ABSTRACT
High on a rising Hampstead hill, on a sunny autumn day, the Jungian doctor gazed at me through his horn-rimmed spectacles. He had taken many notes and looked tired now, I thought. The silence in the carefully tended room was ticking like a metronome. My mind lost interest and skipped into the garden, down below, where the yellow roses drooped. It seemed a lovely place to play and shake off the endless worries that were always dogging me.
