Here I am, facing the nadir of my existence, and I have the need to go to work. A specialist recommended I do so. I don’t think that the psychiatrist had any inkling of who I am, or how volatile I had become, but I take the advice. Learning to live again, and going back to work is the first step.

So here I am, putting up with the hordes of commuters, the likes of whom I’ve spent a decade learning how to ignore. Somehow, I have lost this capacity. These few inconsiderate… that one per cent of self-absorbed twats simply don’t get the fact that nobody wants to be alerted of their presence. My brain inadvertently zeroes in on these annoying, meaningless one-way conversations, those beeping fucking games, and the high-pitched sibilance hissing from tiny loudspeakers stuffed inside their ear canals.