Anger Is Like A Bubble

This misty morning the mummies and daddies have stayed away from the lido. It is lovely and quiet. I bump into an old acquaintance as I go in. With a few words spoken the anger bubble I have inhabited for the last week bursts and I am on the outside of it again. It seems disproportionate. I welcome the boredom of swimming. I do my lengths and go home to apologise to Virgil, who I was nasty to again this morning (I slept badly on the sofa). After the anger I feel like a rag doll, light and passive.