Those of you daft enough to follow my occasional ramblings on facebook will recall that I posted this article the other day.
Basically, it asks are creative people nuts? And the answer is pretty much, yes. Here’s how.
Everyone’s brain filters the stimuli around it, everyone’s brain dumps a truckload of stuff so it can make sense of what’s going on around it without overloading. However, if you’re creative a) your brain doesn’t dump as much stuff and b) it tends to dump the wrong things even if, c) you’re a genius, and you can deal with more information than the average Joe and process the whole lot at once – because that’s still going to make you seen odd to the rest of us normals who can’t keep up.
You knew this though, right? I did, my brain always dumps the wrong stuff and flags up the weird or funny shit. That’s how it managed to gloss over the very important sight of a big green car bearing down on me the other day, which is how I rode my bike happily into its path, bending the bike, and myself, and possibly the car – although I haven’t confirmed that yet – and thoroughly alarming both my son, on the back, the poor woman at the wheel.
Where was I? Ah yes. Scientific American. So I read this article and by the end of it, despite the car experience I had convinced myself, that I’m a fully paid up category c genius. The evidence is incontravertible. I can’t remember my own name without cue cards and can’t be trusted to boil a kettle. Add having to remember stuff like when sports day is, when dress down/dress up days are, when stuff has to be taken into school and when not and… well you get the picture. And if you don’t believe me, here’s the proof.
There’s me wishing I could chalk it up to the painkillers. But now I know it’s genius, mwah ha ha haahargh! Whatever it is, it’s endemic to being M T McGuire.
Last night I got into my pjs early and McOther came home and said, “Aren’t you going out?”
“Are you sure?”
“I thought Thursdays was metal detecting club night.”
“What? Is it Thursday?”
“Bollocks! I am going out,” glance at watch, “and, I’m going to be late.”
So I leap up as fast as a person with two knackered knees and a walking stick can and run upstairs. Donk-thump, donk-thump, donk-thump (repeat 30 times) to get dressed again. Once finished it’s thump-donk, thump-donk (ad nauseam) I hear, as I come back down again.
Now I creep, as fast as my borrowed knees will allow, to my car. Brilliant! That only took ten minutes.
I unlock and…
I’ve parked it a bit close to the other one, mainly so McMini doesn’t twat the door into the wall when he gets out. But now I’m having trouble getting in, and I’m late. Nothing worse than a small gap a large arse and a late woman with a limp, it’s a recipe for disaster. I put my stick onto the roof and siddle into the gap. Brilliant. Got it. As I make to lower myself into the seat, there’s a strange ripping sound.
“Bollocks! The special pocket knob.”
Half in, half out, I freeze but it’s too late.
The door of a Lotus Elise latches onto a sticky outy bit of metal (don’t ask me it’s proper name) on the bodywork. Over the years I’ve removed the back pockets of enough pairs of trousers in just this situation to have given it a name. This tiem it’s worse though. This time it’s more than a pocket. When I put my hand behind me I feel – yeek – arse. It’s more than the pocket.
“Bloody hell!” I get back out and it’s donk-thump, donk-thump, donk-thump back to the house.
Never mind, it could be worse. There’s a pair of trousers hanging on the laundry airer and they’re only slightly damp. I slip them on, ignoring the fact that they will probably fall down without a belt because the belt’s upstairs and I really do need to get to this meeting before it actually ends. So, back to the car, donk-thump, donk-thump, and off we go with a loud kerboing, which I ignore.
It’s only when I reach the club and haven’t got my stick that I realise the big kerboing was it doinking off the back of the car as I drove off, having left it on the roof.
Never mind. I was only half an hour late.
You see? Incontrovertible proof. Next time I do something monumentally stupid and McOther adopts his ‘strained expression’ I can reassure him that I’m not a dippy twonk at all. I’m a Genius.
Now all I have to do is find out what at. Mwah ha hahargh.