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Life of the mind: Endings

Who is this person in whose mind I might occupy a small space and to whom I’ll tell my actual dreams?

By Anna Blundy  

© Harry Potts

It was a grey, low cloud London day. I stomped down the road from where I’d parked to my psychoanalyst’s remarkable-for-being-unremarkable house. I have been for supervision at other analysts’ houses—one super-modern thing down a track by Hampstead Heath, another a soft-lit, creamy mansion in Maida Vale. My analyst lives near motorways, a massive football stadium, a kebab shop. My analyst.

The first time I came here I parked right outside. That’s how long ago it was. Before parking restrictions. I probably had a shaking…

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