Every few years, something happens; a social interaction, a snub, a violation, something which moves into my consciousness and refuses to be dismissed easily.
It is sensitivity of a special sort, the sensitivity to something moving on me with a particular precision.
It usually comes as an attack from a quarter which is classed as friendly, without warning.
There are certain people who operate with a type of reserve which is anything but passive, and in fact is only waiting for the right opportunity to attack.
The attack can come when you're doing well, when you are relaxed and happy, or when you are down and out.
Come to think of it, the attacks on me are launched at times when any reasonable slug, peering out from under its stone, might presume to think that I am fragile or experiencing difficulties.
Of course, they underestimate me; and most people in fact.
Whereas somebody might look at me and think I'm alone and unemployed and short of money, in fact my prospects are bright, I have enough money (rosy circumstances of my own arrangement) and I enjoy being alone.
Usually it is some coward who fears my circumstances who tries to enforce their lame-brained classification of me, in order to feel superior.
This gratuitous evil can always be erased from their records by acceptance of relatives, or friends, or priests(!), but it leaves a permanent and growing psychological mechanism in their minds, the very mechanism they try to impose.
The plain fact is that a lot of these people exist only in terms of their own property, and to lose it would destroy them.
Give me a self-made man anytime. They won't be a vicious little moral weakling. Although they may well have their vices, social relativism isn't likely to be one of them.
Then of course, for the suspicious among us, there is the possibility that sometimes these people apply pressure all too exactly, all too precisely; that in fact they have given some thought to the matter.
At these times one has to be careful not to yell "Conspiracy!" too quickly.
But sometimes the depth of thought required to account for the unaccountable persistence over time of an encounter's bad flavour, is such that there can only be an active intelligence somewhere in the chain of delivery.
Who knew where evil grew, eh?