I like my job, but I'm terrified I'm no good at it at all.

Have I got the right stuff? I can't seem to make people listen to me.

I don't know. I don't even think it's because I'm young, it's something else entirely.

Oh oh, how you're my hero.

I do like you a lot; I'm so tired. I like being tired, it makes me feel satisfied about how I've spent the day. You're about five feet eight, same as me, in stocking feet. Maybe five seven. Morose rollicking walk. It's strange that the way you move can evoke both those things, you oxymoron, maybe it's you instead, because your hair's sensible and so are your clothes, always with a little suggestion you'd have liked to be something else... a whimsical brooch on sensible black velvet. I wonder what you were like, when you were young? I wonder what your middle name is. You're no iron lady. Your hair sits just below your strong jawline. I can't get over how lovely it is, I just want to look. All the time.

We stood very close together the other day, so close that we were almost touching. I wondered what you'd do if, there and then, I reached out and held your hand. I stood so that you were in the corner of my eye, just a glint of steely bob and the light flashing off your glasses from the window reflection, and a grey-clad shoulder. Always in grey or black and white, or clean turquoise (a nod to liveliness) but always the muted widowing shades. I suppose I like them too, looking gothic as I do, but there's always some vibrancy. No warm colours for you, though. No reds, no browns. Rarely a cream. Not even a necklace, but you do wear a watch. I bet you think I'm silly- two necklaces that alternate to cover my lack of bust, and no watch whatsoever. You must think I'm just floating about the place, not even anchored by time to anything of any use. I wondered if you'd come in just for me, just to chat to me. I don't think that's the case at all. I just wanted to indulge the fantasy.

All the people I work with radiate an air of safety, this air that whatever you tell them it will be alright, and whatever anyone else does around them will not penetrate their safe aura. They're not feared people, but they're healers. I am no healer. I am drifting and tangential and tangled, and they're simplifiers that lead and assuage. I am not that good at this. I can fake the voice, but it's flat not warm, I can fake smiling but I'll always look strange-skewed over awkwardness. This isn't a job for anyone on the autistic spectrum, I reckon. I can't make them feel safe, and that's what makes me feel bad. I can't create a safe environment because I've got no control.

So here is what I must do. I must expect to have control, think of more things to do, and expect to be a safe person that can talk and ask and not be shy about giving compliments.

I couldn't care less about what I've eaten today because it's all going to be wrong anyway. At least I got five portions of fruit and veg.