I now have two jobs, a roof over my head (albeit temporary) and a bank account. I am nearly real. All that remains is to register my realness with the local commune.
It feels like climbing. Now my only experience of climbing is a two hour taster session up those indoor walls with large bits of chewing gum stuck to them, but bear with me. Climbing had always been something I could not do. The embarrassment of being the only person who couldn't climb stays with me. Oh I remember the summer of 1972, trying to climb up on those garages, with someone pushing my arse from underneath and a couple of people hauling at my arms.
However, all harnessed-up and with a complete but comfortingly heavy stranger attached to the other end of my rope, I did climbing last year. Colourful blob to blob, like a dangling mountain goat. I would not say I scrambled up the wall, but I did it. And each foothold felt both precarious and progressive, and then there was the top of the wall and me looking down grinning.
Someone who isn't me: