And then there was one. Again.


And that 'one' was me. Again. At the best of times I am - amongst other, better, more loveable things - stubborn, independent and furiously resentful of any attempt to control, manipulate or pin me down. This is not the best of times and I'd say my capacity to be a monumental pain in the arse has increased tenfold. At least. It's good, because it's made me into more of a fighter, but it makes it almost inevitable that I'll fight alone. I'm frequently insufferable.

The person who was looking after me so kindly didn't feel that the kindness was always mutual, I guess, and he was right. Every bit of life in me resents dependancy of any kind, and days when I feel that taking a back seat... well, they make me even worse. I'm not ready to be meek, mild and quietly brave.

I'm bloody-minded, passionate and independent, and anyone who really cares for me will value that and worry when it's not in evidence.

Every act of self-censorship is a small death in itself. But principles are lonely things to fight for.