Closed

I was talking about prime numbers to a friend the other day, in reference to on-line internet security when they put up their hands and said "Not listening. Numbers! They are a turn off!" I have heard this before. And my answer is this. What if the number was 555-647-8931 hastily scrawled on a wrap of cocaine and surreptitiously passed to you under a table by your favourite film star at the Vanity Fair post-Oscar Party? Huh? Right! Not so bloomin' innumerate now are we?

I suppose the point I am driving at is I hate a closed mind. This may be to do with the fact that I suffered from them so much in my youth. Whether it was my parents not allowing me to drink at family gatherings, that hot new director unable to see that I was the ideal choice for his groundbreaking new movie or that dazzling girl at the bar completely resistant to the idea of going home with me, I have been dogged for decades by the intransigence of others.

In the interests of fairness I should mention the exception that proves the rule. For many years I believed there was no such thing as tone deafness. I considered this to be a closure of the mind on behalf of the apparent sufferer brought about by low self esteem and a lack of confidence fostered by a poor musical education. However, exposure to bright, confident young people in the world's karaoke bars who seem unable to be dragged from the mike or to carry the simplest of tunes has taught me that it is indeed an illness which requires major financing by the government to eradicate.

To further this spirit of fairness and honesty I must admit to my own black spots. I am one who, when meeting you for the first time will gladly hear your tales of pets' illness or bizzare dreams and listen attentively, remembering every detail. But tell me your name and my mind shuts down after the first syllable. Thus, on second meeting, a Jonathan can become a Jim, a Beverly can become a Bill and god help a Cuthbert. Experience has taught me a woman is darling and a bloke is mate.

Directions. Same thing. When my SatNav lets me down as it does frequently there is no point pulling over to ask the nearest native how to get to the civic hall. The moment their brow furrows, their eyes look off into the middle distance and their arms raise in helpful semaphore all sound is suppressed under my brains MP3 version of the last five minutes of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon.

These exceptions aside a closed mind is life's anathema. Strange I should find my own forgivable but other's... abhorrent. Perhaps I need to open my mind. Nah!!!