Wee Jock was in a terrible state. Too terrified to go to a doctor in case they declare him mad he went to see a private therapist,
“So how can I help?” asked the therapist.
“It’s like this,” saidWee Jock. “Ah’ve started getting these fears at night, and they are getting worse! I keep thinking somebody is under the bed, so I go down under it to look and no one’s there. Then my brain tells me there’s somebody on top of the bed and it goes on like this all night: under, top, under, top. It’s driving me mental!”
The therapist thought for a bit and said, “I am positive I can cure you of this. Now, I want you to come and see me twice a week for the next six months for a two hour session each time.”
“And how much will that be?” asked Wee Jock.
“£60 per session,” the therapist replied. Jock left, troubled at the thought of all that money, and went for a consoling drink at his local.
It was months later that the therapist bumped into Wee Jock again. The therapist was surprised to see Jock looking so well, not the sleep-deprived maniac he’d seen before.
“Why did you never come back?” he asked.
“At £60 a pop, twice a week, for six months? You must be kidding! The barman at the local cured me for a tenner!”
“How on earth did he do that?”
“He told me to buy a saw and cut the legs off the bed!”