Speaking of which: in a few moments the technicians will put tendrils of metal into my brain. This sounds enormously sinister, but of course it’s not. The filaments are barely more than a few atoms wide, stiffened by a magnetic field until they can slide and squiggle between cells and along blood vessels like little furry mice seeking their mother’s tit. They will snuggle against the different parts of me and listen. They will hear the signals in my head through chitosan minichips, the same ones that are used to repair trauma victims and connect pilots with their planes. They will learn the language of my neurons, although more properly it should be called a dialect, because it turns out that in general when you and I each see the colour blue, we do indeed see much the same thing, to the endless disappointment of philosophers. Would you believe, though, that men and women process depth perception differently? So that if a man reviews my experience, he will likely get nauseous. Good riddance, of course, but still: I find that intriguing.