Not far from Sweeney Todd the vet/takeaway combo, a woman advertises herself as some sort of hypnotherapist. At a rather vulnerable or rather gullible time in my life I booked an appointment with her.
Well. Her consulting room was some kind of dust covered, mouldy coffee cup strewn, curtains drawn den.
Despite being white upper class Parisian, she'd taken an artefact from every obscure religion, faith or culture from Native American to Aborigine plus everything in between and put it in there.
It had a funny smell like incense and stale fairy cakes. Needless to say, for somebody so spiritual and disdainful of Western capitalism, she charged ridiculously high prices.
I couldn't see a polite way to leave, so I found myself underneath an old army blanket on one of those really flimsy fold up massage beds that are like a wallpaper pasting table and she started to go into a trance to try to put me under.
I started giggling. I couldn't help myself. What with all the chanting and the musak and the dark and the dream catchers and the wall hangings and trying not to fall off the pasting table that was about a foot shorter than me and barely two foot wide.
Then I couldn't stop. She was really angry and threw me out.