Allow me to confess something horrible. On somewhat regular occasions — way more often than I’d like to admit — I feel the sudden and overwhelming urge to pummel complete strangers. Just a few weeks back, I was waiting in line to board a plane when a guy in a suit — it’s always some entitled prick in a suit — nudged past, certain that because he’s an important businessman, it must be rightfully his turn to board. His blithe disregard for my patiently earned place in line, or anyone else’s, had me debating internally whether I should stick a foot out and trip him there, in full view of everyone, or wait and push him out of the baggage door on the boarding bridge. Then there was the Audi 4x4 driver who appeared in my rearview mirror on the highway, pulling within centimetres of my bumper, and flashing his lights like an ambulance. Forget the fact that we were both already doing 120km/h and I had two kids in the back — hey, Jason Statham here had places to go! For a split second I actually fantasised about running him off the road. Then there’s DStv customer service — well, let’s just stop there for now.
But here’s the thing: I’m not an especially angry person. I’ve never actually pummelled a complete stranger — or anyone else, for that matter. I hate fighting and avoid conflict whenever possible. Had I played rugby, I probably would’ve been a wing. Yet even I can’t help it when certain objectively trivial events cause my senses to heighten, my muscles to tense, my vision to tunnel, and my sweat glands to churn. And before I know what’s happening I’ve gone from a mild-mannered
