One:

The psychiatrist was huffing and puffing like a smoker when he reached the seventh floor of the community housing building because, of course, the elevator had a hand-written out of order sign blu-tacked to the doors. He stopped and straightened up to take some deep breaths in an effort to calm the pounding of blood in his ears and slow down his heart rate. 'Thank God I don't smoke, imagine what emphysema would do to me.' He thought. He probably should stop drinking and eating too much and try to do a little more exercise. His kids would love it if he actually had the time to take them down to the park to have a hit of cricket or a kick of the footy. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow I'll turn over a new leaf, start looking after my body- and mind- a bit better. Although maybe this isn't about your unhealthiness, he mentally amended; it's probably because it's at least 35 outside and humid as hell.

There was an indignant yell from the courtyard below and the psychiatrist moved to the railing and looked down. A young woman, probably in her late teens, was abusing a young man. He caught a couple of words that he actually understood through her slang and teenage-speak and gathered that this young man was the father of her baby and had been playing away from home and she hadn't been able to buy the baby nappies or smokes for herself and, sadly, she seemed more upset about the latter. The psychiatrist sighed and moved away from the railing and walked down the concrete partially enclosed walkway towards the flat he was headed for. Each front door was the same- paint peeling, brass numbers and letters that were tarnished black rather than the original bronze, security door securely locked. Each window was the same structurally but the type of curtains or blinds varied and some windows had stickers, mobiles, figures, or cluttered "stuff" on the windowsills inside.

The flat he wanted was the last one along, making it the furthest from the non-working elevator and stairwell. Naturally. The doorbell was broken and the psychiatrist was not sure that it had ever worked but luckily the security door was unlocked so he opened it and then rapped on the wooden door. Silence. The psychiatrist knocked again, this time longer and louder. He put his ear closer to the door and was rewarded with some sounds of life from within the flat. A minute later there was the sound of the eyehole being opened then closed and then the deadbolt being unlocked and the door was opened just a crack and one big blue eye regarded him thoughtfully.

"Hello Dale." The psychiatrist said.

"Hello Doc." The person belonging to the eye replied.

"Can I come in?" The psychiatrist asked.

"May I." Dale said.

"May you what?" The psychiatrist asked, taken aback. Less than 30 seconds and he's already got me on the back foot. Great start.

"No, nothing. Not me. You. You should ask may I come in, not can I. Mum used to get mad when I said that. That and when I said I was on holidays because I could not physically be on holidays, could I?" Dale responded.

"Okay, great. Well may I come in?" The psychiatrist asked wearily.

"You may." Dale replied. He stepped back from the door and held it open all the way so that the psychiatrist could enter, squeezing past Dale, who shut it and locked it and then checked twice that the door was locked before seeming more relaxed.

The studio apartment gave new meaning to the word 'minimalist', the psychiatrist thought as he tried to take in his surroundings subtly, aware of Dale's eyes fixed intently on him as though he was trying to read the psychiatrist's thoughts directly from his brain as they came into it. In one corner was a small kitchenette which displayed none of the usual appliances or utensils a working kitchen might, suggesting that the inhabitant used it rarely, if at all. The opposite corner boasted a saggy wooden-based bed, roughly covered by a fading blue doona and an old carton made into a bedside table on which a treasured looking bible sat, almost proudly, the psychiatrist thought. Beside the bed was one of those clothes hanging contraptions people frequently used in place of a closet in a guest room, and from it hung the remainder of the mans' pitiful clothing collection, which was not much at all. And then, in the middle of the room, was a rather shabby looking couch, a bean bag on which the man was seated, and a portable black and white television which also rested on a crate of some sort. A door between the bed and kitchenette was half open, showing a grimy, mould covered bathroom complete with toilet, basin, cracked mirror and shower stall.

"Do you approve Doc?" The man asked now, and the psychiatrist's eyes were drawn back to his client, who was sitting cross legged on the bean bag, dressed in the same plaid button down shirt and faded blue jeans he had worn the last time the two met. By the look of his greasy hair and the stubble decorating his chin, the man had been as bothered with grooming and cleanliness as he had with decorating.

"Are you happy here Dale?" The psychiatrist asked, moving over to sit gingerly on the old couch, wondering whether it would take his solid build without breaking. He inched onto the grey cushion slowly and once satisfied he was not going to fall through the bottom shifted his weight to a more comfortable position and looked back at his client. "Dale? I asked you a question."

Dale smirked. "Typical psychiatrist; answering a question with another question rather than actually giving an opinion. You're all the same. Seen one psychiatrist, seen them all." He replied, deliberately trying to provoke this visitor, to see how far exactly he could push him.

However this visitor had been pre-warned by the man's last psychiatrist, a dainty woman named Helene who had not been cut out for the profession at all, far too thin skinned in the psychiatrist's mind, and he did not bite. Rather he just raised an eyebrow as he pulled the thick file on Dale from the his black leather satchel and casually leafed through the many entries, signed with various psychiatrist's signatures before getting to his own.

He'd only seen Dale twice but his former case-worker had warned him that Dale had a habit of trying to bait her, answering questions with questions and wanting to talk about her rather than him, had the urge to blurt out random- and often inappropriate things- mid-conversation and had extremely poor short-term memory though he could recall childhood memories in excruciating detail down to the nuances of a person in the memory, the smell of their skin, and the feelings and emotions the memory elicited. He also could tell you the name of every AFL team to win the premiership in the whole history of the competition going back to its inception in 1896.

He pulled a thick pad of paper out of his satchel and uncapped his fountain pen. His hand hovered over the pad as he waited, seemingly patient enough to wait for as long as it took. Medically Dale had a number of mental disorders all acting in conjunction to make his life a misery. His shopping list when something like this: an anxiety disorder (obsessive-compulsive disorder), a mood disorder (bipolar) and a psychotic disorder (schizophrenia.) A previous psychiatrist had noted his belief in Dale also having a personality disorder (paranoid personality disorder) and though it had not been clinically confirmed the psychiatrist now thought it probable. He also thought it probable Dale had some elements of dissociative identity disorder.

"What happened to Helene?" Dale asked, changing the subject. "I haven't seen her for four weeks, only you. No offense Doc but she was much hotter than you."

"I've already told you twice Dale, try and remember. Come on, close your eyes and think carefully-" The psychiatrist said gently.

His client closed his eyes and furrowed his brow and there was silence in the apartment for a few minutes.

The psychiatrist shifted on the uncomfortable couch and made a note on his pad. 'Patient needs reminding re previous case worker.'

Dale's eyes flew open suddenly, violently, and he angrily thumped the wooden floor beside him with a clenched fist. "I can't remember! I can't!" He said agitatedly. His face scrunched up and turned a colour similar to eggplant.

"Calm down Dale. Remember your calming and relaxing exercise." The psychiatrist said his tone perfectly level and calm, despite his own inward impatience. Helene had assured him her client was making progress, beginning to remember things from one week to the next but he'd yet to see any evidence of this. Oh the fact that Dale was existing in his own place was something for sure. He'd even remembered to go to work five times in the last week, as reported by the understanding and accepting boss of the factory where Dale had gained a process line job. The psychiatrist knew, from bitter experience, many bosses would not have been willing to employ someone with a mental illness, let alone someone whose memory was like a chunk of Swiss cheese, filled with holes and inconsistencies.

Dale closed his eyes again and took a deep breath and slowly let it out, repeating the process a couple of times before opening his eyes. "I'm sorry Doc." He said dejectedly, sounding like a kid apologizing to a parent for some petty misdemeanour. In truth though Dale was thirty-four he was childlike in many ways including his low IQ.

"Helene has left the profession; she was having trouble coping with the constant demands of so many patients and so little time. I believe she's intending to try her hand at painting for a living." The psychiatrist reminded his client.

Dale nodded. "Yes, that's right, she liked to paint. She gave me a painting once- back when I was at…what was her name again? The woman with blue grey hair like on that cartoon?...Mrs. Williams! She gave me a painting when I was living with Mrs. Williams, one of the city's night skyline. It was very good."

The psychiatrist made a note on his pad hiding his pleasure at Dale's memory of the woman he and a few other mentally ill men had lived with nearly two years back. It was only her death which had forced Dale onto the streets, and then into the Thomas Embling. Though he had never met Mrs. Williams he had known of her and the good work she had done up until her death from lung cancer. She had had no professional training but after her own son was born with Down Syndrome she had decided to do something for him and other young men with a myriad of mental disorders.

"Speaking of cartoons did you know that Pluto was originally called Rover?" Dale asked.

The psychiatrist blinked. "I did not." He answered.

"And Kermit the Frog has eleven points on his collar. The comic known as 'Peanuts' was originally known as Lil'folks. Barbies full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts. Donald Duck's middle name is Fauntleroy."Dale continued rapidly, his words coming out like the stattico of a machine gun's firing.

The psychiatrist took advantage of Dale's stopping to take a deep breath to quickly interject with his own question. "What is your middle name Dale?" He asked casually. You could not put too much pressure on Dale when it came to his memory.

"Kevin." Dale answered promptly, and correctly.

The psychiatrist smiled. "Good. So tell me about things since we last met at the hospital."

"Work was good, I even remembered exactly how to fit the parts on the line and I didn't hold anyone up for too long like I did the first few times. Maybe that is not so much a memory as a habit. Like tying your shoes. But I'm going to claim it as a memory okay Doc? The mean man didn't speak to me which was good. I'd rather he left me alone and didn't even acknowledge me rather than making fun of me." Dale answered.

"Do you remember what he said? When he made fun of you last week?" The psychiatrist asked hopefully.

Dale concentrated for a moment but shook his head. "I just know he made fun of me. But I think he got into trouble from the boss. He's a nice boss Doc, he's always very patient with me, doesn't laugh at me when I forget."

"That's good." The psychiatrist said, and he was being honest. Even though it was illegal to discriminate against workers on the grounds of mental impairment, just as it was on the basis of sex, age or nationality, it happened all too frequently. Employers getting wind of employees having mental problems and dismissing them summarily. And usually these same employees were too embarrassed or too scared to get advice on what their rights were in these kind of situations. He'd been at the forefront of a recent plan to keep the names of employers who were initiating equal opportunity employment for mentally impaired people on a register. At the moment the proposal was awaiting approval but he hoped it would be given the go ahead. People, like Dale, needed to feel useful and a job was perhaps the best way of doing that.

"I also went shopping and I remembered the things I needed!" Dale added.

"You cooked?" The psychiatrist resisted the urge to look pointedly towards the kitchenette.

"I did, I made pasta with meat sauce." Dale looked incredibly proud of this achievement and the psychiatrist decided to take his word for it, for the moment at least, noting it on his pad and deciding in a few weeks to ask Dale if he knew how to cook that particular dish. He didn't want to trick the man; it was not that, he just needed to know how honest he was being with his doctor.

"Anything else you want to tell me?" The psychiatrist asked.

Dale seemed to be debating something and then shook his head, no. Before the psychiatrist could ask whether his client was entirely sure his pager beeped and he glanced down at it. A less experienced doctor at the Thomas Embling Hospital had a patient who had recently been admitted to the Atherton Unit for assessment by the courts and he needed a desperate second opinion. Sometimes the psychiatrist felt as though he were running the hospital single-handedly. Even his few vacations over the past ten years had been frequently interrupted by queries from colleagues or nurses. It was always a case of too much work and not enough funding or personnel to do the work.

"I'm sorry Dale but I have to leave early. Is there anything else you need to tell me or ask me?" The psychiatrist asked as he packed his notes into his satchel, ready to be dictated for his secretary to type up later and add to Dale's case file. Back as an undergraduate medicine student the psychiatrist had not imagined his life to be like this. He was going to be a top neurosurgeon, revered by all for his innovative ideas and discoveries. He'd be driving a newer model BMW and live in a mansion in the leafy affluent suburb of Toorak. Unfortunately circumstances had interfered- in his third year he had been diagnosed with epilepsy after frequent fits.

The medication had made the fits a thing of the past, but they'd put paid to his dreams of being a surgeon. So he'd chosen another path, psychiatry, and here he was now, one of the busiest and most important psychiatrists working with inpatients and outpatients of the Thomas Embling. At least that was something, he'd tell himself as he drove to his outer eastern suburbs home in his aging Ford Fairmont where his wife would be allowing his children to wait up and say goodnight; that he was respected within his field.

He was a regular in courts, not just giving evaluations of patients who had been admitted for that particular reason, but he was also a favourite on the expert psychological testimony merry-go-round for his ability to explain things to juries with the minimum of medico-legal mumbo jumbo and more real world terms. And he was in line for one day getting the cushiony job of director of the Thomas Embling and a nice big office where he could while away his time.

"No." Dale said a little petulantly.

"Dale I do have to go. It's very important. But you know you can call me anytime you need me don't you? My number is by your phone in the kitchen right?" The psychiatrist said as he stood up. He resisted the urge to look back down at the dilapidated couch to see if he had left a butt impression like on "The Simpsons."

"Yes." Dale sighed.

The psychiatrist stifled a sigh of his own. "Dale, why do you not want me to leave? Is it because you don't have any friends and you're lonely?"

Dale looked surprised and a tad offended. "I've got friends; I'm going to see them this evening in fact! At the pub! We see each other a few times a week."

The psychiatrist was taken aback. These friends had not been mentioned before. It was a shame he had to leave so urgently otherwise he would have time to explore this sudden announcement. As it was he made a mental note to discuss these friends with Dale on their next visit. That was if Dale even remembered that he had them. For that matter were they even real friends? The psychiatrist had no choice but to leave these questions unanswered for the time being- he knew there was a virtual rookie back at the hospital tearing his hair out over his unconfirmed diagnosis and most likely an impatient court official demanding results instantly. And on top of that there could be lawyers anxious to work out their next step and family members needing to know that their loved one was going to be all right. Although that last one wasn't as common as the psychiatrist wished it was. He'd written a paper a few years back on the correlation between mentally ill people and lack of family structure. Wouldn't a loving family make all the difference?

Five minutes later he was in his car leaving the inner southern suburbs for the northern suburban hospital where he spent the majority of his time.

And back in the apartment Dale pulled out a notebook he had hidden underneath his bed. It was old and held shut with a couple of elastic bands. Dale pulled them off, uncapped the biro stuck into the spine of the notebook and flicked through the pages until he came to the first blank one. In it he wrote the date and then:

"Things I know: My name is Dale Kevin Anderson. I know that I was born on the 5th of July 1984 at the Monash Hospital in Clayton. I know that my mother's name was Michelle Leonie Anderson. I know that my father's name was Kevin Anderson. I know that my father died in a car accident when I was four. I know that my mother died after a heart attack when I was thirteen. I know that I lived in Syndal until I was seven and then Burwood, Springvale, Edithvale, Glen Waverly and Altona before I went into care. I know that my psychiatrist was Helene but isn't now though I can't remember exactly why. I don't think I like my new doctor though. I know that Geelong won the AFL premiership last year (2011). I know that the Prime Minister is Julia Gillard and she talks funny. I know Australia's federation occurred in 1901. I know that the Second World War ended in 1945. I know that Baby Boomers are named for the post-war baby boom. I know that the first phone book was only one page long and had 50 names in it. I know that because metal was rare the Oscars given out during World War Two were made of plastic. I know that people are wrong in thinking Cleopatra was Egyptian, she was actually Greek. And I know that Leonardo Da Vinci was dyslexic and often wrote backwards."