I hate people. Not just people, all mankind. Everyone. No exceptions. I hate getting old. I forget the names of people I loathe. The incessant rain and drizzle do not help.

Carting two bags to court on the Campbelltown train every day and back, the awful smell of travellers, wet and dripping en masse, irritates me enormously, with their excess moisture, vacant, careless stares, their vague sense of contentment, the fact they have seats, brought raincoats to work, have Apple earplugs in their ears, they are going to warm homes, meals prepared, their work behind them.

The young are particularly irritating, especially if they are eating, although older people with prepared food are hateful.

I hate people who tweet. Smiling to themselves at some stupid half-slogan, half-truth, and responding with their genetically programmed thumbs on their BlackBerrys or skinny fingers on iPhones. You kick against the pricks, you get Twitter but you can't find it among all the useless apps on your phone, except iToilet that shows you the nearest public toilet.

Having shingles makes me hate all my aunties. When I was four, my cousin got chickenpox, but Aunty Faith ran the bath and put Tom in it and cousins came from all round Albury to get into the bath with him, to deliberately get chickenpox, so as to get it over and done with before we went to kindergarten and built immunity. Great idea - the chickenpox virus lies in your spine until you get on the Campbelltown train and it turns into shingles that sting and sting, as your clothes brush against the sores every time the train hits the rails. Because of that bath full of naked cousins - six of us, spraying each other in the Johnson & Johnson bubbles and getting chickenpox - all over NSW, grumpy old men and women are cursing their mothers and aunties as they make their way to chemists.

The mobile phone - mine, not anyone else's - always drops out on trains. Other people's technology always works, which is why I hate them. You try to ring back but it's busy; you ring again; the phone face shows you missed an incoming call from the person whose line you lost.

You try again; you get a busy signal; another missed call on the face of the phone; you allow a couple of minutes, they don't call; you call, they are busy. You hate people and give up.

I hate people who mouth music they are listening to on their MP3 players. I hate people who are doing their homework and email on their laptops with a dongle wireless. I am reading a folded wet broadsheet, with inky fingers.

I hate people who bring books to read on trains. There are thousands of women reading Fifty Shades of Grey, getting horny to go home to someone else. I hate the people I live with, and I live alone. I hate crowds, individuals, couples, gangs, school teams with open gym bags, pedestrians, shoppers, smug people bringing and carrying food to cook at home. I spit on those who are crunching into their burgers or sandwiches, store-bought or home-made, picking hot chips out of bags and licking salt off their fingers.

I am not a racist. I hate all nationalities. I hate people who have seats. If I have a seat, I hate people whose seats are facing the right way. I hate trains where passengers must face each other from Campbelltown to Central. I hate getting off my seat with a french fry stuck to my trousers.

When you are in a bad mood, everyone else is smiling. I hate taxi drivers who try to start up a conversation. I hate passengers on long flights who talk and talk. I would rather watch Disney movies, which I do with the sound off and eyeshades on. I hate small talk. I hate long talk. I hate people watching movies on their laptop while travelling. I hate smokers outside my building with yellow Lance ''Livestrong'' Armstrong bands. I hate smokers who get back in the lift, and smell their clothes and hair all the way up. I don't trust non-smokers or non- drinkers but I hate everyone.

Winter brings out a lot of hate in me but I still hate people in summer. I hate people who can sleep on the beach. I hate people who win Lotto. I hate the connections of Black Caviar, all of them. I hate success in others.

I hate violence but loathe pacifists. I hate people who can cook, or not. Patrick White wrote the names of people he hated on a piece of paper and put them in the fridge. He had a full fridge by the time he died.

I love the idea of Patrick White.

A Pox On All Your Houses