Something small, but potentially catastrophic (if you're of a certain melodramatic mindset) happened this week.
The arm of my glasses broke.
Is that it? I can hear you asking. What's the fool talking about now? But bear with me -
We've been together since the mid 1990s, as you can probably tell from the style (or lack thereof).
I don't wear them anywhere now, apart from at home, writing - understandably - but they are special to me.
They're the glasses that helped to write my first book, create my first talk about my books, my first writing teaching, first school careers talk, and so much more.
When they broke, I was so sad I almost held a little funeral ceremony as a goodbye, before throwing them out.
(I did say this musing may be a little on the melodramatic side.)
But I couldn't quite part with them. Which turned out to be a good job.
Because the moment I started writing with my other glasses, the words wouldn't come.
And nor would some teaching I'm working on. Or a new course.
So back I went to the old glasses, and all was well.
The consequence is that I look stranger than ever when I'm working, with three quarters of a pair of glasses perched lopsided on my head.
Maybe it's superstition, or psychology, but that can be a big part of life.
So, if the cap - or maimed pair of glasses - fits, then sometimes we just have to wear it.