Broken Men of the New Society

Darryl was a difficult patient I had been treating for several years. A stocky man in his forties, he shuffled into each appointment with a walking stick. At first sight, the stick gave him a distinguished quality, but then a trace of his bare belly showed beneath a T-shirt that never quite covered his bulging gut.

Every appointment would begin the same way.

“How are you travelling, Darryl?” I’d ask.

“Yeah, alright,” he’d mumble. “F— insurance pissing me off as usual.”

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