The taxi driver shifted, noticeably and uncomfortably, in his seat.
“I’m sorry, love, you’ll have to excuse me. I got the snip three months ago and…”
I gave an internal sigh and mentally prepared for the intimate details of this complete stranger’s life. Because here’s the thing. You know how some people are cursed with ‘Resting Bitchy Face’, so they look like they’re constantly sniffing dog poo even when they’re thinking about booking a holiday at a spa? Some days, I wish for Resting Bitchy Face. I have something that’s even worse. I have Resting Listening Face.
There’s something about me that encourages complete strangers to talk to me about the bizarrest things. I sometimes think that there’s a dialogue going on that everyone else apart from me is able to hear.
“Oi, bus stranger!” cries out my nose, merrily. “Head on over here and gimme the details of your latest breakup. Don’t spare the blow by blow account of that argument about the toothpaste!”
“This girl has tissues and she loooooves to be cried on,” coaxes my chin, invitingly.
“And don’t forget that issue with your toenail fungus!” chime in my eyebrows.
And next thing I know I’m buying hot chocolate and giving lifts and agreeing that yes, all men really are bastards, there there, no, it’s no trouble at all, I totally had two hours to spare today.
I’ve heard about affairs and divorces and trips to the emergency room. I’ve mm-ed and nodded through tales of sexual dysfunction, instantly regretted tattoos and an unfortunate incident involving a coffee table. And I’ve had enough medical stories spouted at me to qualify as a first aider.
It was after the taxi driver dropped me off, tearfully wringing my hand and refusing a tip (luckily I got to my destination before he offered to show me his scar) that I made my decision. If I have an ultrasonic signal that makes people want to confide me in me, I’m going to damn well be qualified so I can bill them afterwards.
I’m going to train as a therapist.