It was a way of telling people the chaos of life, the sheer bastardy of a bean spatula could be addressed by the courts and all would be well, writes Colm O'Regan
Rage — it comes to me easily. Over the years I’ve learned to turn some rage into useful biofuel. If someone is an arsehole, I put them in an ‘arsehole folder’ in my mind and hope that I’ll eventually write enough fiction to shamelessly plunder their arsholery and build a character.
There’s obviously a limit to that though. There is only so much room in any plot for people who don’t salute you after you let them out onto the road in front of you or let them go ahead in the queue at the checkout with their two cans of Galahad and a protein bar. I’ll only get a few hundred words out of people who hang their dog’s shite in a bag from a tree. But still it’s a start.
Rage in traffic has been managed through podcasts. If you’re stuck on the approach to the Lee tunnel and the light sequence is FAR TOO GENEROUS to people heading to East Cork and THERE IS NO LOVE WHATSOEVER for those coming in on the M8 (I think the traffic light thinks we’re all Dubs and should be kept out), you need to do something to keep things in perspective.
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