I’m an extravert.
Clear as a bell, loud and out there.
But sometimes, every so often, even though I know it might be better to swallow hard and pretend to cough, I let the words tumble out.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop, with a friend, engaged in a business meeting, when the Premier of the State of Western Australia, one Richard Court, walks by, accompanied by a person speaking with a Scottish accent.
Two days before, the local rag, known by some as a newspaper, had splashed it’s front pages with news of the sale of the state bank – the Rural and Industries Bank of Western Australia – to a large Scottish concern, one of the world’s Big Ones.
I lean out of my chair and say, so all can hear: “Excuse me, Richard, can you tell me how the hell we are going to get a loan from a Scot?”
The coffee shop laughs.
My friend hides.
The Premier blushes.
The Scot smiles.
Then again, I am sitting in a small park, with another friend, as a young man walks by with his skateboard.
The friend greets him.
So do I.
The friend knows him.
“What’s his name?”
“Wow and on a clear day too.”
As the bloke moves out of range, the friend leans towards me and says: “No, never, ever, make fun of a person’s name.”
Okay, I’m, not sure about the young man’s thoughts, but my friend was certainly sure you should never make fun of a person’s name, whereas I am sure that you should never make fun of it if it pertains to the person, but if it is a casual, playful pun, offered in fun, with no slight intended, then I think it’s fine.
But not everyone does.
And that’s the burden and the joy of extraversion.
The uncontrollable urge to speak out where the energy takes you, without fear or favour, with the distinct possibility that someone might cop something you hadn’t thought off because that’s not what you do, think before you speak.
With every dichotomy comes two sides: one is a positive, and the other is the other.
I’m an extravert.