This time yesterday I was up in London roaming the capital like anyone else. I was absolutely free. Today sees me at a university event about the history of people with learning disabilities; about how to create an archive of the experiences and stories of people which would otherwise be lost to time. There are a range of exhibits on display, one of which tells how the old institution inmates used to create songs as a form of rebellion and escape, rather like the African slave spirituals of old. I was just listening to some, and now feel haunted and angry: they were prisoners serving life without parole, having committed no crime other than to be born different. The contrast with my own life, free to roam, free to come and go, free to blog, free to be subversive, disturbs me. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I sort of feel guilty. My freedom is indeed precious.