve got to get into the part. Grey slacks, a double-breasted navy blazer, a perfectly horrid yellow bow tie and a pair of horn-rimmed specs: plain glass, for the psychotherapist about town.
 
I was at the station early, really feeling rather chipper. I was even singing, in my head of course, two of my favourite Sinatra numbers. “Stranglers in the night”, amazing how adding a single letter will perk up a lyric, and that one that always makes me think of the monsters in children’s nightmares, “Things like a walk in the park, things like a kiss in the dark…” And why wouldn’t they?
 
The train arrived. I thought I looked very dapper and just the right side of forgetful professor. I had my concerned face on and was considering what voice to use. Slightly superior with just a whiff of caring, sharing, ‘90’s ought to do it. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I could see, looking lost, an insignificant little man in a beige raincoat. He caught my eye. “Dr Treadworthy?”
 
Oh my God, she’s brought her father with her. It’s OK. Think on your feet. Using my chosen voice to maximum effect, I admitted that I was he.
 
With a smile, he introduced himself: “I’m Miss Muffet!”, he said.
 
The bastard. The sick, sick, bastard. What kind of creature would do that? Que le F*** was I going to do now?