�That�s what I�ll do, I�ll show them,� Wayne stated boisterously. �No matter whether they put itching powder in my shorts - like two weeks ago - I still won�t say anything?�
Krohl concurred with a fatherly smile, all the while wondering how people, like the one who was currently taking up his gaze, could face themselves in the mirror of a morning. Krohl wasn�t the most modest of men and so wouldn�t deny that his brain worked quicker than most. That was why he had the answer almost before the question had formed inside his head: people like Wayne really believed, wholeheartedly, that they were just like everyone else in most senses but a whole lot better in every other sense. What they didn�t get was that one hundred was an average IQ. Okay, Krohl had never really subscribed to the so-called Intelligence Quota (even though he liked to revel at the thought of his own one hundred and seventy five score) but believed that if someone averaged twenty six on the test then surely they were far from being the brightest bulb in the chandelier.
As silence tried its utmost to embrace the room the ticking clock now had a partner to prevent it from doing so; the rain, as envisaged by the good doctor, had returned. He was in the wrong profession. Actually, believe it or not, even with his overly-priced hourly rate, there were times when Krohl had found himself playing around with the idea of a career change. Would he ever go through with it? Like someone toying with the notion of jumping off a rooftop just because their wife had left them, probably not. A healthy ninety percent of the time he was truly comfortable with his job. Frequently shaking hands with the rich and well-known, receiving constant invites to galas for the well-to-do, rounds of golf with the equally obliged, why shouldn�t he enjoy his job? Answers, as said, came quickly to Krohl, though this one had always been there. Firmly rooted at the pit of his thoughts. Like an aged-old oak that had seemingly occupied the forest since the dawn of time. Listening to and evaluating other people�s problems, no matter how significant or trivial left very little time to consider one�s own. Was he unemotional and at times stand-offish? Probably. Could he be callous at times, literally caring for himself? Probably. Was that due to his job? Again Probably.
Well, he liked to think so.
Wayne hadn�t opened his mouth for close on twenty-five seconds (got to be personal record) when the second hand triumphantly arrived upon the twelve, thus providing the minute hand with one hundred micro-seconds worth of company.
�Vell Mr Rooney sat, I am afraid to say, is time up. I sink you are making excellent progress -� Wayne Rooney�s face lit up (excellent was always an excellent word to use), genuinely pleased to hear that he was improving as his short, in parts, stubby frame, landed on the carpet of Krohl�s office having jumped down from off the couch. �- and I am sure sat in two, three sessions time (Krohl had been saying this from the very get-go) you will be totally cured.� He liked to use the word �cured� as well as it gave the client the sense that their problems had simply been contracted like a bout of the flu rather than as a result of their genetic makeup.
�Thank you Doctor Krohl. Thanks a million. I�ve got some spare tickets for our next home game if you�re� oh yeah, I forget,� started Rooney, having recognised the thanks but no thanks smile that came across as more like a grimace from Krohl, �you don�t like football do you? That�s alright; neither does anyone else who comes to Old Trafford on a match day.�
Krohl let out a titter. A sense of humour. Hmm, so where did that come from? Krohl stopped wondering however with the sober look that had remained on Wayne Rooney�s face; evidently he was being serious.
Rooney�s departure permitted Krohl just under ten minutes to himself, catch his breath so to speak. The leather couch was incredibly warm, as if a giant hen had been preparing to lay an egg on it, though in places worryingly damp� He could feel a headache coming on. Another interesting conundrum: why does pinching the bridge of the nose feel so natural when one has got a headache? This was one answer that Krohl�s biological processor wouldn�t work out in time as, at that very moment, his telephone started to ring.
He groaned as his old legs took the weight.
�Hello,� he almost sobbed into the mouthpiece.
�Your four O�clock is here,� the silky voice of Miss Monroe (the voice that had got him into trouble with Mrs Krohl on numerous occasions. �How can your secretary not be attractive with a voice like that?�) informed him.
�Sank you. Ask him to take a seat please.�
Before the telephone had began to ring Krohl had been on the verge of checking his computerised calendar, the method of keeping a track of his appointments that the modern age had force-fed to old-school professionals such as Krohl. Whether they liked it or not. Up until the early- to mid-nineties, when appointments had simply been written in jotters, all appointments had gone through him. In this technological day and age however, appointments were sometimes being made without his knowing. The only advantage - if there was such a thing - was that cancellations, like the making of appointments, sometimes didn�t come to Krohl�s attention either. So that was why Krohl had been on his way to check his calendar; just in case the client now waiting for his half an hours worth had telephoned to cancel without Krohl�s knowing. But now, as Krohl replaced the handset, and even though it was futile Krohl found himself looking down at his calendar, in particular the entry at four O�clock. If he considered his last client to be a Moaning Minnie then this next one was a classic case of the �other� type of client.
The following name flashed up at him in Arial, size ten font:
Sir Alex Ferguson
THE END