Therapy

somebody decided we needed a new word for the economic sort. Recession-depression, recession-depression. The words echo in my head, like the rhythm of a steam engine. They’re connected, of course. People get depressed because they can’t get a job, or their businesses collapse or their houses are repossessed. They lose hope. A Gallup poll published today said that nearly half the people in the country would like to emigrate if they could. Walking about the city centre this afternoon you’d have thought they already had.
    My young brother Ken emigrated to Australia in the early seventies, when it was easier than it is now, and never made a better decision in his life. He’s an electrician by trade. In London he worked for one of the big stores in the West End and never made enough money to buy a decent car or a house big enough for his growing family. Now he has his own contracting business in Adelaide, and a ranch-style house in the suburbs with a two-car garage and a swimming pool. Until The People Next Door took off, he was doing considerably better than me. Mind you, he was always happier than me, even when he was hard up. He has a naturally cheerful temperament. Funny how some people have, and some people haven’t, even when their genes were dealt from the same deck.
     
    I went to my appointment with Alexandra straight from the Rialto, and, as I was describing the scene to her, I let slip the phrase “privileged wanker”. “Why do you call yourself that?” she demanded. “Wanker because I was sitting about drinking coffee in the middle of the day,” I replied, “and privileged because it was a free choice, not because I had nothing better to do.” “If I remember rightly,” she said, “you told me that you work extremely hard when you’re writing a television series, often up to twelve hours a day.” I nodded. “Are you not entitled to relax at other times?” “Yes, of course,” I said, “I meant I was struck by the contrast between my life and the lives of the no-hopers in the Rialto.” “How do you know they have no hope?” I didn’t, of course. “Did they look hopeless?” I had to admit they hadn’t. In fact they probably looked more cheerful than me to an observing eye, swapping jokes and cigarettes, tapping their feet in time to the muzak. “But with the recession the way it is,” I said, “I have this sense that I’m getting richer while everybody else around me is getting poorer. It makes me feel guilty.” “Do you feel personally responsible for the recession?” “No, of course not.” “In fact, I think you told me that your earnings from abroad are quite considerable?” “Yes.” “So you’re actually making a positive contribution to the nation’s trading balance?” “You could look at it that way, I suppose.” “Who is responsible for the recession, would you say?” I thought for a moment. “No individual, of course. It’s a complex of factors, mostly outside anyone’s control. But I think the Government could do more to alleviate its effects.” “Did you vote for this Government?” “No, I’ve always voted Labour,” I said. “But...” I hesitated. Suddenly the stakes had become very high. “But what?” “But I felt secretly relieved when the Tories won.”
    I had never admitted this to anybody before, not even to myself. I was flooded with a mixture of shame and relief at having finally uncovered a genuine reason for my lack of self-esteem. I felt as I imagine Freud’s patients felt when they broke down and admitted that they had always wanted to have sex with their mummies and daddies. “Why was that?” Alexandra enquired calmly. “Because it meant I wouldn’t have to pay higher taxes,” I said. “As I understand it,” said Alexandra, “the Labour Party proposed to the electorate a rise in income tax, the electorate rejected it, and now the Labour Party has dropped it. Is that your understanding?” “Yes,” I said. “So what are you feeling guilty about?” Alexandra said. “I don’t know,” I said.
    I think Alexandra’s talents are wasted on me. She should be working in the City of London convincing people that Greed is good.
     
    I had a go at The Concept of Dread this evening — thought I’d start with the title that seemed most obviously relevant to me — but it was a great disappointment. The table of contents alone was enough to put me off:
     
    Chap. I         Dread as the presupposition of original