Confessions of a GP

Angry man

Angry man is red in the face and if I didn’t know it was medically impossible, I wouldn’t be surprised to see steam billowing out of his ears in a cartoon-like fashion.

‘You need to give me some diazepam to calm me down, Doctor. I’m on edge. I feel like I’m going to hit someone!’

‘Why are you so upset at the moment? Would you like to talk about it?’

‘Look, Doctor, I’m not here to talk about my problems. I need you to give me something to calm me down.’

‘I’m sorry but I don’t prescribe diazepam for anger. We need to find a better way of dealing with the problem. I know of a very good anger-management course I could put you in touch with…’

I didn’t think angry man could get any angrier, but I am wrong. He starts beating the desk and he pushes his face next to mine.

‘Look, if you don’t give me something to calm me down, I don’t like to think what might happen. I could really fly off the handle and hurt someone. You could be responsible for someone really getting hurt.’

‘If you hurt someone, you need to take responsibility for that yourself.’

Angry man stands up menacingly and, for a moment, I think he is going to hit me. I cower inwardly and wish my nose wasn’t quite such a large target. Angry man calls me a fucking disgrace to the medical profession and then he leaves. I actually think that my complete lack of physical presence is a great advantage in these situations. I look about as menacing as an anorexic kitten playing with some cotton wool and this seems to deter even the most threatening of would-be nose breakers.

As the door slams, I give myself a few moments to compose myself and then carry on with the afternoon surgery. The rest of the day continues uneventfully and after Mrs Gibson’s exceptionally large haemorrhoids and yet another ‘funny turn’ from Mr Polucovski, angry man’s outburst is but a distant memory.

Two hours later I am standing at the checkout in Sainsburys, having stopped off on the way home from work. The boy on the checkout is particularly slow and I am regretting that I didn’t pick the next queue over which seems to be travelling at twice the speed. The man behind me is putting his shopping on the belt and as I glance up, my heart skips a beat. It is angry man. We are trapped in the slowest checkout queue in history and the antagonism of our last meeting has switched to an overwhelming awkwardness. It is too late to swap to another till so we both shuffle along uncomfortably in the quiet confinement of the queue.

Earlier this afternoon I had imagined angry man to be in a perpetual state of rage, but now as my eyes browse over his shopping, I begin to see another side of him. I am relieved to see that he isn’t buying a baseball bat and a book about serial killers. Instead, his basket holds a bunch of fair-trade bananas, some extra soft toilet paper and a Harry Potter book. Suddenly, angry man isn’t the big scary man that he was a couple of hours ago. This opportune insight into the man behind the fury warms me to him slightly. I consider trying to find a few words to break the ice, but our super-slow checkout boy has finally managed to scan all my items and it is time for me to pay. As I leave, not-so-angry man gives me an awkward nod and I wonder if our next encounter in the surgery might be a little less heated.