'How are things at work Elizabeth?' Dr. Robinson picks up her clipboard, glances briefly at the paper attached before meeting my eyes to prompt an answer.
            'Still difficult Doctor.' I am doing the eye thing again, searching the room for something that doesn't exist. I am rubbing my fingers together and squeezing the tips. I can feel my thin, bitten nails and the rough torn skin around them.
            'Can you tell me something about the nature of your work? Are you still doing the same job as when we last consulted?' Dr. Robinson takes a pen from a pot on her desk. She is wearing a cream coloured dress with tiny red flowers scattered all over it and a belt that pulls her in too tightly at the waist. She has grown fatter since we last consulted. She has grown fatter and today she hasn't bothered to brush her coarse blonde hair. Her nails are long and painted red.
            '…No, the hospital have arranged for me to move departments, but I haven't made it to work, as you know, for the past two weeks. I haven't been up to it.' The words leave my lips and are instantly forgotten. I feel the thickness invade my skull. It is in my ears and behind my eyes. I feel the thickness crowding my brain, swelling and pressing and pressing and swelling.
            'Elizabeth.' I jump at the Doctor's hand on my arm. 'Would it be easier if I asked your husband to come in and sit with you while you answer these questions?' Her eyes are kind. She understands.
            'Yes, I think that would be better. He might remember things…better.' I watch her rise slowly from her seat and move heavily towards the door. Dr. Robinson's shoes are worn out. The metal tips of her heels meet the wooden floor with short sharp click after short sharp click. The door closes behind her and I am left with myself.
            It has been three weeks since I last sat in this office. Three weeks since the Doctor suggested I request a change of environment. 'A change of location' may alter my mood. In that time Dr. Robinson has had her office re- decorated, disposed of the clutter littering her desk. Furniture has been moved and the walls have been stripped of their dirty brown anaglypta wallpaper and painted cream. There are no curtains to frame the window and the November sun shines harsh on surfaces free of dust. The room feels cleaner, fresher, colder. My eyes begin to ache with the brightness.
            'Alright Elizabeth, lets go back to the beginning.' Dr. Robinson followsJames back into the room. He is carrying a chair, which he sets down beside me. He takes my hand as he takes his seat. [read on]