I'm a Banker
A banker was referred to me by his sister. When he arrived he weighed thirty-two stone. He carped about my ‘hideous 1960s couch’ and ‘didn’t I know these days I could get a printer, scanner and fax all in one?’
I knew from the sister that this guy had a trail of broken therapists lying in his wake including four Harley Street (couch-by-the-hour) hypnotherapists and as many nutritionists. They were all ‘crap’. No one could do anything because there was nothing wrong and he was just fat and that was that.
Only that wasn’t that. He’d had a heart attack. He’ had a heart attack and had tried to fly to his house in Lanzarote to recuperate but had been thrown of the plane because he didn’t fit their seats.
I said that if he wanted me to treat him he’d have to commit to sessions every Thursday at 14:00 for six months. I didn’t care what board meetings he had or which clients wanted to see him. He had to come every Thursday at 2 or he could leave now.
He agreed to come every Thursday at 14:00 for six months though, frankly, I don’t think he meant it. But after that first session he dropped 12 lbs and came back the next week to tell me I was crap. The next week he lost 10 lbs and I was still crap. In four months he was down to 25 stone and after six months he was under 20 stone (19:12) for the first time since he was 19.
And, you know what? It had nothing to do with me! He told me plainly (every Thursday) that I was crap. But, apparently, there is ‘a device in the road’ somewhere between his office in St James’s and mine in Ham and when he drove over it, it made him eat differently. The problem was, he had no idea where it was and it could be anywhere right up to my front door so he had to drive the whole route. “And once I’m here, I might as well, lie on your couch for an hour.”
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