I'd be lying if I said I entered the Scientologists' sparkling new Life Improvement Centre in London with an open mind. It's not that I have anything against people who believe humanity's troubles began when an intergalactic ruler landed on earth 75 million years ago, imprisoning dead souls in a volcano, causing woes that can only be relieved with the expensive assistance of the Church of Scientology, it's just that - well, OK, that stuff doesn't help. But I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The centre used to be a shabby shop offering free personality tests. But Scientology has revamped it, and now it's bright and welcoming, as if to forestall the accusation that they might be a secretive cult. A smiling man in a suit smiled at me and invited me to watch a video. "Then I'll explain some more," he smiled. Did I mention he was smiling?

Space aliens notwithstanding, new age kookiness isn't the problem here. The more I explore self-help, the more tolerant I become of those who believe in angels and spirit guides: they're well-meaning, mostly, and if I happen not to share their metaphors for understanding life, so be it. But Scientologists claim to be scientific. (There's a clue in the name.)

My brain, the video explained, is like two VCRs, recording my life. When traumatic things happen, the good VCR switches off and the bad one on. Scientology's "auditing" process apparently detaches the memories from the distress, whereupon the traumatised person becomes "clear". One person in the video provides this scientific explanation for the process: "Woo-hoo! It really works!"

The smiling man sat me down at an "e-meter", the famous Scientology machine consisting of a dial with two metal cans attached by wires. I would hold a can in each hand and an electrical charge would pass through my brain. If it hit a distressing thought, the needle would move. "Start by thinking of a time you felt stress." I thought of my university exams, but the needle didn't move. For a while, the smiling man said nothing. Then he said, "Think of a time you were very sad." I thought about a break-up, concentrating hard, but there was no movement. "Sometimes this can take a bit of time," he said. He didn't stop smiling.

I thought I'd better double-check that the e-meter wasn't something comically obvious, like a heat sensor, so I squeezed the cans hard. The needle shot across the dial. "There!" the man said. "What were you thinking of? You see. It works!" "Interesting," I said, which wasn't a lie. Later, he tried to enrol me in some auditing courses - he didn't try a hard sell, to be fair - and before long I was back on the street.

I hadn't been enlightened. Nor had I been sucked into a terrifying cult. But if the feeling you're after is mild bewilderment, combined with the sensation that you might just have wasted a small portion of your life, I can recommend the Life Improvement Centre.

oliver.burkeman@theguardian.com