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thoroughly bad thing. It’s very old-fashioned.”
    “But why, Mummy?” Bertie protested. “All this happened a long time ago. And cubs and scouts have lots of fun – the book says so. Look, let me show you the bit.”
    “Certainly not,” snapped Irene, and then, more gently, “Yousee, Bertie, the problem is that these organisations appeal to a very primitive urge in boys. They make them want to pretend to be little hunters. They make them want to join together and exclude other people. They make them want to get dressed up in ridiculous uniforms, like
Fascisti
. That’s why Mummy thinks they’re a bad idea.”
    Bertie said nothing. The more his mother denigrated the activities of the boy scouts, the more desirable they seemed to him. Hunters! Uniforms! It would be such fun, he thought, to dress up and make one of those circles that he had seen pictured in the book. And they went camping too, which must be the most wonderful fun. There were photographs of boys standing about their tent while others made a camp fire. And then there was a picture of boys, all in their uniforms, sitting about their fire singing a song. The book gave some of the words of the song, “One man and his dog, went to mow a meadow…” That sounded like a very exciting song, thought Bertie; so rich in meaning; and for a moment he imagined the man and his dog setting off to cut the grass in Drummond Place Gardens. And the man was Angus Lordie and the dog was Cyril, whom Bertie had always liked.
    But he knew that he would never be able to be a cub or a scout. There would not be time for it, for one thing, what with his Italian lessons, his yoga and his psychotherapy. Which was why he was now sitting in Dr. Fairbairn’s waiting room while his mother went through for her private chat with the therapist before Bertie was called in. He knew that they were discussing him, and he had once tried to listen through the keyhole while his mother and Dr. Fairbairn had talked. He had not been able to make out what they were saying, although he did hear mention of Melanie Klein’s name once or twice and something about avoidance, whatever that was. Then his mother muttered something about Bertie’s little brother, Ulysses. This was followed by silence.

10.
A Setback for the Bertie Project
    In the consulting room of Dr. Hugo Fairbairn, the distinguished psychotherapist and author of
Shattered to Pieces: Ego Dissolution in a Three-Year-Old Tyrant
, Irene sat on the opposite side of the desk, staring at Dr. Fairbairn uncomprehendingly.
    “A chair?” she said, eventually. “A chair?”
    Dr. Fairbairn beamed back at her. “I wanted you to be one of the first to know,” he said. “I shall, of course, be writing to all my patients, and there may even be something in the press about it …” He broke off, smiling in a self-deprecatory way. “Not that I’m newsworthy, of course, but the fact of the matter is that Aberdeen has decided to create the first chair of child psychotherapy at a Scottish university and, well, they’ve very kindly chosen me.”
    Irene struggled to pull herself together. “But why can’t you do this here in Edinburgh? What’s wrong with Edinburgh University or any of the other universities we’ve got here? Queen Margaret University – they go in for that sort of thing, don’t they? Health sciences and so on. Why don’t you be a professor there? Or Napier University? What about them? They’ve got that film school or whatever – they’re forward-looking.”
    Dr. Fairbairn smiled. He appreciated such praise from Irene, but he wondered if she knew much about the mechanisms of getting a university chair. “It’s not that simple,” he explained. “There’s nothing available in Edinburgh at the moment. Maybe some time in the future, but now … well, it’s Aberdeen who have taken the step. And I must say I do feel somewhat flattered.”
    Irene decided to change tack. “Flattered by being offered a chair? Come now, Hugo,