Angry days

My achilles tendon remains violently inflamed, so for a 4th successive weekend I have been unable to go for a gym session, play football, or just go walking into town... and yet, during weekdays, I have been dragging my sorry corpse across the capital's unforgiving footpaths for the sake of work.

So I ended up, in bed, on a Sunday morning, the morning after a beer and wine supper, listening to the Proclaimers and trying to make sense of things as the first quarter of the year approaches its close.

Anger. Again, I seem to be experiencing moments of great anger inside me recently. Tempers fray. My irascibility stuns me. Now, however, I am beginning to see this as evidence of my becoming freer, revelling in a fresher expressive candour. I guess I am often perceived as a quiet kind of person, and this is something I have cultivated when it suits me - nothing fucks me off more than people saying shit when there's nothing that needs saying (sometimes silence just works). That does not mean I don't want to talk - or that I'm aloof, as someone once suggested to me. Recently, however, the anger has been wresting free and there are moments where I feel as though my skin will spontaneously combust and I'll be this huge flaming torch. I like it. It feels good - anger that is. Is this inevitable? Is this the death throe of true youth, as the venom of my twenties-youth wanes and the thirties beckon? OK, maybe it's not that serious - another couple of years to go before that!!