I think it’s safe to say I am a fairly average guy, with an average life. I spend my working week at the grindstone, pottering about in the evening, watching TV occasionally, playing computer games, or mucking about on the computer. Weekends are usually full of family or the usual lot of the average man; B&Q, IKEA, and as much time spent sprawled on the sofa watching footie as I’m permitted. Occasionally we got out for dinner, or visit friends, or attend parties. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary.
It’s safe to say that I am not extraordinary.
And you know what, I’m quite happy with that. I’ve made peace with the fact that, whilst everyone is unique, mostly we’re all similar. We have similar habits, similar patterns to our daily to-ings and fro-ings. Yes, I’m happy being ordinary.
To a point.
Not being extraordinary does mean that you miss out on things. It means realising that others, those that shout louder, will get the attention and all too frequently the glory. I mean they do say “Nice guys finish last”, don’t they.
That makes me sound bitter when I’m exactly the opposite. I’m sweet. I’m sugar. Candyfloss and marshmallow am I.
Because, you know, one of the advantages of being ordinary is that when you do make a little noise, it goes a long long way. The rewards swing round, and you realise what you suspected all along.
Sure, the extraordinary noisemakers get the glory, but us ordinary people, we get respect and kudos. And you know what.
That suits me just fine.