They say nobody’s perfect, and I guess
that’s true. We all have our little handicaps and imperfections, whether we
acquire them by nurture or nature. We can be left-handed or color blind, or
have irritating habits such as laughing too loud, or biting our fingernails.
And I’m no exception.
My problem is
a constant humiliation. I’m arithmetically challenged, and can't do even the
simplest addition and subtraction in my head. No, seriously, faced with what
you’d probably consider the easiest sum, my mind seizes up. I've always been
mystified by this shortcoming. After all, I had a pricey private education at
upper-crust British seats of learning. I learned (and then forgot) one dead
language and two living ones, mastered subjects from English, history and
geography to physics, chemistry and biology, and most people would be quite happy
to swap IQs with me. Both my father and
brother made good livings in banking, so why am I such a mutt at math?
One time when
this disability used to rear its ugly head was whenever I was signing the check
in a restaurant, with my pen poised while I calculated the tip. In those days, if you’d watched carefully, you’d
have noticed that, though barely perceptibly, I was counting on my fingers
while my brow furrowed with the concentration of the task in hand.
I went through this embarrassing
process for years until, not long ago, I discovered a little printed plastic
card called a ‘tip calculator,’ that tells me fifteen and twenty percent of any
sum up to one hundred dollars. With this, holding the card surreptitiously
under the table, I can now work it out. In this way I impress guests with my
seemingly instant mental arithmetic. Of course, in the privacy of my own home I
can whip out a calculator with the best of them, and do the most basic sums
without the embarrassment I’d experience using it in a restaurant, a barber’s
shop or a cab. Working out a tip in a taxi is a breeze nowadays electronically,
though it always used to be too dark in the back to read my cheat sheet.
Lynn, my wife,
who’s infuriatingly competent at absolutely everything, says, “It’s so easy! To
work out fifteen percent of something, all you do is move the decimal point one
place to the left to get ten percent. Then you just add half that number to it
to get your fifteen percent.” And she calls that easy?
Of course, being
afflicted in this way doesn’t begin and end with calculating tips. Every day
there’s a need for mental arithmetic, such as working out lengths, heights and
widths when doing do-it-yourself jobs. And then there’s the constant problem of
working out the change I should get in a store. If normal people pay $13.37 for
something and hand over $20, they immediately know how much change to expect. But
not I.
Was this
inability inherited, or caused by some life experience? My very earliest
memories of math at school couldn’t have been happier. In the mid-1930s, at a
convent school at the age of five, I was taught very elementary arithmetic by
kindly nuns. We wrote the numbers on wood-framed slates with slate pencils that
made the most excruciating scrooping sounds. Later, we moved on to two-times
tables, mouthing them in unison to our smiling, nodding tutors. “Two twos are
four, three twos are six, four twos are eight . . .” I still have instant
recall of those tables up to twelve twelves.
But there were
no kindly nuns when, only a few years later, I was sent to my first boarding
school far from home. Here, a scruffy, mop-headed, sour-faced Welshman called Dai
Griffin took over where they left off. Mr. Griffin – we called him ‘Dirty Dai’–
galloped through multiplication and long division at a cracking pace that was
fine for the brightest and most numerate of his class, but not for the rest of
us. He had a thick Welsh accent, and was given to outbursts of rage, when he was
liable to throw sticks of blackboard chalk around the classroom.
With Mr. Griffin, arithmetic became a
fearsome ordeal, something to dread. It became even harder when we began
calculations to do with money. Britain’s currency was not yet decimalized;
instead we had pounds, shillings and pence. Now listen carefully, there were
twenty shillings in a pound, twelve pence in a shilling, and two halfpennies
(ha’pennies) or four farthings in a penny. How would you go about adding twenty-eight
pounds, seven shillings and fourpence-farthing to seventeen pounds, three
shillings, and eightpence-ha’penny?
Around the time when Mr. Dai Griffin
was about to launch into algebra and geometry, something fortuitous happened – he
died. That may sound harsh but, even if he was nice to his wife and children
and kind to small animals, to us he seemed a mean-spirited monster. A master
called Bob Hawkins took over our math lessons, a warm-hearted man who clearly
loved his subject, made up jokes about isosceles triangles, and treated us like
equals. In the next school, ‘Fuzzy’ Wheatcroft, a man of similar character to
Hawkins, took us through the whole gamut of math, including trigonometry and
calculus, in such a way that I actually looked forward to his lessons. Then, of
course, we were using slide rules and charts, since desk-top computers were at
least thirty-five years away. I thought trigonometry a futile waste of time then.
Why would I ever need to know all this stuff about tangents and cotangents? I
had no idea that, eight or nine years later in the British Army, I’d need it to
plot targets for my 81mm mortar platoon during a bout of terrorism in the
Mid-East.
I bet that would have astonished the
late Dirty Dai Griffin.
oo0oo
