Lots goes on that we can't do much about.
And when I say 'we', I mean those of us who are 'normal'. People, if you like, who would never have been in the Royal Box at Wimbledon yesterday.
For some people, including really quite lowly politicians and celebrities, are treated as 'special'. Their lives are led under different rules than the rest of us. Special people need special treatment.
And special people need to be kept at a distance from normal people. Indeed, so special are they, that they need protection.
Like Andy Murray, the British and Irish Lions rugby squad achieved something special last week-end.
But the Lions did not require protection. Earlier in the week, I am delighted to report, they were seen wandering around Sydney, visiting the same coffee shops as their supporters - each enjoying each others' company in a relaxed and friendly manner.
So, back in London, do these people who think they are special really need such special treatment? Some do, of course, like the Queen.
But has all this special treatment gone too far?
I have my own little tale to tell.
Recently, I was invited to meet a television production company at well-known studios just outside London. Having supplied its colour, make and registration number in advance, I was directed to park my car just outside the studios.
After the meeting, I began to take my leave and was asked to wait for 'security'.
Wondering what this meant, I shut down my tablet and packed my bag. Then, much to my surprise, a big burly man in a black uniform entered the room and, holding it open, stood by the door.
My hosts, very politely, said their goodbyes and informed me that this big fella would escort me back to Reception and out of the building.
Well, I may be a sensitive soul but, as I walked down the corridor to leave the studios, I felt very un-nerved by this unknown character walking behind me.
Why was he there?
Was I in danger?
What was this danger?
From where would it come?
In what form would it be?
As my heart beat faster, my imagination ran wild.
And then it struck me.
Perhaps I was not in danger at all. Perhaps I was the threat. Perhaps this man was not protecting me from someone but was protecting someone from me.
What had I done?
What had I said?
To paraphrase Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid: 'Who was this guy?'
It was all very worrying.
Luckily I found my way out of the building without being beaten or stabbed, or having beaten or stabbed anyone else, made my way to my car and, with some relief, drove home.
Since this incident, I have carried a picture of this man in my head.
Suddenly, people like him appear all over the place: outside pubs and clubs, at train stations and on the streets. Everywhere I look.
Who are these people?
How qualified are they?
What powers do they have?
How are they allowed to behave?
Who are these guys?
I know, in Britain, the police have been revealed to be a devious, untrustworthy bunch but give me a suitably qualified, legally endowed British copper any day.
These puffed up cowboys with puffed up muscles in puffed up jackets give me the creeps.