Dear Doctor

Most things made him angry and when they did he found himself
shaking his head in silent disbelief.

It started with obvious things which would anger most upstanding Daily
Mail reading citizens. Boys spitting, teenage girls swearing, school
kids smoking.

Graffiti on walls and call girl cards in public telephone boxes also
incurred his wrath like that of any respectable member of his
generation. Whatever happened to the good old days, he found himself
saying - where is the bobby on the beat, whatever happened to community
spirit, where was the milkman, in his milk float, selling bottles of
milk in red, silver and gold tops to grateful housewives?

He strolled around town, made observations and shook his head.

Then, gradually, he found himself being more irritated than usual by a
broader canvas of wrongdoing. Things that would annoy most of us
admittedly. A baby crying, a dog barking at the postman in idiot
delight, a car alarm shattering the suburban calm.

He reeled off his list of irritants to his wife every evening at
teatime and shook his head. Sometimes he would let out a resigned hiss
- tssss - more like a bike tyre deflating than a snake unleashing venom
- yet poisonous all the same.

Old ladies that walked slowly and indecisively in front of him, women
in low-cut blouses, men with pierced ears, foreign-looking Johnny's,
parking attendants, kids in general, cats, rain, wind, sun, snow - all
these things upset him. He shook his head.

Then, one morning, he woke up shaking his head. His wife was snoring
and the sun streaming through the thin curtains blinding his eyes, so
it was understandable. He continued shaking his head as he got up, went
to the toilet and faced himself in the mirror.

He was old for sure. Older than he remembered. His own face displeased
him. He needed a shave but couldn't - because his head was still
shaking.

His wife asked what was up when she rose from her deep slumber - he
just shook his head and told her to stop bothering him. Three days
later he was still shaking his head. Slick TV presenters, the royal
couple smiling in a cheesy manner on a souvenir mug, the crust on his
toast, the dust on the carpet - absolutely everything and everyone was
annoying him.

He went to the doctor and waited for an hour in a cold waiting room
shaking his head at the other pathetic patients and the out of date
women's magazines.

The doctor saw him and he explained his predicament. He railed against
the rich, the poor, the young, the old, foreigners, racists - fat,
thin, small, tall - they all came in for rebuke. The Americans, the
Jews, the Irish, the Welsh, doctors, nurses, policemen, thieves.

The doctor drew a deep breath and looked him in the eye. There was
nothing, he said, that he could do for him. It was a mental rather than
a medical condition. He should look on the bright side, see the good in
everyone, try and do things he found pleasure in.

The doctor pressed the button on his intercom and told the receptionist
to send in the next patient. The old man left the room. The doctor
scribbled some hasty notes and shook his head