Why the Quiet Ones CAN get on in llife

IT was like reading my old school report: “Jill doesn’t talk enough in lessons...Jill doesn’t contribute in class...Jill is a very nice but quiet girl”.
My nine-year-old son’s school report had arrived home and that feeling of deja vu hit home with a vengeance.
Replace my name with his, and it could have been my report from 1975.
I had to laugh, though. This is a lad who, due to his foghorn vocal chords, I am forever telling to pipe down. He never stops talking, rattling away like a machine gun as soon as he wakes up at 6am.
Nevertheless, as I read through his school report, that same old comment, once aimed at me, came home to roost. And I had to ask, for the umpteenth time, what’s wrong with keeping stum? What’s wrong with listening while the gobby ones dominate the show? They talk rubbish most of the time anyway.
As a kid, I hated sticking my hand up to answer a question in class. If you got it wrong, the other kids smirked. If you got it right you were labelled a swot. And, when you did pluck up the courage to put your hand up, the teacher never noticed and let gobby answer it yet again.
To be honest, I’d rather crawl under a stone than have all eyes turned on me.
A few years ago, when I had the opportunity to be hypnotised, I asked to be cured of my fear of public speaking. And I’m not just talking about a major speech in front of hundreds. I crumple if faced with talking in front of no more than half a dozen or so. If asked to speak at the tiniest WI meeting I would be keeling over with nerves and vomiting in the public loos.
I have, and always will be, mouse-like but, as I said to my son last night as he looked glumly at his otherwise good report, when it is truly necessary to open my mouth I can do so – with gritty determination.
Like when I wanted a job, for example. After leaving school, I put university on hold for a year and, by the end of the summer holidays, had managed to land a cub reporter position on a local paper. I made a call, wrote a letter and talked myself into my dream job.
On seeing my byline, my old sixth form tutor rang me up in amazement to ask why I wasn’t at university and how on earth I’d managed to get a job. “The gift of the gab,” I replied. He was stunned. The Quiet One had used the power of speech.
Another place where I make myself heard with great clarity is Pride Park, the home of Derby County. Now there I am stripped of all inhibitions and will yell quite happily until I am blue in the face. It’s therapy, truly. Roll on August 9 when the news season kicks off.
And I never shy away from making a difficult phone call or saying what I think in a tricky situation - especially when faced by forceful, nasty, gobby people.
When I have to talk, I will. But, if there is nothing of major importance to say, why bore people stupid?
At least I don’t suffer from AMOC (Automated Mouth Overload Control), a defect which prevents some individuals from knowing when to stop rattling.
You must know one of these? They just don’t know when to shut up. They chitter-chatter endlessly, killing you softly with their sounds. A one-legged sloth would hare off like a rocket, if they so much as ventured in their direction.
AMOC is particularly prevalent among women, apparently.
Researchers have no idea what produces the defect but, as far as I am aware, it has nothing to do with the inability to speak in front of classmates during your formative years.
So, if like me or my son, you freeze in front of crowds, go suddenly shy and look at your shoes, never fear. All is not lost. The best people know when to shut up.