M y last girlfriend was a loser. A wonderful and beautiful person, but prone to losing things; keys, money, credit cards, mobile phones. Each time she lost something, she would get upset and come to me for help and reassurance. I, on the other hand, am a keeper. Not in the American sense that women throw themselves at me, rather that if you were to ask me to lay my hands on a receipt for a pair of shoes I bought in , I would be angry if it took me more than 90 seconds to locate it.
Over to the filing cabinet I would stroll, R for Receipts, S for Shoes, and work through chronologically. Instead, we argued frequently over what she saw as something she was powerless to change, and I saw as a correctable weakness in her character. In general I would say I find it difficult to accept other people's shortcomings. I am not an unfair person but I do think more effort is the solution to most problems. Not losing things is simply a matter of trying harder to remember where you put them, isn't it?
Popular music is no help here, telling us:. If you love something ,. Nonsense, Christina Aguilera! I say, "If you love it, file it away under 'Things I love'. If it's required at a later date, you'll know exactly where it i-i-i-is. Wanting things my own way is not something I like about myself. From my love of right angles to my stubborn, black and white views on complex issues, I recognise I can be a very difficult person to be around.
I also cannot fail to recognise many symptoms of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. I have countless habits that I know serve no purpose but am powerless to avoid. I arrange my coins into ascending size in my pockets, for example, and nothing gives me more comfort than the knowledge that my forks, knives and spoons are all in the correct place, tessellating magnificently in their drawer.
I like to think that we're all on a scale where these tendencies are concerned. I am sure many people find it difficult to settle down to watch a DVD with a cobweb hanging behind the TV. But what if the cobweb isn't behind the TV β or even in the same room β but lurking nauseatingly in the room next door? Could you still relax and enjoy the film? As a child I remember marvelling at how neatly my dad's sponge used to fit into the sponge-nook in his Ford Escort , but I don't know whether this was an early warning of who I would become or the reason for it.
