Yet I can't help but feel a little resentful about losing one of the few pleasures left to me. I am middle-aged, overweight and ridden with cholesterol (therefore low everything diet) asthmatic (no smoking) and arthritic (which means not just less joie de vivre but more paracetamol and more need to watch the other liver toxins).
Hating is pretty much calorie-free, low cholesterol, non-toxic to the liver and it can even give you a good cardio workout now and then.So I indulge freely.
I hate cyclists amongst other things. For the pedant I would point out that this is a grammatically correct statement. I don't just hate cyclists; I hate the way they insert themselves into the spaces that normal folk (pedestrians, motorists,rampaging gila monsters etc) leave between each other.
By cyclists I mean those lycra suited bums-in -the-air, nose-on -the-handlebar types that infest our roads in geometrical formations of lime green and lemon and tropical mandarin. Their heads are covered with sculptured helmets resembling frozen wave formations and their numbed nuts and torsos decorated with industrial logos (does anyone actually sponsor these people or is this their substitute for having friends?) (I do exempt school children and bicycle-clipped pensioners from my wrath.)
Cyclists are not required to carry third party insurance nor do they display any identification.This apparently means that they are exempted from speeding or traffic light violations where cameras would otherwise be used and if in (for example) running a red light they are collected by a car , the car's driver bears the brunt of the costs.
My attitude to cyclists is not a common one in my profession or in my specialty; most doctors feel they should pay lip service to the claimed health advantages and carbon saving superiority of the pernicious peddlers.
Anaesthetists in particular are prey to the lure of the lycra.In fact at any anaesthetic conference in this country the free afternoon includes a group bicycle ride wherein the natives of whatever unfortunate state is hosting the said knees -up are forced to watch the arses of several dozen whippet thin non smoking vegetarian middleaged gasmen disappearing over the horizon of their capital city.
I once played the part of a patient in a mock exam. I got to choose the scenario as long as the patient had an acceptable story for a chronic pain patient and the real patient volunteers were mixed in with the actors.I chose to be a middle-aged histrionic who had been run over by a bicycle and was left with an ulnar nerve injury and a pathological hatred of cyclists .I worked myself into a foaming rage with such verisimilitude that the first candidate hit the stress-call button .Luckily Security didn't come.
I also hate my cat.It was foisted on me 16 years ago and has cost a fortune in food, boarding fees and vetinary care.
I thought we had an escape some five years ago when it was bitten by a snake.We came home to find it lying on the porch .It looked quite normal we thought -until the Urban Terrorist poked at it and it slid stiffly off the verandah and into the bushes with all the grace of the Queen Mary. Only daughter-of-mine's fondness for the beast saved it then - the anti-venom ,steroids and "intensive care" (an oxygen tent and a methadone drip and no actual supervision overnight) all racked up over a thousand dollars. It was worth it , I thought, to see the affection between my darling child and her pet.
The other day I was driving into the house when the cat leaped out screeched across a parked car with open claws and bounded into a nearby tree. I cursed "When will that bloody animal die?" D.O.M beside me said softly " about five minutes if you tell me where you keep the shovel".
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