The Peacock 1873

The wine is good.  Excellent.  In fact, it is the best wine I have ever tasted.  This is what the finest Bordeaux must aspire to, but this wine that has suddenly miraculously appeared out of a jug of water, would make even the world's finest vintage of Bordeaux taste like plonk. Lawrence has just lowered his glass and now lets it rest on the table in front of him.  Without asking first, Mary is loading onto his dish a potato and black bean salad that is loaded with cubes of cheddar.  We are certainly not going to go hungry here.  Lawrence, not really noticing what is on his plate, seems to be struggling over what to say.  And I do know what is troubling him.  "Lawrence, it's okay.  I don't mind everyone else here knowing that you are my case manager.  I understand that it is a struggle for you, given professional confidentiality and all, which is why I am going to say it for you." This table is well attended.  No one else seems quite ready to pick up their fork.  "Okay, for those of you that don't know yet, I have a mental heath diagnosis.  Which doesn't mean that I am sick, all it means is I have a diagnosis.  Lawrence works at the mental health team where I am a client.  Lawrence is my case manager." "I would never have guessed, Christopher, that you have a mental illness", says Maureen. "I don't.  I have a mental health diagnosis.. "You're absolutely right, Christopher", ssys Lawrence.  "You have made an awesome recovery", and with that he has just speared  with his fork a chunk of potato that he is now lifting to his mouth. "I beg to differ.  I was never ill to begin with.  I was given a false diagnosis"