the fantasy man

This week I have met two rather interesting people, demanding but interesting, that have tested my patience to the limit. Mrs Hyper was the term "in your face" personified. She positioned herself about six inches from my face and delivered everything at about one hundred decibels. Prior to admission she was so depressed she could barely bring herself to lift up the phone. Whatever the doctor has given her has had a significant impact and now she is so pepped up that she can't sleep or sit still, consequently her legs are swelling and she is almost as anxious but in an active sense, as she was before. Trying to get anything done with a whirlwind attaching herself to me and with a constant commentary made me feel drained. She was so emphatic and interspersed her narrative with references to various physical ailments - showing me a sebaceous cyst, her swollen calf etc etc- and her own personal history and that of her extended family, all at the same time. We all felt exhausted by the time she was collected and went home!

The fantasy man of the title just demands a book to himself.
He introduced himself to me with a clasp of the hand and hushed voice. "Someone is out to kill me dear, I know a lot of secrets and a lot of important people and that makes life dangerous for me." My heart sank. Life was stressed enough as it was without someone fantasising. He went on to tell me that the room was wired and he hoped that those listening in were getting their money's worth. I kept my face impassive and tried to behave as if it were the most natural conversation in the world. When I could escape I re-read his file and realised that the assessment was very sketchy and superficial - we would have to radically re think our approach. He cosied up to various other clients, whispering in vulnerable ears - I tried to observe discretely without exciting his hostility. He strode into the office and demanded paper and pen, to " record his observations ...." We waited to see what would develop and were disappointed with the result. A rough sketch and random jottings that while not exciting were a graphic illustration of the two people he talked about - never knowing which one would surface first when he woke. By the end of the week nothing would have surprised us and we all learned to assume poker faces. Two photo albums were thrust into a colleague's hands, full of wartime pictures - signed photos of an American beauty in uniform with shades of a Glen Miller style musical back ground. Maybe there is some hidden mystery here. The late marriage to a guarded blonde, who looks into the camera warily, who is photographed staring into the distance from a hill top, who looks unapproachable and icy. His family, such as it is, evinced concern but with such exaggeration that at the end of the interview we began to wonder who was conning who. Were the Oriental volunteers really fleecing Mr F or was it a ploy to keep his money intact ready for inheritance. The more detail the relative gave the more mind boggling it became and we decided to play Pontius Pilate and have nothing to do it with the situation.
Half way through the stay a social worker appeared to assess the situation and quickly realised she didn't know half of it. After a chat and perusal of the notes he'd made it became very apparent that she would have to reassess and possibly look at other options for care. The longer I am with Mr F the more like an iceberg he seems - we are only seeing the tenth of the mass(man) and the further we delve the more dangerous it might be. Watch this space.