As I wandered the streets of Worcester city centre this morning, I found myself, once again, wondering whether today might actually be the day. Like I'd done so many times before, I spent a good 45 minutes perusing the shops carrying out reconnaissance work before settling down on a bench to eat my lunch.
Yet again, the rational voice in my head was explaining calmly that this was something that thousands of people do every day and, as such, seeing as it's clearly something I want to do, there is no logical reason why I shouldn't.
All this chatter was interspersed with the occasional yelp as I tried to eat a pasty whose filling had, presumably by some process that undoubtedly involved at least one uranium isotope, been heated to a temperature close to that found at the sun's core.
Pasty finished, I stood up, brushed the crumbs from the paunch that I have tried and consistently failed to get rid of for most of my adult life, and discarded the brown (presumably asbestos) bag in which lunch had been served.
Pausing only to take a deep breath, I strode forcefully and with clear purpose to the clothes shop I had browsed earlier in the day. Turning right I practically ran up the stairs and then skipped to the far end of the top floor where the object of my desire tantalisingly waited for me. I snatched it up, did an about turn and marched toward the tills. With victory almost mine I realised, with horror, that I'd made a fatal miscalculation. In my urgency to get the transaction completed I had failed to notice the sizeable queue now before me.
Still, even the best laid plans sometimes have to be adapted and there was no reason why, if I just remained focused, I couldn't negotiate this difficulty.
Placing my chin firmly on my chest, my eyes fixed on my shoes, I did my best to blend in with crowd and hoped my nemesis wouldn't spot me. But the temptation to look up was too great and
when I finally did so I couldn't have chosen a worst place.
There, immediately to my left was a mirror and as soon as I glimpsed my own reflection I knew I was doomed. Against my will, driven by some force over which I had no control, the item clutched in my hands pulled itself up and came to rest firmly on my head.
At the same instant Doubt's hand was clasped over my mouth and I was dragged kicking from the queue down to the back of the shop, the item I wanted so desperately to own, discarded back onto the shelves, before I was deposited onto the concrete slabs outside.
You see there are 2 types of people in this world. Those that can wear a hat and those that cannot. I have always been one of the latter, while desperately craving to be the other. Yet, whenever I catch sight of myself wearing one I just feel ridiculous. Which has led me to conclude that wearing a hat well is nothing to do with the shape of a person's face or whether you choose a bowler or panama. Instead it is all about the frame of mind of the wearer. To look good in anything you just have to feel confident in it. And by the same token, you don't therefore have to actually wear a hat to obtain the confidence that doing so can bring.
And with that thought firmly lodged at the front of my mind, I picked myself up off the pavement, dusted myself off and headed home with my head held high and my existential hat balanced carefully on its top.
