Mathematics is still my nemesis Podcast: Karl Minns and Stacia Briggs Listen now or sign up to the podcast RSS feed for weekly updates STACIA BRIGGS 28 April 2008 I distinctly remember my maths teacher's exact words: “get this GCSE and you will never have to look at another fraction in your life, unless you're cutting up a pizza”. Disregarding the fact that my maths teacher, based on the intelligence I displayed in her lessons (in other words, none whatsoever), clearly thought my future would lie in the fast-food industry, I remember being greatly comforted. I had no more interest in the number of marbles Patesh had compared to those owned by Ari, or indeed what would happen if Brunhilde took a quarter of Patesh's marbles (internationalism was abundant in maths books, presumably because the authors knew no self-respecting English child would be playing with marbles when there was White Lightning on street corners) away in some form of hostile marble coup, than I had in soldering my eyelids together. In truth, I had far more interest in soldering my eyelids together, because that way at least I wouldn't have to see the fractions, quadratic equations, trigonometry and algebra staring bleakly up at me from an unintelligible page in the Maths for Halfwits textbook. Because I was a diligent student, some would - and have, on the Friends Reunited website - say a lick-butt brown-noser, I worked as hard as I possibly could and passed my GCSE. Having failed my O level the year before and made literally no mathematical progress whatsoever, unless you count covering my graph book in a picture of Robert Smith from The Cure and piercing my own ear with a compass, it was the first proof I ever collected to illustrate the fact that GCSEs are far easier than O levels. Let's put it this way: if I've got a maths GCSE grade B, it doesn't say much for anyone who's got an A. I can barely measure up a pair of curtains, let alone bisect a right angle or rouse myself from a coma to contemplate Patesh's marble collection. But, the fact remains that according to an examining board, I am officially far better than the majority of the population at maths. Pythagorus must be spinning in his grave, or at the very least losing his marbles, especially if Brunhilde's in the vicinity. New research published this week has given me hope, however, that my inherent inability at maths (other than at GCSE maths, which clearly doesn't count - that was a clever maths pun) is all due to my preconceptions, rather than the fact that I'm as thick as mince. A report in the latest edition of Scientific American Mind claims that poor performance is linked to the preconceptions of how certain groups think they should perform certain tasks. For instance, a woman who knows that women as a group are believed to do worse than men in maths will tend to perform less well on tests as a result, although an Asian woman may perform better because she believes Asians traditionally excel at mathematics. Because that last sentence was horribly similar to a statistic, which is a form of stealth maths, I don't entirely understand it. I just assumed I'd do less well on maths tests than other people because I'm really rubbish at it. Anyway, back to my teacher promising that I'd never have to darken maths' doorstep again once I'd passed my GCSE which was, obscurely, a precondition of being accepted on an arts degree at university. What a liar. Every week I am forced to face my old enemy in the form of my daughter's completely impossible maths homework. Forget marbles, think patchily printed sheets from the internet which are often missing entire passages, making the homework more of an exercise in philosophy than in mathematics. It's an exercise in torture. The only person in the household who has even a rudimentary grasp of what it's all about is my son, and that's traumatic in itself because he's apparently showing some “natural promise” in mathematics even though I've hot-housed him to be a free-thinking creative since he was in the womb. “Numbers are just as beautiful as words to some people”, a well-meaning friend told me. Yes, I thought. But you don't want one of THEM for a son, do you? I mean I didn't take him to Tate Modern and that teapot exhibition at the Castle Museum (four times!) for him to start being really good at maths, did I? CELEBRITIES TODAY ARE IN ANTI-AGEING 'AIRBRUSHING' DENIAL Liz Hurley has admitted that after all those tiring photoshoots which are 'worse than dentistry' (oh really? OH REALLY? Have you got a spare nine hours for me to run through my dental history, Liz?) she hands herself over to Mr Photoshop to iron out any imperfections. By 'iron out any imperfections', I mean 'erase any sign that she's aged since 1995'. No one can deny that Liz, who is 42 of our earth years, is a fine-looking woman, although since we only ever see her in photographs these days, I suppose in truth none of us have a clue what she really looks like. For all we know, she's developed a dowager's hump, rampant elephantitis and is wearing calipers. In addition to having her professional shots 'digitally remastered', Liz also takes the time to have her own holiday snaps airbrushed. This is true dedication to self-delusion; it's only a matter of time until her son Damon starts looking older than she is. Meanwhile, talking of awe-inspiring vanity, Mariah Carey - who appears in the Guinness Book of Records as being the world's highest singer, beaten only by dolphins (not literally, more's the pity) - has announced that she doesn't want to have children because she wants to 'try and stay pretty'. “Having children would leave me feeling violated. I know that's a kind of weird thing to say, but that's how I am. You've got to take care of yourself,” she added. Mariah's hit it right on the nail. Just look at Liz Hurley - before she had that kid it only took three hours to airbrush her, now technicians are working through the night to make sure she doesn't look like, you know, one of those violated, ugly women who've let themselves go by continuing the human race. WE CARE MORE ABOUT DONKEYS THAN PEOPLE When I come back in the next life, I'm going to pull every string available to me to make sure that I return as a donkey. Have you seen how much those four-legged coastal packhorses rake in every year? Last year the donkeys grossed £20m in charitable donations (I mean to the donkeys, not from the donkeys, who are notoriously tight with their cash) while charities which help women who suffer violence received just £17m from well-wishers. Cue endless debates about how Britons care more about donkeys than they do about humans and how we should all stop buying Eeyore diamond spoons for his sugar lumps and start looking out for vulnerable families sharing a B&B room with cockroaches to escape the violence at home. I may be missing the point, but isn't it the government's job to ensure that the vulnerable are protected? Isn't that one of the reasons I pay my taxes? For the price of one day poking our noses into Iraq every charity looking after victims of violence could have a cash windfall that would keep them going for years - and there'd be enough left over to give every donkey in Christendom its own widescreen television into the bargain. Email A Friend
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