THE STORY OF SALLY AND ENOCH

I'd like to share with you something quite special. I have often found it useful to recount this inspiring tale when I am confronted with a difficult patient who will not yield.

In the consultation room, sometimes I feel that I am making genuine progress with a patient. At the end of a fruitful session, the patient begins to grasp the germ of some important realisation which, if nurtured, would turn round a sorry life. There is a real feeling of excitement when you see a poor soul on the verge of a major therapeutic breakthrough. More often than not, however, the lacuna between consultations results only in the reinforcement of the patient's aberrant patterns of belief.

In these situations, I sometimes need a circuit-breaker; a device that, like the blunderbuss of yore, can be deployed at close range to crash through all psychological resistance to change. In such times, I turn, more often than not, to the Story of Sally and Enoch.

I present it to you in three parts. Perhaps it will work its magic on you, also, my dear reader.

ENOCH
I once knew a dining table called Enoch. Enoch was stationed in a fine restaurant. Every day, a variety of important people would dine from him, sharing stories about their exploits and travels.

Rooted to his spot, Enoch felt that life was passing him by.

SALLY
Sally was a table place-mat.

Though she was once young, shiny and pert, recently she had noticed that she was becoming a little ragged around the edges; perhaps she had already seen her best days. There now seemed to be little chance that she would find a sturdy and receptive table to settle down with.

For a year, she had been working in the restaurant, and, for a greater part of that time, she had been besotted with Enoch. She always loved spending time with him, and feeling his hard, smooth and strong surface beneath her.

Alas, it seemed that nothing was destined to come of their many abortive liasons. For it was impossible to predict when she would next be placed upon him.

JEAN
Jean the sponge was a terrible gossip.

She flitted from table to table, wiping here and there, picking up little trails of information which she duly disseminated to the taps, the basin, and the scouring pad, among other utilities and utensils.

Indeed, she was a most perceptive sponge. And malicious she was, too. She was quick to notice Sally's frustrated affection for Enoch. But instead of helping to bring a budding romance to fruition, she decided to block it wherever she could.

Jean circulated scurrilous rumours about Sally. This caused the tap to splash more hot water on Sally than was necessary. It caused the knife and fork to clatter more heavily across her than the occasion dictated. It caused the scouring pad to stray, and sully her delicate surface.

In time, Sally's figure was ravaged. Soon, Enoch's eye was drawn to other place-mats, and Sally no longer caught his attention, nor lingered in his mind between meals.

It was soon after this that poor, ruined Sally fell into the oil-vat and perished.