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The Associate

The newsletter for graduates and students of Bath Centre for Psychotherapy and Counselling

Welcome to Issue Seven of

Patrick Casement at the BCPC Conference The whole of the BCPC Autumn Conference in October was taken up by Patrick Casement and he didn’t disappoint.

It’s now been two years since we launched this new look newsletter and I hope you continue to enjoy reading and contributing to it. Thanks to everyone who created something for this issue. We have a welcome mix of poetry, book reviews, short stories, articles and news all produced by the BCPC community. After some discussion by the Central Committee of BCPC Association, it was decided that - at least for the present - the cost of producing a hard copy of the publication is prohibitive, hence your electronic copy. Should the situation change, we would still need someone to volunteer to organise the printing and mailing so let me know if you are happy to put your hand up. Feel free to get in touch with contributions for the next issue or comments on this one

Well known to most of us as the author of required reading texts Learning from the Patient and Further Learning from the Patient, Patrick responded to the invitation to present at the conference as part of his last ever book tour, promoting his latest publication, Learning from Life – Becoming a Psychoanalyst - the title of his day long presentation. During his introduction, he commented that the presentation was also a celebration of life in view of the fact that last year, he was given only a 3% chance of surviving cancer. Spread of the disease was halted by a particularly powerful course of chemotherapy which, as well as saving his life, had the unfortunate side effect of affecting his nervous system (his “electrics” as he said) so that walking has become difficult. Now in his 70’s, his ability to hold the attention of a room for an entire conference is testament to his vitality and endurance despite his recent serious illness. Partly biographical, his presentation had audience members alternately laughing and crying as he recounted his early childhood where after a short period of being breast fed by his mother, he was handed over to a series of nannies who presented him to his parents only at tea time – if he was good - and prior to bedtime. He described himself as being a ‘difficult’ child which meant that nannies tended to come and go regularly, apart from one with whom he fell so deeply in love that he asked her to marry him. He was four years old at the time. When she also left six years late, he cried for days, sure that her abandonment of him was because he was in some way detestable. His parents assured him that this was not the case and that she had left because she didn’t want to look after his younger sisters. By chance, he happened to meet the nanny as an adult and recounted the story. “I happened to meet her many years later”, he said. “Actually, you were the reason I left”, she said. “You were impossible!”

…continued Patrick had a refreshing dislike for dogma, explaining how he was only able to integrate certain elements of theory once he was able to associate them with a specific patient. For example, projective identification: he told the story of a woman who had suffered multiple miscarriages and yet recounted her story in a strangely unemotional way. He found himself being deeply moved by her story and tearful; that he was processing feelings that she simply could not connect with at that time. He said he felt that trauma could be defined as feelings and emotions which could not be handled alone.


Friend meet me here between the fields and the garden gate this fenceless, unowned

He also offered another piece of interesting advice: “Never ask a question”, he suggested. “It takes the patient away from where they are and puts pressure on them to find an answer.”

patch of wild.

The full presentation has been videoed and should be available from the BCPC library shortly.

for the air

But friend come quietly

in me is still … and needs no stir of words loosely-tethered to the truth. Tread gently, friend in this forgotten country for my soul rests in this place.

Peer Group Sought. I'm looking to form or join a psychotherapy peer group. I live in Bradford on Avon and am happy to host, share or travel within reason. I'm looking for a peer or peers, close to qualification or qualified. If you're looking to expand an existing group, or are interested in forming a new group and want to explore possibilities, then please contact me Chloe Tahta. Phone 07796978944.

Ten years ago I published 'Clinical Supervision Made Easy", for which Peter Hawkins was kind enough to write the foreword. I am pleased to inform you that the second edition will be published this October by PCCS Books. The full title is: Clinical Supervision made Easy: a Creative and Relational Approach for the Helping Professions. Here are some excerpts from pre-publication endorsements: For me this is one of the best new books on supervision and I will certainly recommend it to my students. Helen Weston, co-director of Relationships Scotland’s Edinburgh. 'This is a really useful handbook. Whilst it draws on theoretical sources and clinical examples from a variety of settings and approaches, it comes across as profoundly Humanistic - rooted in the phenomenology of the experience of both supervisees and supervisors. It offers structured ways of thinking and relating, problem solving and probing, managing to convey the feeling of fun and curiosity alongside rigour and ethics. Tree Staunton, Director of Studies at Bath Centre for Psychotherapy and Counselling. Vice Chair of the Humanistic and Integrative College of UKCP This second edition is fresh and alive, buzzing with ideas and challenging the new, as well as the more experienced clinical supervisor on their practice. Els’s second edition is an excellent point of reference that will not invite dust on the shelf, but a clinical supervisors’ constant companion on their own perhaps not so easy journey of clinical supervision. John Driscoll BSc (Hons) Nursing, DPSN, Cert Ed. (FE), RMN, RGN. Module Leader Clinical Supervision (Distance Learning) Edinburgh Napier University & ICS Freelance Supervision & CPD Consultant (Healthcare).

In The News…

The Press 24.9.13 The Observer, 15.9.13

British Psychological Society, 5.9.13 The Daily Mail, 31.5.13 BBC Radio 5 Live

With one last concerned look back at the beehive, she flew into the world, determined to discover her uniqueness. Her first stop was near an anthill. It reminded her of the beehive she had left behind: Little creatures working simultaneously, the same look, the same efficiency. She was curious to find out how they viewed themselves. “Hello,” she said. “I came to find out more about the world and who we all are. Would you like to talk to me?” Silence. The work came to a halt, and thousands of identical ant eyes were looking at her. One of them made a sound, the others joined in, agreeing. But the bee couldn’t understand. “They don’t speak my language at all,” she thought, disappointed. “Not being able to talk to them makes me feel even more different and alone. I don’t even look like them.” She decided to fly to a nearby flower and sat down, carefully watching the ants and trying to understand who they were. She was a very mindful bee, and soon she saw the uniqueness of every single ant: One had a leg less than the others, another one was slightly bigger, they moved at different speeds. Some of them worked in pairs and took time while others were determined to finish their work as quickly as possible. One of the ants carried an injured friend along.

The beehive was busy as usual. The hardworking bees were working synchronously. To the observer’s eye it looked like a highly efficient factory, teamwork for more than one good purpose: It was easy to miss all those details if one only looked at the bigger Flower pollination, production of honey and bees wax, just to name picture - the task of creating an anthill. Everything seemed to blend a few. into one blur, unless one took the time to observe carefully. About 50,000 identical black and yellow furry coats engaged in their duty, merging into a whole. Only the thoughtful observer acknowledged their life saving nature. What would the world be without bees? “But who am I?” one of the bees wondered while she was buzzing away with the others. She looked the same as everyone else, and worked as hard as all her friends. But there was one distinct difference: her buzzing sound. It was slightly higher-pitched and made her stand out. With so many other bees looking and sounding the same it was difficult not to take any notice. She wanted to stop buzzing because her own sound reminded her of how different she was - different in a way she didn’t choose to be. But there seemed to be no hope. Her sound was produced by the vibration of her wings, and if she gave that up the rest of her life would collapse: No more flying, no more efficient work, and consequently fitting in even less. One day she couldn’t bear it any longer. She decided to leave the beehive to explore who she was. “I can’t be my sound,” she thought. “If someone was deaf they would not be able to hear me and notice that I am different. So my sound cannot define who I am. But what

makes me, `me`? And what makes all the other bees who they are?”

The bee felt happier. “I understand so much now, and I don’t even speak their language. But I can see who they are, who cares, and I can see their value and meaning that they bring to the group. So one thing is clear: They are not defined by the way they speak because I don’t understand them. “ Touched by the uniqueness of each ant she continued with her journey. The next stop was in a nearby wood. Hundreds of types of birds were singing their tunes. Uniqueness wasn’t difficult to spot: They all looked different, stunning colours ranging from plain black to a variety of colours in just one bird’s feathering. The bee marvelled at their beauty and couldn’t see anything that was less than perfect. But there was one bird, a Kingfisher, which she found particularly beautiful: The vivid colour, turquoise and orange feathers with a stunning white neck blaze, caught her eye. She also noticed that the bird cared for the others, and engaged with all the other types too, not just with its own species. Then she stopped and listened. She heard some sounds that didn’t seem to be in tune, even though there was a wonderful harmony, just like a well established choir. Closing her eyes she tuned into the sound, taking her focus off the visible beauty. Who was out of tune? She tried to imagine, hazarded a few guesses before she opened her eyes.

It was the Kingfisher. The bee couldn’t believe it. The bird had symbolised perfection in her eyes, yet it was the one who didn’t sing best. The bee closed her eyes again and decided to fly with the birds, making her own sound. They all sounded different, and she forgot that her bee-sound didn’t resemble the singing of the birds in any way. She felt part of them, not because she sounded the same, but because she sounded different, which for a change didn’t stand out. She brought a new feature to the chorus, and she liked it. “It would be a very silent place if only those birds who sounded the same sang, those who sang best,” she thought. “And is there actually a `best`? How could anyone define `best`?”

“Welcome back, it’s lovely to have you again. We did wonder where you were and why you had left without saying anything. We missed you.” The bee blinked back her tears. She felt the warmth and care in her friend’s words, and realised that she spoke the same language. Not the language of spoken words, not giving a performance of linguistic perfection, but the language of the soul, the language of meaning and individuality. She dared to go one step further. “Why did you miss me, what made me special in your eyes, how did you even notice that I was gone with so many bees around?” One bee smiled at her.

The bee flew away from the wood, having learned a lot from the birds. She suddenly realised that in fact she hadn’t talked to the birds, just like she hadn’t been able to talk to the ants – yet she had understood far more than spoken words could have ever expressed. She had felt part of a group, not because she fitted the norm, but because she was unique. “So one thing is clear to me now: I am definitely not `how I speak`, and I am also not `how I look`. But I still wonder what makes me `me` amongst the other bees.”

“What I missed was your quietness, your insightfulness, your compassion. You understand things on a deeper level, you don’t need others to explain in words to you what they think and feel. You tune in, you `hear` without hearing spoken words and explanations.”

The bee felt a mixture of emotions flooding her. She couldn’t describe the feelings, but she knew that she would sleep tonight, exhausted but at peace. She would no longer seek `the because` She decided that she would find the answer in the beehive. It was a in life. difficult journey back, and she didn’t know what to expect. She During this night she had a remarkable dream: remembered how she had felt like the outsider because of her sound, and she still had some concerns about the other bees “Her fellow bee, who had earlier on explained why she had missed picking up on this and possibly excluding her. her, asked her who she was, how she saw herself. There was no hesitation: `I am my soul. My soul is what is good She saw the busy beehive from a distance, and all at once noticed and immeasurable, infinite. It cannot be measured, weighed, that nobody was the same. She looked at the swarm in a different judged or scored. It makes no sound, it doesn’t speak, and it isn’t way, just like she had looked at the ants and the birds. visible. It flows in every part of my body and has its home in my heart. It flows from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. It There were bees who flew at different speeds, there were louder bees and quieter bees, some that took the time to chat to a friend, emanates beyond the line of my body. It is there waiting to flow up and out to touch those around me. I can choose to keep my spirit others that flew alone. The bee was amazed at the fact that she had failed to notice the silent and hold it inside. Or I can open up, be authentic and share..” uniqueness of all her colleagues, as the only thing she had been able The following morning she woke up, joined the other bees at work, to focus on had been her own imperfection. and `heard` distinct differences in every single bee, even though She took a deep breath and flew into the swarm. they all sounded the same. “Hello,” she said. “I am back. I made some amazing discoveries, and I’m sorry that I was gone for a while”. Sabine Bachinger

I am a BCPC trained psychotherapist on their list of approved practioners. I am offering a free initial session for trainees looking for a psychotherapist. There is no obligation to work with me after the session if you decide to continue your search elsewhere. For more information you can see my profile on the BCPC website.

Shut again. She paused in the confusion of trying to decide which mist to drink first. And then it happened. Doors from all sides, above, below, all snapping open, and snapping shut. Mists of all varying textures, tastes, densities rolling in, and noise...... the noise, so chaotic, so loud in its’ intensity, it shattered the silence to smithereens. And free, she let herself fall into the mist, and float on ripples of song out into the void she had gazed at, and dreamt of. She floated for a long time, just floating and experiencing sights, sounds, smells. Observing a world so unlike any of her beautiful kingdoms she had sought sanctuary in before. Gradually, the mist got weaker, and By Freya Lampard dropped her into this strange world, and no longer floating, she had to learn to speak a new language to these The door snapped open and the mist rolled in. It rolled unfamiliar people. Although the mist had mostly departed, into the quiet, bearing with it cascades of noise, and shards wafts of it always clung closely to her, a gossamer mantle of light. And then the door snapped shut. swirling feather lightly around her, giving her an unearthly shadowy appearance. Because of this, she quite often She would stand for hours, days, looking through the wall, went unnoticed, and when she was noticed, she was looking through at the mist, ever changing, softly shifting, regarded with suspicion and unease. She knew she didn’t full of light and dark. The wall was too impenetrable to belong, and her heart yearned for the mists to return, and hear the sounds on the other side, they would only swallow her up, and take her elsewhere. become clear when a door opened and the mist rolled in. She would run her hands over over the surface of this Eventually it did. It rolled back into her life and she cold, smooth glasslike confine, her small hands searching, gratefully yielded herself again. This time, it was a different wondering where the next door was. Quiet, ever quiet. surrender. Gone was the tender maternal embrace, but How strange this glasslike wall, yet not glass. Glass you instead a passionate lovers ecstasy. And she floated again, can shatter, glass makes a sound, yet this makes none. She and she landed. And except for the mist whispering in her has tried knocking, and tapping, and even battering it with ear that it would return, she was alone with her longing. stones. Silence. A wall made of silence. This happened a great many times, and over the years she tried disguising her shadowiness in gowns, petticoats and The mist rolled in like a mothers embrace, and she would cloaks, but it always escaped. Always brushing over her, surrender herself to it, losing herself in it’s soft velvety gently reminding her of her difference, and of it’s return. tenderness and the intoxicating sounds from the other side. She would breath it deep into her soul, and drink it Then finally after an especially rapturous reunion, the mist until it was gone. And then she would weep. The tears transported her somewhere different. Somewhere she shed would fall to the ground and turn to seeds, that beautiful and good. There were no fairy kingdoms, but it she would carefully plant. From each seed there sprung entire fairy kingdoms and castles filled with magic and joy. was a green, lush land and she could hear music and happy laughter. “I wish I could belong here” she said, and the There sprung people dressed in the bejewelled gowns of mist listened. It enveloped her in an ultimate embrace and kings and queens. There sprung hungry dragons and evil it left, this time leaving no visible trace of itself. Without wizards, and noble princes to defend all that was good. her ghostly appearance, people saw her, and welcomed Lost in these wondrous realms, she was happy, but they, her, and then suddenly, she had everything. like the mist, shifted, and moved and gradually disappeared. And so, she would return to the wall, And it was the living with everything, that made her realise searching for a door, ever gazing and dreaming of what that the mist hadn’t forsaken her entirely. It still wonders the mist outside might hold. surrounded her heart and ran through her veins. She In this way the years passed by, and one day a great many would look upon this beautiful vibrantly colourful years later, something strange happened. A door snapped everything, that she loved so much, and the mist would still quietly whisper in her ear. And on her own, in secret, open. The mist rolled in. A door snapped shut. She she would weep and weep, and then search the ground for started to breathe the mist in, but then another door, seeds. elsewhere in the wall snapped open. Mist rolled in, Freya Lampard bringing with it different sounds, different lights. And snap.

could express, to some extent, the core 'me' without the overlay of false self, without the roles I inhabit outside the class. Perhaps even more than the above, I will remember the deep friendships which grew from this sharing and the trust which developed from it. But now, those of us who are continuing have moved from the climbing frame and hopscotch of Primary to Big School. I use that analogy because my daughter has recently started at secondary school; she now has a uniform, a homework schedule and things have moved up a gear on the discipline and punctuality front. It feels as though we are both moving on to something requiring more disciplined commitment. The other change of course is that in the Prep year we are required to see Real People on our placement.

By Stephanie White Do you remember what it was like seeing your first placement client (I was going to say 'to be confronted by' and then remembered that this is a journal for psychotherapists!)?

I started looking for a placement early in the year, and had one secured by Easter. Many months' hiatus followed, with a somewhat desultory gathering of bits of paperwork necessary to join BACP. Now, I have started group and individual supervision, For those of us entering the Psychotherapy Prep year, the Foun- booked my rooms and am receiving specialist training; the only dation course may now seem like a delightful, if receding, mem- thing standing between me and a potential client being the green ory, rather like a fondly remembered summer holiday. light on my CRB. We learned a framework for 'being' with the client, based on Rogers' core conditions and negotiated our differences in the initially bewildering Open Group ('what is this for?' I asked, anticipating a Grail-like revelation in letters of fire on the flip chart at the end of the last session )..

Yet somehow, all of this activity, intended to facilitate the Main Event, is acting as a mental distraction; instead of making it seem closer, the day when it will be just me, a client and two chairs seems distant, unimaginable, the therapy room a surreal bubble; this could, however, be terror masquerading as wishful thinking.

And, of course, we practised the all-important skills.

At the moment, if I was told 'here is a spacesuit; tomorrow you will be going to the moon', I would almost believe that more readily than my supervisor's confidence that I am at a point where I may enable clients to discover themselves and their potential for change.

We got past the essay, and managed to deliver our presentations without fainting. However, for me, and I know for others, the most meaningful legacy from the Foundation year is twofold:

But, the whole of the last year has been leading to that very point; the moment when, after preliminaries have been discussed and agreed, it will be two people in a room, with a space in between, and that it all.

For some it will have been their first experience of examining the inner life and discussing sometimes extremely painful subjects both in a group situation on the course and in the individual therapy that runs in parallel. Personally, it was a space in which I Then it begins.

Stephanie White

Jayne Burrows - qualified UKCP Reg. Psychotherapist (BCPC trained) Based in St. George, Bristol. BS5 Therapy spaces available to counselling and psychotherapy students- with some concessions available for morning/early afternoon sessions for people on low incomes. For information about me and my approach please visit: Tel: 07527 901 723 Email:

When Words Are Inadequate

Mary Webb, Precious Bane, 1928 (first published 1924). Mary Webb died in 1927 aged 46. Unfortunately it was only after her death that she achieved wide acclaim for her writing when the then Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, spoke of her as a “neglected genius” at a literary dinner. Those who are old enough may remember the BBC’s 1989 dramatisation of Precious Bane with Janet McTeer and a very young Clive Owen. The book is written in the words of Prue Sarn, who has a harelip that her neighbours regard as a sign of witchcraft. In the quotation, perhaps Prue is referring to the language of the human soul, a language from which our modern living has separated us. I went looking for these words after listening to Patrick Casement’s presentation at the BCPC Autumn Conference. A woman was relating a harrowing story of multiple loss and he wanted to reassure her that he was feeling her pain deeply. The client replied that he did not need to tell her; all the communication she needed was in his face. What do we do when words are completely inadequate in expressing the minute moment to moment nuances of our feelings and that of the client; when words feel like overly blunt tools – chisels when what we need are scalpels? Perhaps this is where the real challenge of therapy lies; how to be a therapist rather than how to do therapy. Words can make me feel powerful and in control. They can act as a barrier and a defence against my own vulnerability. Without them all I have to offer

Martin Phillips

Talking About Sex in the consulting room 1 day CPD workshop with David Slattery ‘Many of the men and women who consulted me over the years came with sexual concerns, which eventually were revealed as containers of the central mysteries of the person’s life.’ Thomas Moore (The Soul of Sex) This workshop is for counsellors and therapists working with individuals and/or couples who want to develop their ability to ‘be’ with clients when talking about their sexual lives. Through experiential exercises, biographical work, case examples and demonstration we will consider together: What sex is, what function/meaning it can have, dynamics of power (control and surrender), sexual fantasies and most importantly how to talk about all this! Venue: The West Wing, Nr Stroud. Date: 22nd November 2013 Time: 10am to 4pm Cost: £80 qualified/£50 students (includes lunch by David Frost) Booking:

Volunteer Counselling and Great Expectations

By Natalie Marshall-Shore When you work for free, what should you expect in return? Appreciation? Recognition? Nothing? Recently, at the Primary school where I am a Volunteer Counsellor, my thoughts about what I could expect from the school and my supervisors/managers were thrown into question. Having worked at the school since February, I had been getting increasingly frustrated with the number of missed sessions I had and what I felt to be the school's slightly dubious organisation. Of course, I’m aware that DNAs are an inevitable part of the work and I knew that someone might be off sick or at sports day, but I’d assumed that if the child was at school they would be able to attend their session. I hadn’t banked on the unmissable assemblies, compulsory PE lessons and the problematic milk delivery duty. When the new term started in September with a wasted day in which I worked with 0 children I felt frustrated and let down. As I’m sure is the case for most of you reading this, volunteering costs time and money. When I was a trainee I worked for free because I wasn’t qualified and I needed the experience. Post qualifying I find that I still need to work for free because many employers want to hire more experienced therapists and in the case of working with children, volunteering is less expensive that doing a course in child therapy. So what is gained from voluntary work is very valuable in terms of experience with clients and hours under the belt towards BACP accreditation/dream job/any paid job. But should this mean that when I frequently find myself surplus to requirements, loitering in the staff room, I should just shrug and accept the assumption that there's no value to a volunteers' time, or should I make a fuss?

Last term, I shrugged and this term I made a bit of a fuss. I said I felt frustrated sometimes at the lack of communication between the school and my supervisor, which often resulted in things like me turning up to find out 2 out of 3 clients were on a school trip, information which could have been passed on to me weeks prior. I pointed out that occasions like this are even more frustrating when you have to set the alarm particularly early to catch the bus (fares funded personally) to be there on time. The response I got was unexpectedly nonchalant and, I felt, a little defensive. It boiled down to: if you can’t deal with DNAs you might want to reconsider your line of work (!!?!), I acknowledge your frustrations but am not going to offer any solutions and ‘I had to put up with it when I was a volunteer’. It was suggested that my expectations were too high and I was certainly getting a ‘like it or lump it’ vibe. Unfortunately I now lowered my expectations; but only of that individual’s capacities as a manager and of the organisations respect for its volunteers. However it is unacceptable for my time to be repeatedly wasted without any obvious empathy. I don't want a medal for volunteering, I just want a little bit more respect. To lower my expectations of how I should be treated by an organisation is, to me, to devalue myself and my time. Of course, this isn't my only experience of volunteering and the rewarding encounters with the children are inspiring and very worthwhile. Perhaps I was spoiled by a particularly supportive manager at my first placement, but I’ve heard others with similar stories and the situation we’re in saddens and frustrates me. There are clearly more counsellors than there are jobs and so agencies and charities have many volunteers to choose from, to the point where even competition for unpaid work is fierce. I wonder how many fellow volunteers grumble to their partners/colleagues rather than take it up with a manager, and if they do, how many get a similar response to mine. Does the number of willing volunteers make some organisations more blasé about their unpaid staff? As an industry what do we feel about this and what can we do if we’re not happy with it?

Natalie Marshall-Shore

Autumn 2013 12th October – Remembering Trauma, Freeing Imagination – led by Ailin Kelleher 16th November – Working with & Understanding LGBT – led by Laura Hooper Spring 2014 22nd March – ‘Lives of Quiet Desperation’ – Men, Numbness, Anger & Grief – led by Simon Roe 10th May – Working with Spirituality in the Counselling Room – led by Alistair Ross Times: 10 – 4.30 Cost: £50 For further details and how to book a place please visit or telephone 01823 337049

It occurs to me that I had intended to go to the next Graduate Group meeting. It's today, in 35 minutes... I have just enough time to get there and I'm not doing anything else. BUT... I won't know anyone, the place is unfamiliar, parking will be difficult... Why go when I hate meetings... I'm not even entirely sure if I'm allowed to attend. And it's Saturday morning! Grrr. BUT... I need to find a visible, professional group after graduating earlier this year, in addition to my supervision group. Being a therapist is not just lonely, it's potentially thorny... And something has been bothering me: why do I have to join both UKCP and BCPC for an astronomical ÂŁ324 pa? No one I've asked seems to know the answer. Walking briskly into Clifton Village I remember that Kate and Jan are standing down. Oh no... I might get volunteered to stand, or in a weak moment volunteer myself. Perhaps I'll just go and buy some bread and go home. : I am in the Blue Room in the Clifton Practice Rooms, comfy, having coffee made for me and eating homemade cake (very, very nice), a warm welcome. Although the agenda is long we get through it all and give time to an important question raised by another therapist writing in, to ask: what is the relationship between BCPC, UKCP and ourselves as individuals. How does it affect complaints procedures and reaccreditation? This is such an important issue that I can't quite understand why there aren't more people here. And then I remember my unwillingness an hour or so earlier (and I live close to the venue...). No one has as yet come forward to replace the graduate reps standing down at November's AGM. The Graduate Group Development Coordinator is stepping down at the same time. A new coordinator cannot be appointed with no reps to provide supervision and if appointed, may have no one to co-ordinate. The Graduate Group, as it is, may disappear. Is that ok? Maybe it is. Maybe its demise would enable something different to form. But I need to feel I belong somewhere and I don't particularly want to tussle alone with important issues that affect my career or pay large annual subscriptions for something that isn't ideal. There is one more Graduate Group meeting on Saturday, November 23rd at 10am in the Blue Room, The Practice Rooms, 24 Regent Street, Clifton, Bristol, BS8 4HG. All BCPC graduates are welcome. Susan Pontin

Counsellor / Therapist Websites Everything you need from ÂŁ149 including Personal consultation and tailored design Hosting and maintenance for a year Submission to Google and Yahoo Help with content Multiple e-mail addresses and webmail

01225 338401

07788 969294

The Associate. Issue 7  

Newsletter for students and graduates of Bath Centre for Psychotherapy and Counselling

The Associate. Issue 7  

Newsletter for students and graduates of Bath Centre for Psychotherapy and Counselling