I am not by nature a competitive or ambitious person. I have never had to struggle to get what I want in life, because I don’t want much. As a child, all I really wanted was a home made bow and arrow and the ability to roam freely, popping home only for supplies. As an adult, all I want is a first class wife and a way of earning a few quid. I have been lucky to obtain both.
I once read an article of being successful, because I had a vague feeling I really should make more effort, and it told me I should visualise specific things if I wished to be successful. Don’t wish for a ‘big car’, it said, wish for a ‘black Ford Mustang’. The idea of the car stuck with me, even if the idea of working hard didn’t. That’s why I nominated a red Ford Mustang as my car of choice in the post I wrote about being a lottery winner. In truth, if I were to win the lottery I would be happy to potter about in a Volkswagen with a bent wing, mismatched mirrors and a minor oil leak. This, by coincidence, is exactly the car I have, and that, I suppose, is why I am content.
Sometimes I do wonder what I could have achieved if I had been ambitious and had wanted more. Then I think of a friend of mine who had a stroke in his 40s and another who dropped dead in his 50s, both after a stressful life in business. There is little to be gained from being the most successful corpse in the cemetery and, as they say in Nottinghamshire, there are no pockets in a shroud.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t try to do well at some things. I am currently trying to improve my writing, which is what made me start thinking about the subject matter for this post. One day I may even tell you a story about an eleven-year-old with a broken writing arm and a set of exams to do. It is, as they say, complicated, and just because I’m not competitive doesn’t mean to say I’m prepared to let people walk all over me.