The Problem with Statistics...

I always thought that the Brits had a world-wide reputation for taking things on the manly chin.
I thought we were more likely criticised for our mannerly desire to queue, and quietly wait our turn whether it was to see Winston Churchill lying in state, or getting our turkey at 7.30am on Christmas Eve.
We historically, have swallowed hard when we have received bad-service and taken the path of least resistance.
But all that has changed, it would seem. We have majorly taken  up Moaning-as-a-National-Sport, according to research done by The Ombudsman Service which has calculated that for every adult in Britain there were 1.1 complaints made. That's 52 million across the country, if you want to know.

Don't you just love statistics?
If you know me at all by now, you will know that numbers are not my friend. But as a self declared innumerate, I am intrigued.
What I want to know is what actually constitutes .1 of a complaint? Is it a cough? A splutter? A hairy eyeball? (You know, when you furrow your brow and glower, I mean really glower. The potency of one of mine could freeze an off-spring either in mid-sentence at the table, or across a crowded room. Diminished efficacy when used on adult children, of course.)
I was going to complain about the late delivery of my newspaper, but I gave the frozen wee lad on his bike a Hairy eyeball instead? He'll not be doing that again.

The unsatisfactory statistic reminded me of the way in which I struggled with "Problems" in my year 6 Maths class, aged 10.
I faced a question about men digging a hole in the road. In those days it was all about men digging holes; now it would be all about men filling potholes. Or not.

I was given the appropriate data, and asked how many men it would take to dig the hole. My answer was: 3 1/2. men.
I knew it didn't make sense, but I put it down anyway.
Mr. O' Hare didn't mark it wrong either; however, he did ask, "Which half?"