My children would say I’ve always been a tutter.  I tut at people who refuse to switch off their mobile phones at the theatre and have text (or actual) conversations during plays; who unwrap their sweets or rustle through their popcorn during films; who don’t give up their seats for anyone on buses, trains or tubes; who get affronted if Alfie the Personal Pet as Therapy Dog has a bit of a thing for their dog rather than leaving the dogs to sort themselves out.  Over the past year, I’ve realised that tutting simply isn’t enough to express how I feel when people park in disabled bays that don’t have signs up just because they know they are legally entitled to do so, or use the disabled shower at the gym even though they can see me waiting on one leg in a wet swimsuit, and who are invariably hostile when they finally emerge, as though I am somehow to blame for making them feel uncomfortable.  As much as I wish there was a word for the deep sense of gloom I feel in those circumstances, I wish I could think of a word for the opposite of tut – for the rush of pleasure I experience as I drive past the thousands of purple crocuses and daffodils that line my route to work, or the relief  I felt recently when the delightful young assistant at Gap  delivered the fourth batch of jeans to me in the properly equipped disabled changing room and didn’t bat an eyelid when she found me sitting there with my detached leg in my hand.