The thought of holding forth on the subject of perfection makes me feel slightly queasy.
I’m not sure why this is, but it’s certainly not helped by the fact that today is Sunday – the black hole into which the week falls after the anticipation of Friday and the relief/enjoyment of Saturday: the day we realise the weekend hasn’t wrought the miracle it seemed to promise, and tomorrow it’s business as usual.
It’s also the day when millions worldwide have their imperfections drummed into them with a view to saving their souls. This may cheer them up immensely with the vision of better things to come, but I can only say that the five years I was obliged to spend as one of their number left me with a deep-seated conviction that I would never make the grade – an added reason why ‘perfection’ and ‘Sunday’ don’t make me feel warm and fuzzy.
But even aside from the Sunday factor, the concept of perfection has always filled me with dread. It’s the Holy Grail. But it’s also subjective, as demonstrated by the variation in individual scores across any panel of judges. This has always left me with one of those dichotomies. On the very rare occasions I appear to pull it off, it’s luck. If I don’t, it’s failure.
I’m working on it.