There is at times an enormous gaping chasm between my perception of a situation and what an objective observer might report. One example: I cling with bloody shredded fingers to the notion that I am working class, despite all evidence (education, income, career, tendency to scamper off to the Riviera on a whim) to the contrary.
Usually this distortion makes no difference in real terms except that I am inclined to say critical and highly offensive things at dinner parties. Or, you know, live on the radio. Whatever.
But sometimes the disparity between truth and experience is impossible to ignore. For instance, I believe that I am a cautious, deliberate, settled sort of chap.
Yet I have moved 21 times in 20 years. Not including interstitial escapades. I know Travellers who venture less.
I've been anticipating the current move, but had no clear notion of which country I would choose, let alone which city I would end up in. Borough, district, neighbourhood? Niceties, and nothing more.
I looked at the flat I just bought for ten minutes, six months ago. I only know where it is because I have a map.
Now this will be an adventure!