I am not the most confrontational person. In fact, I have a pathological and neurological predisposition to the evasion of conflict. For the most part, I just don't expect people to believe in the same things that I believe in, and I respect peoples thought processes enough to assume that they have given great consideration to a particular topic before arriving at an opinion. Like I do.

But there seems to be something ephemeral hovering over all of this that I can't seem to cope with. Basic courtesy. Apparently, people see this differently than I do. And this is when I expereience THE RED MIST.

The red mist is something that people with anger issues usually describe to explain their more uncontrollable episodes. For me, its self-righteous anger. When someone is discourteous, and I have to confront them about it, my vision goes black, my voice sounds like it echoes, and my body feels like a blow-up dolls - too much air-pressure in a rubbery outer layer. Ergo, confrontation is something I generally avoid.

But I remember one time, I was working at a cafe with a lovely Irish girl, who I'd become very good friends with. She was in Australia on a working visa for a short while only, and had visited and climbed Ayres Rock, or Uluru. Discussing this with a table of customers, one despicable, simpering, drunk man told her she'd never have children. Climbing Uluru is an insult to the nattive Aborigines, and the punishment is barrenness.

This is a pervading myth about Uluru, and every native from the area will give you a different answer about the respect or disrespect of climbing Ayres Rock. Certainly, the suggestion that it can make you infertile is probably not true. This particular girl, when confronted by drunk simpering man, was deeply hurt, as I found out later she suffered from hormonal issues that meant that her chances of conceiving a child were severely reduced anyway. Drunk simpering man left the cafe, his table of friends very sorry about his outburst and the offense it had caused, and I was devastated. I'd let a good friend be eviscerated in front of me, and I'd just stood there silently like a dumb ass. I'd never felt more worthless.

Luckily, drunk simpering man staggered back in to the cafe, with a mind to reiterate his threats about barrenness. How often does one get these second chances? This time I was ready. I told him he was a "rude, offensive little man" and that if he wasn't prepared to apologise to sweet Irish girl to "get the hell out of my cafe." He turned on his heel and left. and I strutted back to my job with the sound of imagined applause in my ears. And maybe a theme tune, life "Shaft."