I WAS reading something the other day about the benefits of having a “Positivity Wall”. Apparently, successful folk in all manner of fields swear by them, so I thought I’d create one myself to replace my “Profanity Wall” which I simply swear at for 20 minutes prior to writing this column.
Anyway, what the self-help gurus suggest you do is stand in front of a mirror, say something positive about yourself, scribble it down on a bit of paper then shove it up on said wall so you become energised, inspired and motivated by a burgeoning assembly of rousing affirmations. That’s the theory, at least. The reality, of course, is slightly different.
As I gazed at the haunting reflection of my increasingly wizened fizzog, which is beginning to develop the same consistency of a perished balloon, my eyes became tormented by the kind of ghoulish vision of foreboding that was akin to a hallucinating Macbeth glimpsing the ghost of bloomin’ Banquo. I was swiftly back at my Profanity Wall before you could hiss a withering expletive.
