Why am I so angry?

Last week, walking into a branch of Waterstones in south London, I made way (or so I thought) for a pixie-faced man in Lycra who was theatrically hauling his bike into the shop. It seemed a bit of a liberty, but these days cyclists are godly folk who can do anything they like, especially in the eco-obsessed puritan commonwealths south of the river.

Then a querulous voice piped up behind me. ‘Excuse me! You just pushed past me and my bike.’

I think it was the ‘and my bike’ that did it. Pixie Face headed for Waterstones’ mandatory display of anti-racist memoirs, bleating about ‘manners’ while caressing his affronted vehicle. And I went off on one, as I always do in these situations.

‘Look, mate, you’ve got mental health issues,’ I said. ‘First you insist on dragging your bike into a bookshop, then you pick a fight with a total stranger, now you’re talking to yourself.’