People have asked me all my life why I spend so much time learning things I’ll probably never need.
To be honest, they’ve got a point.
I don’t need to know the chemical formula for caffeine. (C₈H₁₀N₄O₂, since you asked.) I certainly don’t need to know that a 2:1 ratio of L-theanine to caffeine is generally considered the ideal combination for alertness without the jitters. I almost certainly don’t need to know how to pick a lock, open a combination padlock, or solve a Rubik’s Cube in under two minutes.
Yet somehow these things have all found their way into my head. I seem to have developed something of a talent for learning useless things.
Every time I go abroad, I tell myself I’ll learn a few useful phrases. “Hello.” “Thank you.” “A table for two, please.”
Somehow that always escalates into learning how to ask for directions, apologise for my terrible pronunciation, explain that I only speak a little of the language, and enquire whether the nearest hospital is within walking distance.
On paper, none of this seems like a sensible investment of my time.
Then again, neither do many of my hobbies.
The First Aid Incident
Back in 2001 I was living in Aberdeen, working as a software developer for an oil and gas engineering company.
To be clear, I never worked offshore. I never set foot on an oil platform. I spent my days writing software in a perfectly ordinary office.
Naturally, I decided I ought to learn some offshore survival.
I also became a fire warden.
And, because apparently office life is a dangerous business, I persuaded my employer to send me on a British Red Cross first aid course. You never know when someone might suffer a particularly aggressive paper cut.
At the end of the course I proudly received my certificate, a basic first aid kit, a copy of the British Red Cross First Aid Manual, and a rather nice canvas shoulder bag to carry it all in.
Our instructor smiled and said, “With any luck, you’ll never need to use any of this.”
Famous last words.
This next part genuinely happened.
I left the training centre, phoned my girlfriend to tell her I’d passed, crossed the road, and had barely walked a dozen feet when an elderly lady tripped over the kerb right in front of me.
She landed heavily on the pavement, banged her elbow, knocked the wind out of herself, and split her plastic shopping bag, sending tins and groceries rolling in every direction.
I don’t think the ink on my certificate had even finished drying.
Within seconds I was tearing the cellophane off my brand new first aid kit, treating her injuries, calling for an ambulance, and transferring her shopping into my equally brand new British Red Cross canvas bag.
About twenty minutes later, as the paramedics were helping her into the ambulance, my instructor walked out of the training centre.
He looked at the ambulance.
He looked at me.
Then, with a wonderfully puzzled expression, silently mouthed:
“What happened?”
I could only shrug.
Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure myself.
When Curiosity Pays Unexpected Dividends
I’d love to tell you that this was a one-off, a bizarre coincidence that could never possibly happen again.
Unfortunately, life seems to have other ideas.
Fast forward to this year.
My wife and I decided to visit Tromsø in northern Norway to see the Northern Lights.
As always, I decided to learn a little of the local language before we travelled.
Well, a little by my standards.
Most people learn “hello”, “thank you”, and perhaps “two coffees, please.”
I apparently prepare for every conceivable emergency.
By the time we arrived I could order food, ask for directions, apologise for my dreadful Norwegian, explain that I only spoke a little of the language, ask for help, and generally muddle my way through basic conversations about the weather and what tourist destinations they’d recommend.
Then my wife slipped on an icy pavement, broke her wrist (it later transpired), and suddenly I found myself spending the better part of a day in a Norwegian Accident & Emergency department acting as a very enthusiastic, if rather amateur, translator.
Did I know beforehand that I’d need to ask for medical assistance in Norwegian?
No.
Did I learn how anyway?
Yes.
Did it turn out to be useful?
Rather inconveniently… yes.
Curiosity Doesn’t Care Whether It’s Useful
The funny thing is, none of these things were learnt because I expected them to be useful. Unlike the Monty Python phrasebook, I very much doubt I’ll ever need to utter the immortal phrase, “My hovercraft is full of eels.” That said, do I know of a website that translates exactly that sentence into almost every language imaginable, including Pig Latin and Klingon?
That’s never really been the point.
I learnt these things because they interested me. Curiosity has never once asked whether something will improve my career, save me money, or even come in remotely useful. It simply points enthusiastically at something and says, “Ooh… what’s that?”
Rabbit Holes Worth Exploring
People still ask why I bother learning things I’ll probably never need, and the truth is that most of the time I never do. Most ADHD rabbit holes lead absolutely nowhere, and that’s perfectly fine. Every so often, however, life presents me with a bizarrely specific problem that can only be solved by knowing a bizarrely specific thing. An elderly lady falls over less than a minute after I complete a first aid course. My wife slips on the ice in northern Norway just weeks after I’ve been enthusiastically cramming conversational Norwegian. Suddenly, yesterday’s apparently pointless hobby becomes today’s unexpectedly useful skill.
I’ve stopped asking whether something will be useful before I learn it. Experience has taught me that life has an odd sense of humour, and an even odder habit of rewarding curiosity in the most unexpected ways.
So I’ll keep disappearing down rabbit holes, keep learning apparently useless facts, and if my wife and I ever decide to explore the Amazon rainforest, I’ll almost certainly spend a month learning enough bushcraft and jungle survival to give Bear Grylls or Ray Mears a run for their money.
Just in case.