My mother used to serve us a particularly interesting (shop bought) frozen pudding. She would valiantly saw through the resistant confection using an electric knife. A modern day warrior woman; wielding her way with a menacing bone cracking implement. My Neanderthal mum, wild eyed and resplendent with sophisticated hair do, setting upon a prone offering, fresh from the kill. Only this was just ice cream.
One day I looked at the simple cardboard box that contained this delightful frozen fancy. There, in fairly bold letters, were the words; “Defrost for three hours at room temperature.” I suggested that maybe, it might be fun to actually try following the instructions. By adhering to this simple guideline, the almost impenetrable boulder became a crumbly carapace of meringue, and its interior a melting mélange of cream and silken toffee. What a delicious discovery. To this day, I still tease my mum (well so would you) and of course we all laugh, and the product still sells in quantities at you your local M&S store.
When I was very small, perhaps no more than three or four, I remember taking a train ride across Europe. Our final destination was to be the delightful coastal resort of Rimini in Italy. I can still picture my mother and her friends enjoying a picnic, someone spilling red wine, hoots of laughter, and then everyone going to bed in the various couchettes. In our particular cabin, my sister chose the top bunk. She became quite convinced that a small bird had got trapped inside the cabin at the end of her bed. Understandably terrified, she spent the entire night at the far end of her bunk. There she stayed, as far away from the creature as possible; her knees pulled up so tightly to her chest. It was almost impossible to unfold the girl in the morning, when daylight revealed the “trapped bird” was no more than a soft leatherette window handle, flapping against the glass.
On the last day of a recent business trip, I realized that I had been drying myself every single day with a floor towel. I couldn’t work out why it was a little on the rough side, and so teeny weeny, or what I was supposed to stand on. The larger towels were right up on the top shelf. Perhaps my slightly sheltered upbringing had preconditioned me that nice girls never look up there…
Ah, so when do we stop making mistakes or feeling a fool? The thing is, we don’t. We will always make mistakes, we will always get things wrong as we go along. That’s ok. What we need to do is to learn from them. The biggest mistake you could ever make is being afraid to make one. I don’t know who said that the master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried, but I wish it had been me.
Still not quite feeling like the Star in your own story? Perhaps its time to give me a call.