Today, I went to see my GP ("family doctor", for my transatlantic friends). His first reaction was a good one: "My goodness, we don't see you very often!" Well, I come from longlived stock, noted for its determination not to die till it has screwed the Inland Revenue and the Pension Company for the last penny. So, ok, whatever is wearing out is doing so slowly.
Now, to cut a long story short, he decided that the Old Scrote needs a course of antidepressants.
Damn, this is what happens when I neglect the release that my Friday "Grumpy Old Man" slot gives me. So, if you will forgive me, I am going to do a Friday slot today (Tuesday), with no disrespect to Sertraline Hydrochloride.
I get furious with those safety devices that prevent you from opening bottles of medecine, bleach, etc, without breaking a fingernail and pushing your blood pressure up the Richter Scale.
I am outraged that the government is considering fitting control devices to all cars so that we will automatically be forced to respect speed limits regardless of the exigencies of the road conditions.
I am appalled that ordinary people round the world are suffering as a result of the greed and the incompetence of the world's wunch of bankers.
I am disgusted that Gordon Brown has no clue which way his arse is facing.
Well, that's enough. I should let the Sertraline Hydrochloride kick in, make me serene, etc. Anyway, who can be depressed when John Higgins won the Snooker Championship? That guy is brilliant, has ice in his veins, a lovely family, and is as rich and successful as he deserves to be.
Bet he doesn't need the happy pills.