by George Dimitriadis

Created on: July 21, 2008   Last Updated: November 16, 2008

Dear Dr Freud,
I suffer from a condition that is becoming increasingly common. It is what I refer to as queuephobia, a compulsion to fantasize when confronted by any situation involving a queue of people. I am providing you with a description of yesterday's events in the hope that you can suggest how I can deal with this emerging social phenomenon.
I get out of bed, turn the bathroom door handle and find it locked.

"Sorry," my wife apologizes on behalf of our children, "Joan needs to do her hair first today and then it's Paul's turn because Peter said he'd pick him up early."
Doctor, is it wrong that at this moment I recall my two failures to abstain twenty years ago and eighteen years ago respectively? Abstinence in the past would reward in the future. I'd now be lustfully singing in the shower instead of listening to my daughter's hairdryer whilst I stare at the back of my son's head as we both wait patiently in front of the bathroom door.
"You'll have to take the bus today," my wife informs me as I wait. "I need the car."
As I approach the bus stop I see what someone suffering from queuephobia ought not to see. Ten prospective commuters temptingly standing in the familiar formation I see when I bowl every Wednesday night. You must forgive me, doctor, but as I pass a garden with rock landscaping I imagine myself possessing super strength and using one of the rocks as a bowling ball to see what dispersion pattern ten fallen commuters can create. Very satisfying.
After a busy morning at my desk, I look forward to a cup of coffee and something sweet in the cafeteria. Unfortunately, a score of employees are similarly inclined and have already staked their position in the queue.
Honestly, sir, I didn't mind the twenty minute wait in the line, and I did not begrudge those in front of me who took an inordinately long period of time to make up their minds concerning their dietary requirements. Granted, as I stared at the folds of flesh dangling from the arms and neck of the overweight lady in front of me, I could not think of anything else but that she should do herself a favour by donating to charity the dozen or so cookies she was shoving down her cavernous mouth even before she had paid for them.
But I will confess, Sigmund, that I badly wanted to ram cream buns down the throat of the powerfully built guy whose only purchase was a glass of very healthy carrot juice. No-one has a right to such health! To prove my point I did so want him to experience what it is like for

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