At work yesterday someone said words to the effect “You know something about everything, don’t you?”
I demurred, pointing out that she only remembered the times that I had something useful to add.
[I see you at the back there Jenkins, stop snickering!!!]
She didn’t remember all the times I kept my mouth shut.
[Jenkins! Morgan! The Headmaster’s Office, now!!!]
She asked how I got this way, and the reply was along these lines
– a fairly methodical memory (but then, everyone thinks they’re above average)
– boredom with “popular culture” to the point of not having an Idiot’s Lantern, and filling the gap with getting on the stepper and reading articles
– getting interested in a subject, reading a few books (and more latterly google-binges), until bored and found a new subject
– keeping lists of unfamiliar words and facts and then going on google-binges.
To my eternal credit I also pointed out that knowing a load of facts doesn’t make you smarter, better, nicer, more effectual or anything like that. It simply means you know a lot of facts.
Is there a point to this blog post? No, just the old narcissism.
Well, maybe this – there was a time when I would have been (wrongly) proud, when I would have metaphorically puffed out my chest. Age, if not Buddhist practice and meditation has allowed – so I pretend – a certain ironic detachment; This is who I have become. I know some of the hows and the whys. I am unlikely to change much, so I had better get used to it.