Eve, the therapy person, is around my age and, like me, is a mother. When not therapizing, she sings in a band, and runs our music therapy group with a band-mate, Steve. She has a powerful, versatile, alto singing voice, and that slightly bohemian look that musicians adopt when they work in education and have to tone it down, including hair of a flamboyant copper that reminds me of a Golden Lion Tamarin. (Eve doesn’t look like a Golden Lion Tamarin, it’s just that her hair reminds me of one.) Most importantly, Eve exhibits a relaxed, tolerant and warm-heartedly humorous attitude to us that is invaluable in an atmosphere like Ascot House, that is constantly teetering on the brink of mass hysteria.
She’s the one who was tasked with finding Dylan and I, when it became apparent that we were willing to give recovery a try, and saying, “So, Dylan, Xan, how would you feel about going out for fish and chips?” or “Do you guys fancy a curry, tonight?” then watching with an amused grin as we descended into a state of terrified indecision.
Middle-aged Male Anorexic 