“This is not the hill on which I’ll die,” I say to just about everyone about almost everything these days.

Having completely rejected “It is what it is” as something I will allow into my speech, the hill is at once a dismissal but also an indication that I hope I’m learning to choose my battles. Also, it’s one of my preferred responses to the loathed it-is-ness business.

There was a time when I allowed everything to get under my skin and from thence into my blood, bones, nervous system, digestive organs, hair, upper respiratory system – anything my body had to offer. Nothing was too small to bother me. And my survival instinct was nil. I was – or thought I was – always battle-ready.

I was tired a lot. And mediaeval armour (what else?) is heavy.

So, exhaustedly, the question that was clear to all but myself finally occurred to me: on which hill am I prepared to die? I once thought I’d die walking up Mt Hololo, a favourite with the super-fit of the land. And a must for the people who live there and don’t drive.

Five minutes up, my body almost horizontal to the road, I wept. Real agony, real tears, as a lady of about 80 sailed past me on her way home. I wept some more.

Once, not so long ago, everything and everyone’s problems were the Mt Hololos of my life. It’s not that I expect everything to be the Botanic Gardens, but I wouldn’t mind shifting my thinking in that direction. As a worrier by trade and inclination, this takes some doing. But there are still fights worth fighting.

My family, of course. For that great sprawling network of sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, et al, I will die on a hundred hills. For the cats, their father and the dog. For my friends. I will do it with no shoes, backwards, in the snow, on fire, with no coffee. I will take on that hill, holding my still-beating heart outside my chest as an offering to whoever asked for it.

For those trampled on. The ones people like to kick around. Maybe this is in my family. Or the supermarket. Or in the country (or world) in general.

Think of anyone who is bullied because the education system did them no favours. Age has brought me not wisdom but rage.

I try not to be snarky at the cashier because she was liming instead of ringing up my two limes and large laundry detergent. But when she decides to serve me instead of the old dishevelled man who was ahead of me like he was invisible, or should be, then the fangs come out.

The children who can’t escape their parents’ own cycle of violence – I can’t walk away from that. That’s a hard one. Most of the people who tell me about such things simply want to talk. They don’t want me to do anything. I’m bad at doing nothing. In these cases, I know a handful of people to call, but – no ill will meant – do I trust the authorities?

I can precis. All inequity, unfairness and threat to people and animals at risk will always be hills on which I’m still prepared to die. That’s why I keep such a stock of soap boxes, high horses, and extra noses (in case in I cut one off in error).

It does