Internalising

Yesterday I had cause to visit the GP. After waiting for one hour (That’s 60 whole minutes, folks. Count ‘em. I did.) I finally got to see the excessively gummy practice nurse.

‘Sorry for the wait,’ she trilled.

‘No, no, that’s fine, not a problem, I enjoy reading three-year old back issues of Good Housekeeping, blah blah blah, etcetera,’ I burbled good naturedly, as a murderous thought regarding time keeping speech-bubbled perniciously above my head.

It’s so bloody British that. Outwardly polite: inwardly seething. Why do we do it?

I’m going to see my homeopath today for a new year MOT and do you know what top of my list to talk to her about is? Acute sudden onset of the red mist. About twice a month I find myself in the grip of a teeth-gnashing, fist-clenching rage that incites fantasies of household breakages and screeching of the primal variety.

I honestly believe it’s at least partly down to all that ‘immediate reaction’ swallowing we have to do. What I really wanted to ask Nurse Gummy was why the hell she was an hour late when my appointment was early morning? What had she been doing in such a short space of time to spin out the lateness? Gossiping? Drinking tea? Stitching wounds? Performing an autopsy? WHAT??

Of course, I didn’t ask any of those questions, let alone raise my voice. Who wants to be the crazy yelling at the overworked, underpaid, unappreciated NHS frontline?

Not me. I’ve got manners. I was dragged up proper. I’ll leave the shouting to more liberated foreigners and mentalists. Let them be escorted from the premises, minus their consultation and dignity.

In the meantime, I’m going to start externalising:

1) More shouting.
2) More crying.
3) More throwing stuff around.

Although I’ll have to do it in private, otherwise I think I’ll find myself minus one live-in boyfriend. A man’s patience can only be stretched so far.

PS
On the bus home yesterday, I got smacked in the mouth by a little old Indian lady as she walked past me. It wasn’t her fault - the bus was lurching all over the place.

Note to London bus drivers: For the love of fuck, stop punching your brakes with such last-minute force. Squeeeeeze the brake, squeeeeeeze the brake.

That is all.

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I am a ‘more liberated foreigner’, but try telling the Boyf (english) that while he is over tipping taxi drivers who I have ranted at after they turn up 30 minutes late etc etc

Venting prevents explosion. Express the red mist in constructive ways: write amusing rants, take up kick-boxing, invade Poland. There are many options involved.

Oooh, now I like the idea of invading a country Pimento.

I’ll start small with the path of least resistance and go for Switzerland first.



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