Boredom is a gift.

Boredom, for me, is a gift. A signal. I welcome it. Because as soon as I feel it. As soon as I sense it. I stand. Pop my jacket on. And leave.

Yesterday, I drove to the countryside because a clever, charming, creative and conveniently alliterative chap had asked to see me. He was exploring my being at his side to drive his blibbing impressive business much faster, and much further.

But because of my low tolerance for boredom, I’m no good at nodding and prodding at buying signals. Instead, I want to spar. I want to fathom, there and then, what any relationship would feel like. I want to see whether eyes I am looking into widen and brighten. Or whether eyes flicker. Narrow. And dim.

I want to understand appetite for distinctiveness. I want to understand the valuable change we are determined to make – together.  I wanted to understand what tickles and raises a smile. If it’s profit and scaling – first – I’m out. But if it’s adventure, heart-quickening risk, and proud category leadership, I’m in. I want to understand tolerance for heartfelt, storyful approaches. So I don’t ask:

What market share do you want to get to by when?

I ask,

“So did you make the business? Or did the business make you?”

And,

“But are you weird enough to be interesting?”

If the potential client is still talking to me after that, we might just stand a chance.

Boredom, for me, is a gift. A signal. I welcome it. Because as soon as I feel it. As soon as I sense it. I stand. Pop my jacket on. And leave.