I’ve always been a word person rather than a numbers person. I was the student hiding in the back row of maths class, crying with frustration because I couldn’t see what on earth maths had to do with reality, other than equipping me for some quick mental sums in Glassons (did I have enough money for the tube top and the flares?).
Fast forward several decades, and I’m unrecognisable. Suddenly, alarmingly, my brain has begun storing percentages and statistics, hoovering up numbers like an anteater that’s been informed ants are next on the Extinct List. This is almost certainly a response to the fact that, in my post-divorce, post-turbulent-artist desperation to ‘normalise’ my life, I’ve ended up living with Mr Supposedly Stable, who is becoming less so by the day,…
