One of the roles of barman (or barmaid, but my local is rarely staffed by a woman) is to be father confessor, listener and confidente. They are supposed to stand there, head cocked to one side, polishing a glass, occasionally dispensing nuggets of meaty wisdom.

Of course, the glass polishing is unhygienic, but it's a prop.

So how come I'm up to my seventh barman who wants to tell me his worries? I'm father confessor to the barmen. I'm not necessarily objecting, and I'm rather flattered. I do remember being in a similar position in the early nineties, but that was for mates. Not that these people aren't mates. But still. It's an odd reversal.

Psychoanalysts are meant to be in analysis themselves, which is a little bit meta. (As in, how do you deliver cardboard boxes? In a cardboard box. So how...) Do they talk to more experienced shrinks? In which case there's a limit point. On is it a large circle, and would that work?

Somewhere Tom Lehrer comments about the counsellor who made his living giving helpful advice to people who were happier than he was.

Ho hum.

From: [identity profile] drasecretcampus.livejournal.com


Qui custodes des custards, as someone once might have said. (Or was it "Who ate all the pies?"?)

I suppose I have to say that it means they trust me not to blab, and even if they ignore my advice they at least feel I can give some. On the other hand, several of them have told me I'm not a customer, which is odd since I keep on giving them money, but on the other hand I did pour four pints of Guinness last night, and only one of them was for me.
.

Profile

faustus: (Default)
faustus

Most Popular Tags

Powered by Dreamwidth Studios

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags