Spontaneity and sprouts

I’ve never been a fan of spontaneity. Friends who turned up at my house unannounced would be greeted with barely concealed hostility, last minute changes to plans were capital offences and as for spur of the moment suggestions…You get the picture. As far as I was concerned, spontaneity was greatly overrated and liable to leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Like Brussels sprouts.

For years I could never see why any right-thinking person stomached them—nasty, flatulence-inducing abominations—but all that changed the day I discovered the indescribable delights of roasted sprouts with shallots (thank you, Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall). As I popped the last perfectly charred orb of loveliness into my mouth, it dawned on me: I’d only been able to recognise the true worth of Brussels sprouts by experiencing them differently.

And that’s what happened with spontaneity and impro. In this new context, spontaneity became a gift (thank you, Clare Kerrison, Hugh FW of the impro scene). Anyone might turn up in a impro scene without warning. That’s its great joy. There are no plans to change—you can go anywhere, do anything—and everything is spur of the moment. How liberating is that? 

So now, spontaneity—like sprouts—makes sense. Most of the time.

There are still occasions when I slip back and my control gene, or whatever it is, stamps its tiny foot (just as, every now and then, a serving of over-cooked sprouts will cause me to question their existence), but there's a new me evolving—more open, more willing to say 'yes'—and life is getting interesting.