Hours spent carving my name, into the already scarred, wooden lid of my desk, during mathematics lessons, instilled in me the belief that there is no more sense in the answer than there is in the question. “Problems” were the problem. My problem lay in an underwhelming disinterest in divining the answer to the mathematical “problem” set before me. The authors of my mathematical text book had attempted to inject interest and excitement by including trains and fat men into the fabric of the questions. Which of two trains would emerge first from a tunnel, or how much water a fat man would displace from a bath were, in my mind, just a matter for conjecture rather than calculation. I could imagine the colour, shape and noise of the trains and have a vividly clear view of the countryside through which the two engines were racing headlong towards a tunnel entrance with but a single track for the two trains. The dreadful explosion as the blackboard cleaner hit the back of my head for the third time that morning meant that I missed the denouement, but there would always be another problem, another train, another story. I just did not give a fig as my mind was already gainfully occupied day dreaming in a question free world of fantasy where trains did my bidding and fat men in baths were not part of the equation. As each mathematical problem appeared to me as a senseless, random set of words and numbers, guess work was my only route to an answer. If there was one benefit from this fruitless exercise, it was to warn me off gambling, as I patently had no ability at picking the winner. Forswearing gambling has allowed me to devote much more time than I would otherwise have had to a more catholic variety of misbehaviours, for which I will be eternally grateful.