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It’s obvious when you think about it, a psychiatrist’s couch is not really designed for use by someone with wings sticking out of their back.

Cupid was being made painfully aware of this during his first session with Dr. Young

“It’s just that I feel my work is … is … not as good as it used to be.”

“Hmm, interesting. Do go on.”

“It’s like I’m struggling to maintain the high standards I have set myself.”

“And maybe the standards others expect of you?”

“What’s going on, doc? Help me. Love is important, and without it society will …”

“Can you give me an example or two? Something that will demonstrate the deterioration you’ve noticed.”

“Okay, I’ll have a go.” And so Cupid related to his psychiatrist that frustrating incident which had happened only yesterday afternoon in the park.

His tongue protruded slightly from dry, pursed lips. The distance between eyebrows narrowed. Eyes strained uncomfortably, fighting against unnecessary blinking. Breath was held. Concentration heightened

Woosh!

“Damn!”

The arrow harmlessly passed the target, striking only a near-by sapling.

“It’s no use, I’m going to have to do something about this,” he said to the world in general, as he rearranged the toga that had slipped over one of his wings.

Squinting into the middle distance, Cupid’s blurred vision caught the moment his target rose from the park bench, without having looked at the young woman who had been seated alongside him. Another romance disappeared into thin air.

“This has been happening more and more in recent weeks,” thought Cupid, “It never used to be this way. I could hit a teenager at fifty paces, without really thinking about it.”

Unperturbed, Cupid removed the long list he always kept secreted away within the inner recesses of his toga.

“Hmm, who shall I try next?” he asked himself, as he ran a finger down the long list of names written in beautiful cursive handwriting. “Ah, yes, that might work.”

Cupid’s wings fluttered enthusiastically in the late afternoon breeze as he rose from his latest disappointment. Scanning the distance, he soon found his next target.

To fill the gap left by non-existent relationships, Cyril had indulged in a love of all things sweet, with the consequence that he now weighed over twenty stone, and possessed a body almost spherical in shape.

“Ah, an easy target,” smiled Cupid, notching his next arrow onto the bowstring.

He waited until Cyril’s potential future partner approached. Ivy ran the local bakery, and the local wits claimed she never made much money because she ate most of the profits.

“A perfect match,” thought Cupid, “and two easy targets. How can I miss?”

Cupid took aim at Cyril, knowing his arrow for Ivy was already prepared in his quiver.

He blinked repeatedly, but the image refused to focus. Drawing back the bowstring, Cupid aimed what he thought would be a sure shot.

“Damn!”

He swung round to take aim at Ivy.

“Damn!”

Cyril never looked up from the packet of crisps he was enjoying, and Ivy continued reading a new recipe as she strolled through the park, both oblivious of the other.

“This is no good,” muttered Cupid to himself. “They say ‘love is blind’, when really it is me, Cupid, who is blind. They say there’s much less love around these days – and it’s all my fault.” A small tear appeared in the corner of one eye. Cupid sat on the branch of a nearby tree and pondered this dreadful situation. Eventually, he reached a decision. He needed professional help. And that was how he happened to be lying now on a psychiatrist’s couch, confiding to a complete stranger the worries that had been blighting his very existence.

Dr. Young replaced the cap on his fountain pen, and closed his notebook. “I am afraid I cannot help you.”

Cupid said nothing, allowing silence to convey his desperate disappointment.

“You do not need a psychiatrist.”

“No?”

“No, Mr. Cupid, you simply need an optician.”

“Oh.”

Wanting the situation resolved as quickly as possible, Cupid flew directly to the nearest optician.

“Yes, how can I help you?” asked the rather severe receptionist.

“I’d like to see the optician.”

“If you can see him, you don’t need him,” said a voice from one of the other patients in the waiting room.

“What?” asked Cupid.

“Just an attempt at humour. Sorry.”

When it was his turn, Cupid went through all the usual tests before the optician made his diagnosis.

“Yes, Mr. Cupid, you are definitely short-sighted. But, not to worry, I will prescribe a pair of spectacles that will restore your eyesight.”

Cupid breathed a sigh of relief, but remained slightly skeptical.

“My assistant here will help you choose a suitable pair.”

This was new territory for Cupid. What sort of frames should he wear, would they match his white toga, did he want tinted lenses for use in sunny conditions? After much deliberation, Cupid finally settled on a turtle shell frame with slightly tinted lenses. But most of all, he was so happy to have finally resolved the issue of his blurred vision.

The following day, Cupid returned to the park, determined to make amends. He had a quiver full of arrows, all sharpened to a glistening point. It was spring, the air was warm, the birds chirruped happily in the trees. Cupid hung motionless in the air, his wings beating like a hummingbird’s. “Love is in the air,” he thought, “Literally!”

He pulled back the bowstring, and took aim.

“Bingo!”

He fired off another.

“Bingo!”

He spent the whole of that spring morning firing of his love arrows with reckless abandon. He couldn’t miss! And that is how a psychiatrist and an optician helped create the 1967 ‘Summer of Love’.