Our over-analytical brains are a curse - mine led me from Robert Mugabe to a Cartier Tank ring

Some things are meant to be. Some things aren’t meant to be. Some things are meant to be but other things get in the way, and the things that are meant to be don’t happen because, although they were meant to be, other things happened and therefore they were cancelled out.

Whether this is because they were, in fact, never meant to be, or because other things got in the way, thus preventing things that were meant to be from being, we do not know. Is destiny set in stone, or can it be altered when things get messy? Is the mess just part of destiny, or is destiny thwarted by messy situations?

Or is it all just a mess?

If I were a blackbird or a thrush in my garden about to grab a particularly juicy worm, and another bird rushed in just at the last moment and grabbed it from me, I wouldn't mind. I would simply move on. Even though that worm had my name on it, I wouldn't question what it was about my particular worm-grabbing abilities that prevented me from winning the prize. The urge to survive would override such nonsense. Studying the lottery of life is a pointless luxury few blackbirds would be foolish enough to indulge in. Homo sapiens aren't really the evolutionary masterpieces we imagine ourselves to be. Which is a flowery, round-the-houses way of saying I didn't get a TV series I was hoping to get.

If we step back from life, does it all suddenly make sense? Or do we, by stepping back, disengage ourselves from the organic process of life and invalidate that process through our lack of participation? Maybe suffering leads to wisdom, maybe blindness leads to insight, maybe wisdom and insight are none of our business in the first place. Our brains are overdeveloped. Self-assessment, analysis and self-consciousness are unfortunate side effects of big brains, not to be encouraged. Rambling thoughts may lead us astray.

Countdown

Which was no doubt the boyfriend's ploy when he persistently wove references to the new Cartier Tank ring into the conversation last weekend, even going so far as to tear out a full-page advert from a glossy magazine and leave it under my pillow on the night of his departure. (Slogan: "How far would you go for love?") Emerging from a waxing salon last Friday, I found myself inexplicably drawn to Bond Street, where, robot-like, I purchased the aforementioned trinket. But here's the catch: I hadn't, in this instance, been cajoled, influenced or pressurised. I'm no blackbird when it comes to love. In this case, it really was meant to be.

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