Group therapy

I was late, I always am. Running stop signs and getting sweared at.

The lady at the front desk was cold, I think she likes to be. Likes to make you wait while she colour codes her biros. She pointed down the hall. Right to the end she said. Right to the very end.

I could tell which room it was straight away, the only room with a closed door. As soon as I walked in, the chatter skipped a beat. I could feel their eyes. But there was one red chair left, mine, so I hunched myself up in it, trying to keep warm. A bosomy grandmother-type wearing a pink and purple tracksuit offered me a cup of tea. I gripped that tea in both hands. Hoping it would help me blend in. Stop my hands shaking.

But I wanted to look at each of them, as much as they did at me. Study their faces. Other people with problems. Worse problems. Sadder stories. Better excuses. We sat there together like mismatched toys, thrown in a heap. I'm not sure which toy I am yet. I want to be one of the repairable ones.

Like everyone else there does.