Anger

Anger had its pyjamas on and was sat twiddling its toes in a pair of old, well worn, crimson red slippers, finding its feet as it were.
It had been loafing around for sometime on a rather uncomfortable nineteenth century armchair, trying to light a pipe with the fumes that were emanating from its nostrils, as it prepared to settle in for the evening.
I tried to make it see sense in the current situation, to find some rationale, but instead it blew a huge puff of tobacco smoke in my face and poured itself a Scotch.