“No thank you,” I said, smiling as broadly as I could. She looked rather disconcerted, perhaps even slightly frightened.
I was disappointed. I’d been aiming for pleasant and friendly.
“Well then, that seems to be that for the time being, Eleanor; I’ll leave you in peace,” she said.
She continued talking as she packed away the file in her briefcase, adopting a breezy, casual tone.
“Any plans for the weekend?” “I’m visiting someone in hospital,” I said.
“Oh, that’s nice. Visits always cheer a patient up, don’t they?”
“Do they?” I said. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never visited anyone in hospital before.”
“But you’ve spent a lot of time in hospital yourself, of course,” she said.
I stared at her. The imbalance in the extent of our knowledge of each other was manifestly unfair.
Social workers should present their new clients with a fact sheet about themselves to try to redress this, I think.
After all, she’d had unrestricted access to that big brown folder, the bumper book of Eleanor,
two decades’ worth of information about the intimate minutiae of my life.
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