When I was a child, all I wanted to do was talk. In fact, it got so bad that my primary school teachers were forced to give me a ‘wriggle cushion’ – an inflatable seat designed to pacify hyper children. I’m sure there’s a diagnosis in that somewhere. And as the years went by, I became known for my loquacity. Teachers at parents’ evenings would look at my mother with compassionate eyes and say things like, ‘My, my, our Zak is quite the communicator, isn’t he?’ Translation: your son is a gabby little monster. It was only when I reached maturity that I realised over-talking is a serious affliction and not a commendable virtue. It’s a sure-fire way of ostracising yourself from others. And – for fear of sounding like a bastardised Robin Williams quote on Facebook – the most talkative person in the room is often the loneliest (you can have that line for free).
Firstly, I’d like to apologise to my mother, who has had to endure my motormouth for 25 years.
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