Perception, as I was saying to Antony last week, can at times be an amazing thing. By 'perception' I mean the fact that a number of people can look at something; or experience something, and relate what they have perceived, and yet this will not be the same.
As an example, take a street here in Madrid called Eloy Gonzalo. It lies between where I live and where I work, which means that I walk the length of it pretty much every working day, and have so done for years. Some time last year, a colleague of mine happened to mention to the assembled company that her much-admired sweater (or frock? can't remember) had come from "that pretty little boutique" half way down Eloy.
My reaction was to deny that there were any boutiques, pretty or otherwise, on Eloy, "and I ought to know", I declared, "as I walk along the street every day of my working life"...
But of course I was wrong. I had walked past every day (still do) and simply failed to notice it. It turned out to be next door but one to the big shop on the corner that sells football shirts, boots and, er, balls.
My clothes-buying colleague hadn't noticed this place, though in my view you can hardly miss it, with its bright green façade, and large television screens in the windows constantly replaying some important Galactical League match or other.
But then that is the whole point. One person's perception is going to be informed to a large extent by their likes and dislikes; their interests and tastes, and lack thereof.
While not lacking in taste, I would like to think, I am not interested in women's clothes overmuch, and thus blank out any shops I might pass which sell them, even if I repeatedly walk that way. (Of course if I
did walk that way I might be more interested in women's clothes). Equally, loads of people who are interested in buying skirts will be blissfully unaware that there is a big football shirt emporium right by their favourite boutique.
Which brings me back, as promised in my last, to Roy Keane; yes, last week's news I know, but I am getting a little behind with things (cue for another old joke - tell it to yourselves) as we approach the final run-in to the end of term, and exams, not to mention Christmas cards, start to loom.
Anyway, Roy Keane. Just prior to leaving home on the Friday before last, at about two o'clock, I read the news on the BBC website that Keane and his club were parting by mutual consent. Now, if I felt anything about this at all, it was relief that a football club was stamping down on one of its spoilt, loudmouthed, overpaid so-called stars, given that Keane had recently been in the news for criticising his erstwhile team mates on a private TV station actually owned by Manchester United.
But I promptly forgot all about it and walked to work, running through my plans for the teaching day, and still failing to notice the boutique and also failing to identify the two teams appearing on the big screen at the shirt shop.
Arriving in the staff room, I realised that Keane's separation from Manchester United was a much bigger story to some of the others than it was to me, though none of them were in fact United fans.
There are, however, one or two United fans on the staff, and quite honestly, grief was not too strong a word. There was even a suggestion that we rename our football pools syndicate after him. This syndicate has been in existence for exactly ten years, and we did have one biggish win in 1996. It was named after the English novelist and poet, Sir Kingsley Amis, who happened to have died in the week of its formation. The name was my suggestion and I did not mean it to be taken seriously, but mysteriously it was, and the Peña (Spanish for a pools syndicate) Kingsley Amis has been its name ever since, though usually abbreviated to PKA.
Now, I know Sir Kingsley wasn't everybody's cup of tea either, and my suggestion was not really meant to be taken up, it was just that he was in the news that week, having passed away. Yet he did bring us a bit of a luck, in 1996.
But Roy Keane, reputed to earn over £55,000 a week, a bad-tempered man who was hauled up in court last year for allegedly hitting a couple of teenaged boys, outspoken critic of Mick McCarthy when he was in charge of the Ireland team, is not, to me, an attractive figure at all; quite the reverse, and however brilliant a player he might be, I still wouldn't be all that thrilled if he turned up at The Valley and offered his services for nothing, which of course he won't.
Or at least that's the way I see it...
The title of the piece, by the way, is taken from a poem originally written by my illustrious predecessor William Blake (no relation).