"My anger, I accept, is not really the fault of the bloke at the call centre: it's mine, for being too rushed, anxious and selfish."
Eh, no. FUCK THAT.
Call centres are an orgy of hatred. The call centre guy hates his job, I hate the call centre guy, and we both hate the entire shit-eating human race for evolving into a species that feels the need for fucking call centres in the first place.
So don't be cutting the call centre guy any slack, lady, because you know for damn sure that after he's through with your call he doesn't reprimand himself for his brusqueness, no sir. Maybe when he’s lying there dying an agonizing death from bowel cancer he might re-examine his rotten existence in a terrifying moment of completely unwelcome self-awareness, sure. But that probably won’t happen until many years after he places that black flag on your account and changes your address to 21 Cunt Street. Not because he didn’t have his coffee that morning. Not because he was feeling insecure or because his girlfriend left him.
No, it’s because he hates you. And with good fucking reason, too.