I don’t actually have a problem with hypocrisy. We’re all hypocrites to some degree. How others choose to live their lives is no business of mine. All I object to is hypocrisy enforced with violence, or the threat of violence, or consequences undefined. That I can’t abide.

If research literature on the psychosocial impact of this condition can be relied upon to provide some generic descriptors of the lived experience, I might conclude that I was wholly to blame for the majority of negative experiences in my life. By blame, I don’t mean that actions were intentional or malicious. I just mean that I was not equipped with the tools to function effectively in social settings.

There’s a new report out which suggests that the chromosome disorder I have been bestowed with is much more common than previously thought. That being the case, healthcare professionals ought to get much better at diagnosing and supporting those afflicted with its symptoms.

It’s true that I’m perpetually occupied with my missteps in life. Thirty years ago I already had a pretty good idea what I wanted to do with my life: to be a graphic designer. But by then, I had already chosen a subject other than art for my GCSEs.

A few years ago, I had two good allies at work: the Director of IM&T and the Director of Communications. They both valued my work and were always at pains to endorse my efforts and ensure I was properly credited, cognisant that I was not one to blow my own trumpet. I was just a doer then, who could be relied upon to deliver without making a fuss.

Despite humble beginnings, raised amidst socio-economic deprivation, everyone did good. Indeed, they’ve done so well that they’ve left me far behind, rising through the ranks of career development and social status.

Culture and politics are very strong for a lot of people, making it hard for them to move forward. Although my family has a very strong Christian culture, I had the advantage of having experienced a decade of rejection in social interactions, breaking inhibitions which might have prevented me from taking radical action. It takes a lot to break from communal expectations. It’s only for the brave.

I assume everyone has grown up. I assume we have all matured, moving far from where we once were. I assume experience has changed us, granting us nuanced perceptions of the world. I assume parenthood has made us more tolerant and kind. I assume our hearts have melted. I assume that if we were to meet today, we would greet one another fondly, treating each other with mutual respect. I assume we would now be friends.

Driving up the hill this evening, surveying the magnificent vista of Union flags and bunting, I couldn’t help thinking of that quote from George Orwell about a primative patriotism. Here we are living in truly awful times for so many — a cost of living crisis and rising child poverty — all obscured by a jingoistic feast. Hurray!

A trial of a gang of teenagers for punching, stamping and stabbing a young man they did not know nears its conclusion. Another senseless, unprovoked attack on a stranger, perpetrated by youngsters intent on on looking cool and tough. One man dead and the rest beginning lengthy prison sentences. Yet, still, people laugh at violence like this and consider it funny.

Who would have thought it? That a nerd like me could simply be a man ahead of his time? Twenty-five years ahead, embracing a diverse fraternity, while all around me treated that as suspect and improper.

Everyone and everything has changed. Nothing could possibly stay the same, and it didn’t. I came this way, they went that. We all embraced completely different realties.

Often the tiniest of triggers can send me into that downward spiral. One such trigger consists of just two words, fluttering before my eyes on Facebook or LinkedIn — “graduate jobs” — and once again I kick myself, telling myself that I really screwed up there. How did it all go so wrong for me? Of course, I know the answer to that.

As a teenager, I took it for granted that the march towards racial equality was a goal shared by all. In 1991, we saw the end of Apartheid in South Africa, and I just assumed this was celebrated by everyone. My mother’s youngest sister had married an Indian man and the whole of his family had been embraced by our clan. My eldest brother’s longterm girlfriend (later his wife) was born in the Caribbean. A Nigerian family attended our local church, where banners celebrating equality were found hanging from the walls. I thought the majority of people believed in this brotherhood of man.

Fifty percent of your population lives below the poverty line. Nine million people are at risk of starvation. Millions of children are malnourished. Your priority? Telling women what they should or should not wear, and obsessing about the lengths of men’s beards. This is called seriously misunderstanding what your religion is for. It’s not a fancy dress contest. It’s a path towards achieving a state of safety and sound health, by shunning injustice, inequality and corruption. Make things easy for the people and do not make them run away.