The fear of all sums

I was never very good at mathematics.

That is unfortunate because it is plain to see that this world of ours is run by and for the benefit of mathematicians in their guise as accountants, actuaries and their sidekicks, the bankers and lawyers. By stating this simple truth I realise that I have now foolishly but justifiably effectively waved goodbye to my chances of making a living, obtaining insurances, a loan and justice.

A grasp of basic, practical maths is a fundamental requirement for human existence.

This will have been evident  to our cave dwelling ancestors even though they did not realise or appreciate it in their short lifetimes. They may have been able to attain the lofty age of at least 20 years old if able to work out that one man against more than one sabre toothed tiger represents poor odds of survival. Holed up in virtual hibernation in a harsh ice-age winter it will have been essential to calculate, in small stick men figures drawn with a charcoal tip amongst the cave paintings, a correlation between potential days of confinement to the amount of meat, grains and berries stockpiled for the purpose.

Mathematics became quite sophisticated in early civilisations and this can be seen in the towering architectural forms in the Americas and on the continents of Africa and Asia and the accuracy in predictions of astral phenomena. It will have been impossible to run an Empire without good acounting principles and it is a matter of contention whether the vast Roman influence died out from the aspirational interests of its enemies or a book-keeping and stock taking error in a small departmental office in downtown Roma.

Maths and Philosophy were the sexy pursuits of the intellectual and academic classes from Newton through to the great minds of the last two centuries.

My own introduction to maths was at a very early age thanks to the indoctrination by Ladybird Books. This, I accept was at an elementary level of home education in my pre-school era of, say, "look at the one dog" and "Can you see the two cats", "point at the three chickens" and so on.

At infant school level I remember vividly the learning by repetition of times-tables either in mass chanting by the overcrowded class or a sing-songy approach which was grim and dirgy in sentiment and not as inspirational a learning method as it was held out to be.

Of course, having absorbed the intricacies of multiplication up to and including the twleve times table I would be easily flummoxed by a maths question of, say, what is seven times eight?. It could take me five minutes of in-head gymnastics to work through the whole of the preceeding tables to get the answer. Familiarity with calculations did give me more confidence.

At the age of 7 my mathematical skills were significantly disrupted by the introduction of the decimal coinage system.It did not arrive overnight so there was no excuse not to be familiar with the basics. All of my usual pocket money purchases, mainly packets of collectable football cards, came with a large printed matrix to aid the conversion of old chunky monies into the new, thin and  modern currency. How ridiculous was, now in hindsight, that tiny, tiny half pence piece?.

School maths was initially a bit of fun. We were allowed to stack wooden blocks of tens and units. Elaborate colouring in sessions would accompany the drawing of every form of chart, graph and gram invented by the minds of the likes of Mr Bar, Mr Pie, Mr Line and, I think he was Hungarian, Mr Histo. They were, in my perception good practical mathematicians.

I was in for a shock at senior school with the introduction to serious maths. Algebraic formula and problem solving was my nemesis. Equations were non-sensical to me. Pythagoras theorem formula left me cold. Other forms of the subject divided and multiplied my insecurities.

The only discipline that I seemed to be able to comprehend and indeed enjoy was set education and in particular the Venn diagram. It was simple and straightforward. What better way to show relationships between different groups of things than by putting them inside large concentric circles and then seeing if any of the subjects shared common points.

I could draw representative Venn diagrams all day with my geometry set compass and use felt tip pens to depict the overlapping elements of the circles.

They were even useful in everyday life and things.

Take as a typical example a Venn Universe of popular things from my childhood  to spread on a slice of toast.

Blue Band Margarine, Anchor Butter, Robertsons Jam, Gales Lemon Curd, Sun Pat Peanut Butter( Crunchy or Smooth), Tate and Lyle Golden Syrup, Nutella Chocolate Spread, Princes Meat or fish pastes, lard, dripping, Marmite, Bovril ,Vegemite (desperate measures), Heinz toast toppers, condensed milk , Cheddar Spread and Dairylea slices.

These as the main subject can be allocated into two sub-sets. The first set is for spreads in jars that do not run when held over your head. The second set is for spreads that have a tendency to run out of the jar when held over your head.

There is only one product which, from this exercise, falls into the overlapping area a classic two circle Venn diagram. Bovril.

 I found this out more by trial and error than practical mathematical logic. At normal room temperature the contents of a jar of Bovril are reasonably stable. However, if held in the hot, clammy hands of children and passed around the breakfast table there is a pro-rata increase in its viscosity.

In my anxiety and curiosity to see if my siblings had left me any Bovril for my morning toast I unwittingly held it above head height and peered into the darkness within. The resulting and inevitable cascade of warm, runny meat extract into my hair and down my face forever lives in my mind as an unpleasant experience and has produced a great mistrust of any cow based product in a jar. Marmite, in comparison is considerably more stable and not made from a cow. You can well appreciate where my loyalties rest to the present day. Oh, and there really was a Mr Venn.