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So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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Then I had a session with this client. Let’s call him “Rudi.” Rudi’s been dealing with some heavy stuff. We were deep into it when suddenly, BOOM! A loud crash outside. I thought it was a car accident or something. Nope! Just some kids playing football on the street. I mean, come on! Can’t a psychologist have a quiet moment?

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