Alternative Therapies for Alternative Wierdos

In the hope that it will improve my condition and cure me of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, I see a osteopath every Tuesday who gives me a massage, vitamin pills and sends me on my way. Wait, cut that, it sounds a little callous, let me elaborate:

My osteopath works in a holistic centre - a place where the obscure and oft ridiculed "alternative" therapies band together, braid each other's hair, sing Kumbaya and pour Guinness on the ground to appease the Earth Mother. The Journey starts in the waiting room, where a rock collection, a water feature, Indian music, pale green wallpaper and a photograph of the sea make you say a quiet prayer that your parents didn't raise you into the kind of person that likes to wear clothes made of hemp. My osteopath enters and invites me into her room. I sit down and she gives me what looks like a large computer mouse, asking me to press my hand to it and "get in touch with myself". It's a scanning device and when its done it tells me that my liver is a mess and that I'm unsympathetic, selfish and courageous: my scepticism evaporates.

She can do nothing for my emotional state (as if it needed fixing) but for my liver she gives me a small phial full of a clear liquid, three drops in a glass of water every day and she says my liver will be right as rain. She does warn me that it works by "detoxifying my liver" (I wish it the best of luck) and that I may experience some symptoms of detoxification. I ask her if that means I'll start watching Dale Winton-hosted quiz shows and see babies crawling along the ceiling. Nothing. Now for the osteopathy proper. I take off my shirt, lie down on a bed-like contraption and wait while she rubs me with oil, a sweet, lavender oil that permeates my every pore and every piece of clothing I've ever owned - my entire life now smells of lavender. She pokes me hard in the ribs repeatedly and asks if it hurts. When I'm done wincing she puts her hands under my head and sits there for twenty minutes while she attempts to "channel my energy" (today she told me it was narrow and irritated). Forty-five minutes after I enter, I leave and go home.

Jokes aside (yes, there were some in there) I've got to thank her, if it wasn't for her I'd probably still be lying in bed all day, eating chocolate and watching the Godfather - thank you for taking me away from that nightmare. There was however one thing I saw on the window facing out to the street that I refuse to let be. To you, loyal reader of 3 previous articles (and I do not use the singular to indiviualise my large audience, but to observe it's circulation of 1. Yes, I mean you) I present the dumbest fucking window poster I have ever seen. Ever:

"Stop Smoking

Lose Weight

Cure Phobias

Reduce Stress

Improve Sports Performance

No Frills, Just

Hypnotherapy"