Joan Barnard

You stand on a dimly lit London side street, the fog curling around your ankles like suspicious cats. The sign overhead,

ARGUMENT CLINIC – Appointments Strongly Discouraged

swings lazily in the breeze. A brass bell dings half-heartedly as you push through the chipped wooden door. Inside, the reception area resembles a government office designed by lunatics — olive drab walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and a single rubber plant that looks as though it’s plotting something.

You approach the receptionist, a middle-aged man in a fez who doesn't look up from his crossword. He half-heartedly directs you to Room 12B and tells you to ask for Ms. Barnard.

You wind your way down a narrow corridor lined with faded motivational posters:

You CAN argue with that!

Disputes build character!

Finally, you find Room 12B.

Ms. Joan Barnard sits behind a desk stacked with folders labeled “Petty,” “Explosive,” and “Irreconcilable.” She's dressed in an smart, black suit, and her expression is that of a woman who hasn't been wrong since 1973.

She fixes you with a stare.

“Well, come on then, sit down. If you stand there any longer, you’ll make the place look untidy. Honestly. Did you bring a coherent opinion or are we starting from scratch?”