Hypno-cigs

His head peeps round the door then the rest of him enters . I see a
big shark of an oblong smile set against serious bone structure. Maybe
a cross between Liberace and Billy Graham the evangelist. Typically I
both like and distrust him.

Mr G. Hoare, recommended by my G.P. has a practise in this jolly
expensive area not far from Russell Square. So he must be quite good at
what he does?

Up a load of steps (lift not working) and it's clean, smelling of
orange. There's a lot of the colour orange too which seems positive and
optimistic, and you half expect to see magazine cuttings of dolphins
and tigers on the wall over the water dispenser. But no, it's some
kids' drawings of skeletons smoking. Annoying little brats. This is
pre-motherhood , in the days of freedom and debauchery when I used to
flinch under the innocent gaze of children.

"I'll be about ten minutes. Please smoke while you wait, oh and read if
you like."

He waves a hand towards a ceramic ashtray, the size and colour of a
medium pizza.
"Oh no " I smiled, shrugging. "I think I can manage without for once
"
"No , please do smoke! It is an important part of my healing session.
I'm making some coffee now - how many sugars?"

"I expect he thinks this is my last fag" I think, lighting up. Smoking
certainly feels wrong in here and the immaculate finish of the ashtray
intimidates me . I pick up a home interiors magazine and flick through
looking for any new towel rail developments. I love waiting-room
magazines, these and the ones full of institutional looking castles for
sale, rubber gardening mats and the like.

We drink the coffee in his consulting room, which is understated and
lilac grey with navy armchairs. "It's fine coffee, this trinidaddian
blend!" he tells me.

"Yes it has a round taste, not bitter at all I mean" I am desperately
trying to sort the taste out without swallowing too much of the stuff,
just in case. I relax my face muscles hoping he hasn't seen my
paranoia. Maybe he's psychic and can read eye movements.
And I wonder why do I mistrust him. I don't actually think he's trying
to poison me, what would be in it for him?
I fear hallucinations though, accidental or invited. My suspicion takes
an abstract form and I wonder what would be the outcome if I had a
panic attack during hypnosis.

He begins to explain about the process. I can't concentrate. (God do I
look nevous or something?)
"I explain this to everyone at the beginning of a session just to put
them at ease. blah blah blah. "

As much as I distrust him I go under pretty quickly. After the initial
deep breathing and "I don't need this habit" banter I am so relaxed
that all I'm aware of is the maternal roar of traffic, rising and
falling like warm waves.

I come to normal mode as he's finishing.
"Erm, would you like to give me your packet of cigarettes?"

"With pleasure. " I grope around and come up with my chequebook.
"AND you can have the lighter as well. But mind me
asking?................."

He smiles wryly. " I give all my clients' cigarettes to my mother.
Hypnosis techniques don't seem to work on her. The ashtray you used out
there in the waiting room is always full up by the end of the evening!
"

I look around and realise that this is indeed living accommocation.
Which sheds a new but irrational light on the situation., I feel
ashamed now about having previously worried that he was trying to drug
me.

Suddenly I am aware of everyday things lke a double packet of Weetabix
on the bookshelf next to the roadmaps, and a video from Blockbuster
waiting to be returned.

I feel clean and light green peering out of the bus windows going home.
There's been a lot of rain and the parks are dark green. Other people's
smoking doesnt bother me at all.
It just seems a shame for them.

At home I work out that the amount of money I paid Mr G. Hoare this
afternoon for the session was worth approximately 12 weeks of
cigarettes.
That's a lot of money , a lot of cigarettes. Still this doesn't matter
when you consider the endless benefits to my health. I feel grateful to
him for curing me and wonder if it's sad that a man of his age still
lives with his mother, passively inhaling as they watch Arnie films all
those floors up. Outside, the lights of the city twinkle through the
rain.

I start looking after myself , exercising , getting fresh air. Going to
bed early to prevent biscuit overload.

After three months I find myself in the newsagents. I only buy a packet
of ten though.