Late Night Rogerian
Sir Galahad rides again. There's all kinds of shit going down for a lot of people at the moment, none of which directly involves me (which makes a change from 1995) but people feel they want to talk to me about things. As ever, I am up to my eyes in the comfort factor feeling like a cross between R D Laing and Dr Ruth.
I was involved in voluntary counselling work for nearly a decade. I guess it's a moot point as to whether I had a natural aptitude for that kind of thing and therefore took on that particular challenge or whether I went into that area of endeavour and then developed the necessary skills. Bit of both, I suppose.
The sort of training I received was mainly influenced by the work of Carl Rogers. It emphasises the premise that the needs of the client come first and that the counsellor has no right to impose solutions upon any client. Empowering the client to discuss issues in a safe space free from judgement, to explore the range of options open to them and to choose their preferred solution are the order of the day.
The model also acknowledges that counsellors are not like some immutable Buddha, impassive, un-responding and unaffected by proceedings. They have a role to play and are only able to support and assist insofar as their own experiences of life will allow. They have limitations; they have prejudices; they have their own agendas and there is a personal cost involved in the work that they undertake.
It's always felt to me to be one of the more humane regimes and I've always appreciated the sense that you have to know yourself and be comfortable with yourself before you can begin to relate to others.
Sometime around 1am, I'm jolted awake by the phone by my bed and, as I dive for the receiver, my first thought is "Something has happened to David". This is something of a shock as he's been dead for over 9 months now but it does go to show that the emotional legacy of those last four months of his life is deeply ingrained.
And, of course, it's a call requiring compassion, assistance, reassurance and, over the next 30-45 minutes, I give them all, willingly, using all those old Rogerian principles. And because of the nature of the call, some of the worst moments of my life are called to mind. And I view again on that internal video screen the night of John's suicide and Roland's reaction and my role in the weeks that followed and John's funeral and David's death and the horrors of that day and the funeral and the solace that many people offered me at the time.
And I recognise that I have come through, that I can regard these things with the necessary and appropriate mixture of dispassion and emotion. For what is the point of these traumas of the past unless they can be used in the present for the comfort and support of the living and, like alchemy, base metal can be transmuted into gold.
At 3am, I wake up again, aware of two lumps on the bed with me. The larger, quieter lump will be Cyril, my 13 year old cat, who as I type now is doing his famous Elsa the Lioness pose on the back of the armchair. The smaller, purring lump will be Muldoon, who is just over 8 months old now and, judging from the ecstatic tone of his night-time song, he is in an advanced state of priapism.
This is a definite sign. The cats rarely sit vigil over me unless they know that my soul is in need of balm. I don't need to check this out. They are intuitively correct as usual. And I am not going to deny myself. If they are the only source of late night comfort for me at the moment, then so be it. I snuggle down into the warmth of my bed, guarded against the demons of the night by my furry companions, hoping that, sometime in the last seven days, they have developed a feline concept of a Saturday morning lie in.
Fat chance. 
Cyril puts his paw in my mouth shortly after 8am. Thirty minutes grace is all I get. So, having fed them and myself, I indulge in a hot bath filled with soothing essences, a mug of tea and The Magic Flute on the cassette player. Maybe I shall follow Colin's advice and go see it again.