English resumes in this post as a journal of the psychotherapy I've just taken up again after briefly seeing another consultant last summer. That time it only worked mildly in healing my depression because in my opinion the therapist - albeit professional -, was focusing too much on some issues while neglecting others. Above all, any empathy with her was hardly triggered, as he is a Michael Howard (the former Tory leader) lookalike.

This time, instead, I can't believe my luck. I reckoned that a therapy might be more effective in my native language, and referred to an Italian therapist too far away, who in turn referred me to a nearer Italian therapist already fully booked, hence I ended up with a third one, the best therapist on this planet. She's 37, educated at Bologna university articulately speaks Italian and, above all, she's a stunning beauty: in her case, the nearest lookalike would probably be Scarlett Johansson (pictured below with another... patient) while as per her personality I already began to suspect a Janis Joplin reincarnation.

As a result this had the effect of instantly wiping off one of my problems, the most recent one and the one which ultimately led me to seek professional help in order to pull myself together: love. Can you imagine, meeting your new therapist and feeling better immediately, having not yet spent a penny for her fee... That's the perfect, ideal psychotherapy to me. It suddenly changed my perspective of life at a glance.

Problem is, being my psychotherapist I can't possibly dream of... you know what. I'm now sadly caught in the sweet and sour situation of regularly seeing a most interesting, extremely attractive, classy young lady whom I would have jumped upon at first sight and at the same time having to rule it out categorically because of the obvious nature of the therapy itself. Well, I already knew that about psychotherapy, but never expected a model-turned-therapist would happen to me, out of a billion trivial lives. Sounds like winning the lottery, but it's more like a curse, or rather torture!

Anyway, uncharacteristically, I did not turned back into depression because of such a catch-22 misfortune, but rather focused on the positive side. And every side of my new therapist I look at - front, back, lateral - is positively fine, although I suspect she had plastic surgery on her nose because it looks almost too perfect to me. For some reasons I'm picky when it comes to noses [yes I do now realise the bestiality I just wrote: sorry but I'm not an English native speaker]. Besides those hypnotic green eyes, the doctor seems to be very well made in every other department, as far as I can guess, for she was dressing smart casual revealing anything provocative but high heels.