The magnificent Bête de Jour has been running a series of posts under the loose category of 'shame', revisiting those life moments that still bring on an intestinal lurch when they edge too far from the box marked "BLISSFULLY FORGOTTEN".
The Beastly One's posts are superb, hovering somewhere between Dostoevsky, Wodehouse and Adrian Mole, but I think his secondary intent - encouraging his readers to post their own tales of self-imposed humiliation - is doomed to failure. Most of us don't feel able to revisit the true depths of our own social loserdom, unless we're: a) in the safe and confidential confines of a therapist's consulting room; or b) profoundly drunk.
I've touched before on a few past moments where my sang froid got a bit chaud, most of them related to mishaps I've endured while undertaking physical exertion, so I've only really got myself to blame. But, prompted by Bête's badgerings, I've remembered another, from about 10 years ago. It's fairly minor on the face of things, but it still provoked a few sweats, cramps and shudders as it loomed into my consciousness. All that happened is that, getting dressed one morning without properly waking up, I put my jumper on back-to-front, and travelled into work thus attired.
Which wouldn't have mattered that much, except that, as noted by the colleague who finally pointed out the sartorial gaffe, it was a V-neck jumper.