There is something worse than pure incompetence, and that is next-level incompetence – when your incompetence starts feeding off itself. It’s a dangerous place to be. It’s like not only feeling depressed, but feeling depressed about being depressed, or feeling anxious about being anxious. Next-level incompetence is when, being dismally aware of your incompetence, you start – with good reason – to doubt everything you do and, crucially, blame yourself for things that weren’t your fault. And this can cause yet more chaos.
An example: a couple of Wednesdays ago, I was due to interview Geoff Hurst, England football legend, at the Cheltenham literary festival, about his new book, Last Boy of ’66. On the Monday, being a consummate professional, I thought I ought to give the book a read. But I couldn’t find the book anywhere in my flat. Where had I put it? Obviously somewhere so safe that I now couldn’t find it.
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