The mind is primed to take account of the things that go wrong, the things that catch us on the hop, the things that might have been done better.
Because the emergent homo sapiens who did not was in danger of dying out tout suite. Whether it be poisonous berries, sabre-toothed tigers, or a neighbour with a club – the man, woman or child who failed to take note of the thing that went not so well was a weak link in the evolutionary chain.
So, when things go ok, I cannot help but think how they might have gone better. I don’t mind admitting: it’s a bit of a pain. I stop to smell the flowers, but my mind wanders off to risk assess the thorns.
My mother tells me that sometimes ‘good enough is good enough’ and in many ways she is, of course, completely right. It’s just that it’s never quite good enough for me.
I don’t expect the world to be perfect, and I certainly don’t expect me to be perfect, but there’s always a sense that there’s improvement to be had in anything – if you are willing to look for it, and work for it.
By that rationale: muscular prose that swaggers onto the page I could aim for, but a clean and tidy home is most unlikely in this particular lifetime.
The image is found on the staircase wall of the local Celtic Club which I occasionally lurk in.
Happy St Patrick’s Day *scuffs heel because I didn’t get a Guinness*