Darwin was right

Nope-not dead yet. Just keeping my head down and trying to stay out of trouble. And failing, too.

All the sales started the day after Christmas (Boxing Day). What amazes me-even after so many years in this country-is the way people turn into savages as soon as there are sales on. Really-talk about the evolutionary process reversing itself! People fight over everything. People even kill each other-I remember one teenager fatally stabbing another over a pair of Nikes. I like Nikes, but I wouldn't kill anyone over them. How insane is that? And there are stories about women fighting over an outfit and tearing it to shreds just to make sure that nobody gets it. Welcome to Britain, I say. So I keep well away from the sales. Of course, who realizes that everything is marked up by 400% (or thereabouts) during the year, only to be marked down (end of season items) by, say, 50%-dumb, isn't it?

So that is my take on the insanity that runs rampant during sale time. I'm busy doing my exercises and walking-I even met my friend at the museum on Wednesday. I finally got there, and I'm glad I did. That is one of my assignments: to stop in the middle of the Millennium Bridge and watch people pass me, and try not to get knocked over. Hey, whatever it takes to get the brain working for me.

Since the police issued the maniac upstairs with a harassment order (just before New Year's Day), he has been relatively quiet. I still look around before I go out, but I also carry a noxious substance in my pocket (mace). I would rather take my chances with the courts than feel like I need to fight the wacko upstairs. On Friday I was summoned to the housing office and had to repeat everything I told the police. Was it a total waste of time? Of course it was-and I told them so. This is what happens when someone goes into accommodation that is owned by the local authority-the first time in all the years I've lived here that I haven't been in privately owned or rented accommodation. First-and last, I hope. I understand now why people in public housing are so unhappy. Really, this block of flats isn't bad-and it is for disabled people-but living here is soul-destroying. Everyone else is old, decrepit, and every day there is an ambulance taking someone away.

It has served a purpose, though. When I had the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't stand up without falling over, and I couldn't walk up or down stairs, or even walk anywhere without ending up face first on the ground. So this place was okay for me. Now I'm reaching the point of looking for somewhere more suitable, so I don't feel like I am waiting for someone to cart me off to the cemetery. There is life in this old girl yet! I'm far from quitting, even though I go through stages of wanting to give up.

I was coming back from seeing the gastro consultant at the hospital on Thursday, and I looked out of the window of the taxi and watched all the people rushing past. It suddenly hit me: I don't have to do that anymore. I suppose I'm unemployable, given that I have the very annoying wobbling eyes and the even more annoying lack of balance (so flying a plane is out of the question, sadly). But the whole point is that I am now out of the rat race. I can leave it to the rats and get on with working to get back something resembling a life.

What really hit me during that taxi ride is: I'm free. I don't have to worry about who is doing what, and if everyone in my life is okay. I don't need to exert any control over anyone else. If I want to watch something on television at three in the morning, and eat Kettle Chips, or pistachio ice cream (yum), there is nobody to tell me off. What can be bad about that? I'm free. Hallelujah.