I talk to myself. I always have done. It's a trait I inherit from my father. It's one of those habits people don't like to confess to, but I'm sure it's very common.I sometimes talk to myself outside the house, and I notice people giving me funny looks, wondering if I'm mad or mentally lacking. I silence myself instantly and feign innocence, as if it must have been someone else they heard.
I often talk to myself at home. I find it helps me to think. It's like talking to another person about something. The two-way conversation helps me to elucidate things and develop new ideas.
I wouldn't go quite as far as Woody Allen, who once said "I always talk to myself because I'm the most intelligent person I know". But certainly it helps to know that whatever the subject, I have a listener who understands what I'm talking about - because after all he raised the subject in the first place.
I've never tried to cure the habit. It's not doing any harm, except to cause a few puzzled glances. I have no idea what causes it, whether it's genetic or unconsciously copied from my father.
I don't even know how prevalent it is, since as I say, people don't like to admit to it. I don't know if it affects five per cent of the population or 55 per cent.
I remember once walking in Covent Garden, in London, and coming across Lord Longford, the late campaigner for prison reform and other causes. He was busily talking to himself, completely oblivious to the crowds of people all around him. And no, he wasn't on the phone. In those days mobiles hadn't been invented.
So come on, own up, how many of you talk to your own alter ego? If you all deny it, I shan't believe you. And neither will Nick.
