ABSTRACT
It’s Monday. C, as he always does, arrives early for his session and uses the toilet. When I collect him, he just glances in my direction, greeting me with his customary formal, but not unfriendly, reserve; before lying down, he quickly surveys, as usual, the space behind the couch, where my chair and my desk are, to reassure himself, I feel, that everything is as he left it, and also to ascertain that nothing unpredictable or dangerous could assail him from behind.This visual exploration seems very important to him,and I know how quick he is in picking up anything new or different, even if he never talks about it. He then lies very still, with his legs quite open, rigid and passive at the same time, a position he will keep to the end of the session. Despite several years of analysis and the carefully ritualised sameness of his entry into the session, meeting his object (especially after a separation) continues to produce a surge of anxiety which cannot be verbalised and is expressed instead at a bodily level. His first words seem to suggest a possible reason for this difficulty.A brief silence, then he says, half defiantly, half apologetically: ‘I’m afraid I don’t have much to say today’ . . . Another pause . . . ‘I have got my head stuck up my arse.’
