To complain of my relative lack of popularity as a blogger is to do a disservice to my many and varied, loyal readers and commenters, some of whom have been more-or-less constant companions on my interwebular journey of words which started nearly 3 years ago.

My people are not commenting in order to promote their own blog, nor are they competing for the coveted "first comment" slot. They do not come to flatter my inflated ego in the hope that I will pay them a return visit. They come because they are interested. They come because they care. They come because there is something in here, however small, that they recognise, something that they admire, something which interests, inspires or intrigues them, something which makes them want to come back. They come because of who they are, and because of who I am.

As humans, we exist in groups, in couples, in families, in communities, but we are ultimately alone when left to our thoughts. To realise that others share the same thoughts, doubts, anxieties as us can sometimes offer a glimmer of recognition, a scintilla of comfort. On a number of occasions, my readers have said that I have managed to express something they have felt, but never told.

My blog will not change the world. It will not become a bestselling book. It will not lead to a career as a columnist in a glossy magazine. It is not particularly funny and not particularly clever. It is usually jumbled, often confused, sometimes contradictory. But it is true, honest and completely and utterly unique.

What is becoming clear to me now is that I have just as much right as anyone to tell my story. And I know you've told me all this already, patient reader, but I had to realise it for myself.

Getting there. I am.