Occasionally something happens that tickles your fancy.
The doctor's waiting room was full of patients doing what people do: reading, looking at the ceiling, lip-reading the silent TV's soap opera. Except there was something just a little different about them. They were looking everywhere but at the figure in the middle of the room who was spouting an endless stream of words with the speed of a machine-gun. I'm not kidding - he didn't even stop to breathe. Only one woman had the courage (temerity?) to face him. "He's gawt demonetia," she said, loud enough for those in the café next door to hear.
But was this man, whose back was straighter than the wall, really "nuts"? His grey sleeked-back locks still sported comb ridges; his dark suit was impeccable under his camel-haired overcoat and his lace-ups were polished to a shine. He was the epitome of a retired army general.
"I'm seventy-eight years old," he barked.
"Same age as me, ducks," the woman informed him before she whispered to me, "But I don't got that demonetia. Maybe it's allyheimer."
He could have been delivering a speech to the United Nations, so clear was his diction, so confident was his stance as he fired venom at the government. In his considered opinion they were doing a "filthy" job, lying, dirty thieves. If he ruled the country, he'd do a darn sight better job, oh yes he would. "Tell you what I'd do." He announced, regardless of the stifled giggles around him, "I'd get a plane. That's right, a plane. Now, how many can you get on a plane? Two hundred? That'd be enough. I'd round up all those nincompoops who've written and approved that miserable example of a budget - starting with the Minster of Finance. I'd herd them all on the plane. Then I'd fly it to China!"
I wonder what he's got against China?