Back to work, and while the office is nicely air-conditioned it was an effort to get up this morning. I think maybe I need to consider taking a day off before the board meeting, just to relax and mentally prepare for it!
The numerologist Snow had been falling all night and well into the morning and muted the sounds of the street outside. Dr. Fraud had been forced to move from his previous eighth-floor office by his insurance company, who felt that they were getting unnecessary claims from acro- and basophobics, and now had a ground-floor office with a tidy little garden outside the windows and bars in front of them. The neighbourhood wasn't particularly good, but was still less of an insurance risk, he was told. Susan was sat on the chaise-longue, her legs crossed at the ankles and her skirt down to mid-calf, which Dr. Fraud felt was a very acceptable skirt-length. "I like the length of your skirt," he said, his Austrian accent thickening slightly as it always did when he started thinking about other people's mental processes. "What on earth do you mean by that?" Susan set down a sheaf of papers she was holding, and stared at him. She was at least ten years younger than him, and her gaze was penetrating. It reminded him of being back at university. "For a woman, your skirt is an excellent length," he said. "And if I were a man?" "I... I beg your pardon?" "If I were a man, would my skirt be an acceptable length then?" Dr. Fraud thought about this, his fingers caressing several small objets d'art on his desk as he did so. Susan waited. "No," he said finally. "Men who wear skirts are either Scottish or cross-dressers, both of which are mental afflictions. Neither would wear a skirt of such modesty." Susan's facepalm was audible in the next room. "Dr. Fraud," she said, clearly trying to control her anger. "That viewpoint would have been considered bigoted by Freud. In fact, it would probably have been considered bigoted by Napoleon, and Louis XVIII. It almost certainly contributes to the parlous state of your accounts." Dr. Fraud frowned. "My accounts?" Then his face cleared, like oil receding from the surface of water. "Ah! You're the numerologist!" "I'm your accountant," said Susan. Her face was flushed. "I know what the numbers are for and what they mean. And I know that you have an abnormally high turnover of patients, an extraordinary number of claims on your insurance, and that you're used as a threat by several other psychiatrists working in this city." "How long have you had this fascination with numbers, Delia?" "My name is Susan. Su-san. Susan, Dr. Fraud. And perhaps we could talk about the poisonous Rorschach inkblot tests, which, frankly, ought to be impossible." "What you make of this verse?" Dr. Fraud handed her a piece of paper with some words written on it. "Nothing, Dr. Fraud. I'm an accountant, and if you don't answer my damn questions today you can hire yourself another one!" "Such a shame," said Dr. Fraud watching snowflakes fall outside the window. "My last numerologist said it was proof I'd be rich before I was thirty."
2 comments:
Back to work, and while the office is nicely air-conditioned it was an effort to get up this morning. I think maybe I need to consider taking a day off before the board meeting, just to relax and mentally prepare for it!
The numerologist
Snow had been falling all night and well into the morning and muted the sounds of the street outside. Dr. Fraud had been forced to move from his previous eighth-floor office by his insurance company, who felt that they were getting unnecessary claims from acro- and basophobics, and now had a ground-floor office with a tidy little garden outside the windows and bars in front of them. The neighbourhood wasn't particularly good, but was still less of an insurance risk, he was told.
Susan was sat on the chaise-longue, her legs crossed at the ankles and her skirt down to mid-calf, which Dr. Fraud felt was a very acceptable skirt-length.
"I like the length of your skirt," he said, his Austrian accent thickening slightly as it always did when he started thinking about other people's mental processes.
"What on earth do you mean by that?" Susan set down a sheaf of papers she was holding, and stared at him. She was at least ten years younger than him, and her gaze was penetrating. It reminded him of being back at university.
"For a woman, your skirt is an excellent length," he said.
"And if I were a man?"
"I... I beg your pardon?"
"If I were a man, would my skirt be an acceptable length then?"
Dr. Fraud thought about this, his fingers caressing several small objets d'art on his desk as he did so. Susan waited.
"No," he said finally. "Men who wear skirts are either Scottish or cross-dressers, both of which are mental afflictions. Neither would wear a skirt of such modesty."
Susan's facepalm was audible in the next room.
"Dr. Fraud," she said, clearly trying to control her anger. "That viewpoint would have been considered bigoted by Freud. In fact, it would probably have been considered bigoted by Napoleon, and Louis XVIII. It almost certainly contributes to the parlous state of your accounts."
Dr. Fraud frowned. "My accounts?" Then his face cleared, like oil receding from the surface of water. "Ah! You're the numerologist!"
"I'm your accountant," said Susan. Her face was flushed. "I know what the numbers are for and what they mean. And I know that you have an abnormally high turnover of patients, an extraordinary number of claims on your insurance, and that you're used as a threat by several other psychiatrists working in this city."
"How long have you had this fascination with numbers, Delia?"
"My name is Susan. Su-san. Susan, Dr. Fraud. And perhaps we could talk about the poisonous Rorschach inkblot tests, which, frankly, ought to be impossible."
"What you make of this verse?" Dr. Fraud handed her a piece of paper with some words written on it.
"Nothing, Dr. Fraud. I'm an accountant, and if you don't answer my damn questions today you can hire yourself another one!"
"Such a shame," said Dr. Fraud watching snowflakes fall outside the window. "My last numerologist said it was proof I'd be rich before I was thirty."
Greg - I hope you did take that day off. I suspect that you didn't, but I shall hope until I read otherwise.
Ah, Dr. Fraud fun continues. Always a treat to have him visit, even more so when he stays awhile :D
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