...ruffles...

I'm not, and never have been, great at small talk. At first it was an age and experience thing; I couldn't understand why people were prepared to engage in such banalities for the sake of politeness. My brain works quite quickly, constructing complex topic trees with tenuous, awkward links that sometimes I can't even articulate.

I was being too literal; small talk is supposed to be boring and inoffensive. After all, if you have no history, no reference points with people, you have to talk about the weather, the roads, about 'what an interesting flower arrangement that is, so unusual, mmm'.

I can have rich and meaningful conversations with my friends; so I'm more comfortable with the idea that I will sometimes have to talk small with people. For this, I've adopted a simple strategy; questions, questions, questions. Keep asking questions, if you do stumble across a subject of common relevance, investigate a little and then move onto other questions.

"So where are you from?"
"Brighton"
"I love Brighton, it's one of the places I would like to live. Have you always lived there?"
"No. I used to live in Manchester"
"Manchester to Brighton is a long way, why the big change?"
"I changed jobs."
"Wow, changing jobs is a big deal, travelling from one end of the country to another to do it is something else. Were you brought up in Manchester?"

etc.

Yesterday, as part of a work thing I was sitting with a Brazilian/Italian woman (and a Kenyan/Pakisani and a German). She was very interesting and talked a lot about the differences between Brazil and Britain. She was very easy going and loved talking so the small-talk was a doddle.

However it was quite a long event, so we were able to race through and exhaust heaps of subjects. It was far from boring, in fact it bordered on enjoyable. We talked food, culture, travel, weather, politics, inevitably got onto the subject of football; which is good for me. Eventually I pretty much knew all there was to know about Brazil and the differences with Britain. We'd also talked about business, so that box had been ticked. I still needed something. I scoured my brain for things I know about Brazil and Brazilians.

Hmm, Brazilians? What do I know about Brazilians?

Luckily, the other thing age and experience has given me is a degree of control, I had this empty pot of Brazilian conversation topics in my head with just the subject of radical bikini line waxing techniques left. I mentally slammed the lid shut on the pot, but for the rest of the evening I could hear it jumping around like a conversational Gollum banging about and asking to be freed "ASK ABOUT VAGINAS, ASK ABOUT VAGINAS". Every time there was a lull in the conversation I could hear it. V-A-G-I-N-A.

I turned to the German and talked about organisation and efficiency. I could have talked about sausages, but sausages on my right and vaginas on my left would have taken me to dark synergistic places I should never investigate in polite company.

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Labels: Work

I don't think I've mentioned this before, but Millie has a heart condition. A small hole which means regular trips to the hospital for a check up. There's no particular reason why I haven't mentioned it; it's not a taboo subject, people have less problems, but people have more. It's not a minor issue; there are six levels of intensity with this sort of thing and Millie's is at least level four. However, it has no effect on our day to day life, so you just get on with it, don't you?

We've been quite lucky, Millie was born in the John Radcliffe in Oxford, it has a world class cardiology unit so when they heard the murmur, they referred her instantly. Quite often hospitals don't even check, a lot of babies have heart murmurs when they're young which simply go away, and most places don't have the resources to chase every case down. The referral lead to a scan, the scan lead to regular appointments with a paediatric cardiologist.

The consultant we see is brilliant; in fact, a little Google reveals he's a pioneer in the field. He was the first heart surgeon in the world to fix a heart defect without the use of major surgery (it's all done with little pipes and tubes). Aside from his obvious cleverness, one of his talents is the ability to communicate clearly, warmly and professionally all at the same time. He's evidently compassionate, but he never steps out of his professional role. Quite simply he tells you what he's looking for, what he's going to do, what he's found and what he foresees in the future based on what he's found. He never promises things he can't deliver.

He also told us that if a Health Visitor came round to lock the doors, close the windows and 'crawl around the house like a leopard on the prowl'. The man is a genius.

Each appointment follows pretty much the same process. Being as good as he is, he always has a foreign student doctor with him. On Tuesday we had Dr Woo - so close to being a time traveller, yet so far, shame. Our doctor does his bit, allows the student to examine Millie then asks a couple of questions about what they've found. The student examines, agrees that they can hear the thrill. Then the doctor asks for a diagnosis.

At this point you see the student's mind racing; is it a trick question? Surely he wouldn't be asking if there was nothing wrong? Or would he? This conundrum is mixed with the underlying ambition of the doctor; I mean, they don't get into the job to examine people with nothing wrong with them. They're praying for something big. Like an eager private in a war zone; for all the peacekeeping rhetoric, they just want to blow the bloody commie to hell.

The good doctor finally pushes for an answer; "so what would you diagnose doctor?" and the student goes for broke with a wildly inaccurate and totally over the top; something like... "immediate open heart surgery?".

No. He says blankly. And corrects them; stop looking for excuses to cut people open, look at the patient, she's growing, she's pink, she's healthy. Send her home and book another appointment for the next check-up. Which is all terribly disappointing for the student who's already sharpening her scalpel.

On Monday he told us that Millie didn't need to come back for a year. We are happy.

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Labels: Babies

I try to be good, I do. For the last couple of years I've been going to the gym to keep fit; it's worked, I'm over a stone lighter, look better, feel better. However, to do this, I've been getting up at 6.30am at least three times a week. I also want to be a good, attentive, fully involved father; I want to spend time with Millie and help get her ready in the morning. When she wakes up in the middle of the night I want to help settle her. I also want to be good at work; productive, hard working; I want people to think that I've put in a shift. I don't want them to think I'm one of those senior managers who make money for old rope.

I also want to make my contribution to saving the planet. When Millie was born our weekly rubbish doubled overnight. We're now voracious recyclers; all food goes in the compost, plastics, tins and papers go out fortnightly. Cardboard - which isn't picked up by the council - is put in a bag and taken to the recycling centre. I also want to have a nice house; clean, tidy and stylish. I want to buy fresh, organic food from local producers. I want to use public transport.

So, Millie wakes up in the night which makes me tired. Getting up at 6.30am for the gym becomes really hard. When I do manage it, I sacrifice the opportunity to get her ready in the morning. I could go at 7.30; which means going in a bit later, which is fine because it fits in with our flexible working policy. But people who come in late; particularly managers; are frowned upon, regardless of the policy. Even if I get in at 9.30 it means I have to work later, which again means missing Millie's bedtime. I would like to take the train to work, but it means getting in at 7.15 (ridiculously early and missing the gym) or 9.45am - which is frowned on and means having to leave late at night.

When I get home, we give Millie a bath, put her to bed, wash her bottles, and then eat. The temptation, especially at weekends, is to get a takeaway, most of the time we don't, we cook proper food, but we don't have time to go to a famers' market and we do have a broadband connection. This means much as I loath it; a Tesco online order is terribly convenient. Even when we cook, rather than scooping the waste into the bin we look to recycle. The recycling boxes are in the garden, on a cold dark night you don't really want to venture outside. So the tins and waste food are left ready to be put out when time and energy allows, which obviously makes the house a bit of a mess.

It's just not possible to be fitter, healthier, more productive all at the same time. All the same, I wouldn't go as far as saying I was a pig in a cage on antibiotics.

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Labels: General me

I've been suffering from stress this week; something I told our deputy chief exec whose response was that 'we're all busy'. I'm not bleating about it; I'm recognising it. It manifests itself as an aching across my back and shoulders and a strange tense feeling in my chest.

I figure the first thing to do is to recognise it for what it is, hence the reason I'm happy to tell anyone that I'm stressed. I also don't expect anyone to accommodate me; everyone is busy and suffering their own traumas, but I figure these things are better out than in. There's a strange lethargy which tempts me to retreat into myself and not talk to anyone. But that doesn't seem the right thing to do.

The next thing is to try and recognise why it's happening. I have one project at work that's going badly. I know I've done everything I'm supposed to do on it, but the results aren't coming through like they used to. Being a marketeer it's often the case that when anything goes badly the answer given by non-marketeers is that we need 'more marketing'. And I know this is the simple criticism that will be exacted upon me when this thing is finally laid to rest. They actually mean we need more promotion; as the marketing spectrum is broader than leaflets and a sharp line in puns. In this case, the product has probably run its course and so I'm presiding over its slow and painful death.

Secondly, I run a very effective department on a very small team. But the team can no longer move forward because the rest of the organisation cannot accommodate our requirements. New products are being delayed, leaving us to work with the aforementioned turkeys. I try not to do others' jobs but I have an expectation of what they need to deliver. As they're not delivering, I'm left is stasis, which is causing me stress.

So, I've recognised it and possibly identified why it's happening; the next thing is to do something about it. I've tried to relax and rest when I can, but it doesn't seem to do much good. Then, on Thursday, I was walking down the stairs and the next thing I knew I was slumped at the bottom. For the first time since I was a small child I'd fallen down the stairs. I'd cut my arm, had a big carpet burn up my back and appear to have broken a toe. The feelings of stress, however, have gone.

"Good job you weren't holding Millie" people say sympathetically.

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Labels: Work

Training is not exactly in the fabric of our company. We're small, not that it should be an excuse and every year there is a training budget - usually based on 1985 prices - but it's always removed when the going gets tough.

Sometimes, however, we're required to do something because it's all legal-like. This week we had to learn something about the Data Protection Act. Being a relatively new Act, for once we were treated to a relatively new training video, or, in fact, DVD.

Old fashioned training videos followed a similar format. Comedy legend, usually John Cleese, would introduce the subject in a slightly pompous headmaster style. This would put us at our ease, but inform us that it was a subject to be considered seriously, one of those 'if we all work hard we'll have a lot of fun' things bosses are keen on.

There would be vignettes of an over acting hapless fool demonstrating how not to do the thing the video is about. There's usually a rather plain secretary who roles her eyes at the idiocy, quietly getting on with her work and correcting his mistakes. This is because she is a woman and therefore sensible, obviously. Then once the vignette is finished a graphic of the blatantly obvious learning points are read out by said comedy legend.

It seems that training videos have moved on. Rather than hand holding through the key learning points, it's a half-hour wobbly camera production in the style of The Office. For this particular video it was a training film about the Data Protection Act of people on a training course about the Data Protection Act. There were no graphics with learning points; it was all supposed to have gone in by osmosis. The Office's genius is not in what is being said, but how it's being said. The dialogue is not necessarily funny, but it's transformed by the situation it's in - the pettiness, the childishness in a supposedly serious and adult situation. In a training film it loses some of its impact if you're encouraged to ignore the dialogue. In the end you learn nothing apart from the fact that Stewpot from Grange Hill is now acting in training films.

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Labels: Work

We live in a fractured society; we know this because David Cameron says so and he is Everyman. The recent spate of gangland shootings has lead to accusations that we've become a lawless society. This is nonsense, of course, violent gangs have been around since year dot. A vast majority of people in this country never see a gun let alone get killed by one. There are problems to be addressed, but we're not quite in the wild west despite what people tell you.

On Friday shortly after going to bed I heard a massive row going on outside. I got up and looked out the window. There was a group standing in the middle of the street having a massive shouting match - chavs, hoodies and, conveniently for the purposes of this story, one girl dressed predominantly in white (who we'll call 'White') and one in black (or 'Black').

Black was lead screamer; though everyone seemed to be involved. White was on the phone, which antagonised Black who side stepped the group and headed for White with the war cry - "So watcha gonna do nah? Call the facking cops you slag" - really, she did.

Black got to White, who seemed generally unaware of her oncoming assailant. Black swung a massive roundhouse forearm smash to White's head knocking her off balance. As White fell to the ground Black instinctively swung a knee and caught White in the head on the way down.

I closed the curtain just as Black and all the others ran off leaving White sitting in the road. It was like watching Britain's Worst ASBOs on widescreen high definition TV. Part of me felt we should go out and help, or phone the police, or more sensibily; go back to bed and hope nobody saw me.

My reaction to the fight caused Emma to get up and head downstairs, presumably to get a decent view of what was going on. I scratched around to know what to do next - then I heard more talking; perhaps the gang were back - perhaps they'd seen me and decided that they had to remove a witness. They couldn't be coming for me, could they?

I looked out the window (OK, I peeped out from behind the curtain). There was another group of chavs and hoodies; White was still in the road. With her was chav A, chav B, hoodie A, chav C, hoodie B, women in pyjamas, chav D and hoodie C.

Emma, barefooted and in her pyjamas, decided to go out to help. It turned out she had no idea how the girl had managed to end in the middle of the road was worried about her being hit by a car. Eventually she came in, thankfully having not been shot by a vicious gun toting gang. I asked her what would have happened if it had got out of hand. Simple, apparently, she would have come back inside. Not that this would have, possibly, indicated where she lived. Apparently that was alright, because I was inside should anything have happened. Oh yeah, me big brave man.

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Labels: General me

It all started simply enough; I took my phone out of my laptop rucksack – as I do every day. The screen was three-quarters blank. I looked closely and could see a tiny crack on the inside of the screen. The outside of the phone itself was completely untouched. Nothing else in the rucksack; iPod, another phone, laptop, was damaged. The laptop had been on the table all night and not moved.

I knew straight away it would be awkward – I didn’t have the receipt and I bought it online from the Orange website. Luckily, mobile phone companies are meticulous in registering your products with them. I knew, therefore, with a bit of attentive service and a quick search of the database that they would be able to establish that it was my phone and that I hadn’t broken it. I’ve had similar things with Apple and Mazda in the last few months and although it’s all a bit awkward, they do get you on the sausage machine and get it sorted out.

I phoned the help line on the website and was scooted to a call centre somewhere around the world. They told me that there wasn’t a lot they could do about it because they couldn’t see the damage. They told me to go to an Orange shop. This didn’t seem unreasonable.

I went to the Orange shop in Wycombe, explained my situation and was told that they couldn’t/wouldn’t do anything about it because I didn’t have a receipt. It was like trying to penetrate the outer rim of a giant planet – or the peel on an orange, perhaps. They were totally disinterested in the problem. I pointed out that I had every other piece of information about the purchase – my debit card, the original box with endless barcodes, purchase date, delivery address etc.

To get me onside, pretty much the first thing I was told was that ‘for all we know you could have bought it from the market’. Brilliant. I was told to go to the call centre/website, because the shop had nothing to do with the website. The website told me to come to you, I told them, you’re all Orange, I told them, I don’t care how you’re organised, you’re all part of the same operation as far as I’m concerned. We’re not, she said, you are, I said, your t-shirts have the same logo as the one on my phone, where does it say that you’re different companies? We have different stock, she said, I don’t care, I said.

Eventually they called the help desk, and after several attempts they finally established it was my phone. Craig in the Wycombe branch of Orange, came out from the back of the shop, looked at my phone and said that it wasn’t customer damage. He even said he’d seen similar problems before and thought it might be something to do with a voltage surges. We were getting somewhere.

It didn’t help that the girl who served me insisted on serving other people whilst serving me; she was generally inattentive and even dropped the phone at one point because she was filling out some other form for some other poor bugger, cutting off the call centre meaning we had to start again.

Eventually she came off the phone and said that they wouldn’t fix it because it was customer damaged because it had been in my laptop bag. This is a bit like saying the cause of death of someone dieing in their sleep was ‘going to bed’. They couldn’t explain how I’d managed to break into a sealed unit and break the internal workings of the phone.

So, the shop people told me to call the call-centre, after some exasperation I left (the girl at one point going back to the fact I didn’t have a receipt and something about buying something from Comet – at which Craig interrupted and said ‘we’re beyond that’). Craig also admitted that I was stuck in the middle of their corporate shitehouse (last bit added by me). I went back and called the call centre and 45 minutes later I was in the same position – the phone was broken by me so they wouldn’t fix it.

I finally asked who it was that regulated Orange – e.g. who do I need to complain to. “Orange” said the operator. I said – no, who is your regulates your industry (Trading Standards? OfCOM?). She didn’t know. Can I talk to someone who does? You can talk to my supervisor. Thank you, I said. Then she cut me off.

What we’ve established that a phone bought legitimately by me from Orange is broken. The only person in the Orange corporation who has actually seen the phone says it’s not been damaged by the customer and it’s under warranty. Oh, and according to Craig, the people who sold it to me have a ‘six month duty of care’, whatever that is. It’s a recipe for getting it fixed, is it not?

Computer says no. It’s not going to be fixed because the person in the call centre who is hundreds, possibly thousands of miles away has, through ESP or some equally mystical power, managed to see the handset, calculate (possibly by going back in time and visiting my house in a ghostly form) that my stationary rucksack has maliciously attacked my phone (and only my phone). Presumably, therefore, I’m responsible for my rucksack and its wild ways – perhaps I should buy it a muzzle, especially with Millie in the house. Oh, and I’m £130 in the hole without a functioning mobile phone. And now they’ve raised the drawbridge. I can go through Trading Standards; which I think I will anyway, but ultimately I’m the one left without a phone, and though it is not my most treasured possession, I really do need it.

Ever feel you’ve been cheated?

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Labels: Technology

Tim Lovejoy has an interesting theory about TV production nowadays - basically all the people who were breaking ground with things like The Word and The Tube are the people making TV programmes today. Hence the reason we've gone through decade of programmes about doing houses up, then having children, coping with toddlers, buying second properties, then coming to terms with expanding waistlines and waning sex lives - basically as these producers grow up, they make programmes that suit them and their situation in life.

The Brits felt a bit like that; it wasn't the worst winners' roster ever; at least Annie Lennox's grip on best female solo artist is apparently loosened forever. But it was all very cosy and comfortable.

The production had very 30-something edginess - live (ooh what might happen), Russell Brand (ooh former drug addict, bit weird), and with swear words (bleeped out - you never know if children are watching). A lot was made of the fact it was live for the first time since the Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox debacle, but that was 18 years ago, which probably says a lot about the target audience.

The performances were all very slick but uninspiring, which is something we've learnt from the Americans - put on a shitload of lights and video screens, then nobody will notice that the songs are a bit lame. Oasis were the exception, they were neither slick nor inspiring - it's a fine line with Liam, but he never used to shout like that, I'm sure.

And, isn't it terrifying what America has done to Joss Stone? Gone is the kooky Devonian with a voice like Aretha Franklin. She now seems to speak like she's reading from an auto cue, does that annoying 'born to sing' thing where she breaks out in song in the middle of sentences and puts a 'd' on the end of alright. It makes you shudder.

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Labels: Music

It's awards season, so it's about time to reveal the winner's in the third annual Ruffs - the top 10 albums of the year. Last year, that is.

1. Costello Music - Fratellis
2. Whatever People Say I am is What I'm Not - Arctic Monkeys
3. Live on Bondi Beach - Fatboy Slim
4. FabricLive 30 - Stanton Warriors
5. The Warning - Hot Chip
6. Sexor - Tiga
7. Itchy Scratch Radio - Basement Jaxx
8. Sam's Town - Killers
9. How to Get Everything You Ever Wanted in Ten Easy Steps - Ordinary Boys
10. Eraser - Thom Yorke

And, at risk of getting too much like the Grammy's, I'm introducing a second award this year, the tune of the year.

1. Creeping up the backstairs - Fratellis
2. Run 4 Cover - Basement Jaxx
3. Louder Than A Bomb - Tiga
4. Young Folks - Peter, Bjorn and John
5. Standing in the Way of Control - Gossip
6. Shake That Ass Bitch - Splack Pack
7. Touch It - Busta Rhymes
8. Empire - Kasabian
9. Monster - Automatic
10. Over and Over - Hot Chip

Well done the Fratellis.

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Labels: Music

Our house has something in common with the National Grid; they are both barometers for national activity. Those on the grid can assess what the country is up to by the surges in power they experience; our house is on such a busy road it only takes a quick glance out the window to know what the world is up to.

I can confirm that the schlep to work was a tentative one this morning. This helps, because on the rare occasions it does snow, we both endure quite a lot of hand wringing over whether we should head out to work or not.

Emma has a harder job than me, she is part of the team that decides whether the school stays open or not. She then has to contact the local radio - with a coded message to ward of cheeky tykes – to tell them the news.

The impact of the decision is enormous; all children and teachers are sent home, the parents of those children have to arrange alternative childcare, or take time off work, their work is affected and so on. You really don’t want to close the school only to find that the snow has melted before elevenses.

My decision is slightly easier; especially this morning because I’d already planned to work at home. Rather than crawling into the office, I spent the day sending out emails into the ether not knowing who was in the office and who was buried in a snowdrift. Occasionally a reply popped into my inbox. It was like we’d just emerged from a nuclear attack and I was making tentative contact with survivors through a fierce nuclear winter.

One email suggested that people were wimps for cancelling meetings. On the radio, the bloke from the CBI came out and said the snow would cost the UK economy £400 million. There’s probably an office deep in the CBI which dreams up such pointless and blatantly inaccurate statistics by throwing a dart at a specially made board. As they said on Radio 5 when they read it out – so what are we supposed to do about it?

It’s true we probably over react to adverse weather, but without decent religious fervour in this country, we don’t have enough bank holidays and saints days to take off work. With weather a national obsession, we should have ad hoc weather based bank holidays. My family occasionally announce ‘Oh bugger it’ times, which is basically when crisis has gone beyond the point of salvage. I think we should have national ‘Oh bugger it’ times.

Rather than toiling over the should I shouldn’t I decision as to whether to head out or not, why not simply have, er, Shilpa Shetty come onto the telly to announce a national oh bugger it. The nation would rejoice and head for their duvets. We can but dream.

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Labels: General me

A Welsh contractor I work with wished me well in the Six Nations and commented that it was good to see Johnny Wilkinson back. When he said 'me' he meant 'us' and by 'us' he meant England.

Although i was born in England, and speak with an English accent, I'm half Scottish. I feel Scottish. Perhaps its some kind of underdog spirit, maybe its my tough working class Broxburn ancestry feeling more 'real' than my comfortable south-east middle class upbringing, maybe it's simply that Scotland had a better football team in my formative years. Whatever it is, I am more spiritually aligned to the Scots.

I don't feel English, I don't subscribe to the English way. I don't want to be known a jumped up little twerp who expects to have a seat at the global top table. In essence this is what it means to be English; whether its the overpaid, arrogant, under performing football team or their increasingly hysterical cricketers. I've never wanted the rugby team to do well; which has a lot to do with Will Carling who is the classic English nob end, and I constantly find myself hoping that the cricketers can find new depths of awfulness on the current Ashes tour. I dream of seeing them all out for 6 runs or something. None of which is particularly patriotic.

On the football pitch I follow the fortunes of both countries, but when they come together, I follow the Scots. This is not the most rewarding of strategies, it must be said. In fact, this half and half split does leave me somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I would never be accepted by the Tartan Army but I cannot assimilate myself to the Barmy Army. I'm like an ignored minority, I feel isolated and persecuted, I could roll my eyes and frown with some vigour such is the institutionalised racism I face every day of my life.

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Labels: General me

Strategic away days are called for two reasons; either the leadership has lost its way, or a new broom is in place needing a bit of head space. Thankfully the purpose of ours was the latter rather than the former.

Having been through a few of these things, it’s obvious that most fail. If your only purpose is to look at the stars without considering what you’re standing in, chances are that you’ll be up to your ankles in shit. Shit before and shit after. In fact, if you stare at the stars long enough, you’ll find the shit gets deeper and really starts to smell.

When mentioned to the facilitator of the day he assured me that because he was in charge, it wouldn’t fail. I said that the person to say that to me was the facilitator of the last strategic away day I’d been on. Facilitators and consultants are programmed to assume that the reason things fail is because everyone else is more stupid than they are and not because these things are, in there very nature, more likely to fail than succeed.

Confusion began at the start; on arrival; sartorially speaking, nobody really knew what the approach should be. Some arrived in suits, presuming it to be a working day, others appeared in IT consultant chic of beige Dockers, boots and a pressed shirt – IT software house logo optional. Those, like me, saw it as a Sunday and turn up in jeans – albeit poshed up slightly with boots and a shirt - not trainers and a hoodie. One turned up in what can only be described as the semi-professional darts player look; shiny polo shirt coloured piping and a logo on the breast pocket – no nickname on the back because he’s semi-pro. The sleeves end halfway up the biceps. Matching black slacks that are too a bit too tight, slip on shoes and a big gold watch.

Thankfully the management centre wasn’t that far from home so I didn’t have to stay over; those who did had been drinking all night like it was a boys’ weekend away. The predominantly male group had set themselves a particularly macho 13-hour agenda, You can imagine the group planning the day; upping the ante an hour at a time poker style waiting for someone to break.

In truth, despite the bravado, by lunch practically everyone was flagging and the whole purpose of the day was beginning to lose its way. Everyone’s brains had been appropriately stormed and the outputs were so wide and varied they couldn’t be shoehorned into the remaining agenda, especially not with the musk of the night before hanging around in the air. Even the most clear headed were struggling. It’s always the same, the assumption being that people are afforded the luxury to dream broad conceptual thoughts in the morning, then compartmentalise them into a series of actions after lunch. It’s like having a orgy with a hoard of dwarves in a vat of jelly in your living room then being told that you have an hour to clean up because the Queen is coming for tea.

Eventually the facilitator gave up the agenda and threw it open to the floor ‘How shall we tackle this?’ he said – which is the facilitatory way of saying 'Sorry I haven’t a clue'. At this point it was obvious we were approaching the end game. People started checking their phones which were all turned on despite being asked not to, laptops were opened and fiddled with (blogging, probably) others disappeared off to the toilet and were found like a hypnotized toddler checking the football on the lounge TV downstairs. Someone was found flipping through one of the complementary papers uttering something about needing some time to think, or waiting for an important call.

This is where everyone starts stating the bloody obvious. It’s important that this is stated with vigour to ensure that it retains a level of gravitas – ‘What we need is a plan, a budget and appropriate resourcing’, ‘We need the appropriate people with the appropriate skills in the appropriate positions’. It’s appropriate to nod sagely at these ground breaking insight.

At the end everyone congratulated themselves on a job well done. The post-it notes and flip charts were folded up and taken back to be written up and everyone leaves with a renewed sense of vigour. In the wash-up in the bar the real world begins to leak back in; the wine flows and discussions which start celebratory, in a ‘we’ve cracked it’ style, gets louder and more lairy. Eventually war breaks out ‘The thing is he’s a cocking nob-jockey’. After a series of painful circular discussions, people seep away home or to their room, looking at their feet and realising they have still have shit on their shoes.

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Labels: Work

The snow this morning, and hopefully this doesn't sound too incriminating, aroused the schoolboy within me. My instant reaction was; 'day off!'. Sadly, my school wasn't one of those that was closed due to frozen pipes - because I don't go to school anymore - and apart from Millie looking out and giving me a look which said; 'Wow, snow, now I know I've seen everything', the day continued as planned. Boo.

About 17 years ago the snow came, and if I remember it rightly there were snow drifts which were 200 feet high. OK, so maybe I haven't remembered it rightly, but I know that a handful of us scrambled through the chaos into school only to find that it had been closed. The valiant few decided to head for Brill in a 2CV and an old style VW Beetle.

Brill is quite famous around these parts for having a converging gene pool, and if you look at the locals in the eye - one eye, in the middle of the forehead - you can see why. Because of the high risk that you are likely to end up marrying your own cousin if you stay, some of its inhabitants are smuggled out under the cover of darkness and deposited in safe houses around the country. This is all a front, however, because Brill is the gateway to nirvana; a convergence of all that is marvellous and great.

It's called Brill, which is like brilliant. It's on a hill, which rhymes. In the middle of the village is a common; which has abandoned clay diggings. These are formed into perfect sledging runs; from beginner to black runs for the more kamikaze. It offers perfect panoramic undisturbed views of the Cotswolds, which also means the the wind whistles around the common; perfect for flying kites. You cannot not have fun in Brill.

In the middle of the common is a windmill; Brill on the hill has a windmill. Come doomsday, Brill, as the home of all things fun and good, will host the exodus to nirvana. We'll all climb aboard the 'windmill' and once safely inside, we will take off to a far off planet to fly kites and sledge until the end of never.

Then I decided that the idea of a portal from which we can escape The End was fanciful nonsense... but then having written this, I looked for some decent Brill on the Hill Windmill references; and came across this one, which rather spookily, and totally independently from my own thought processes, alludes to the same perfect tobogganing/kiting opportunities offered at Brill on the hill. Maybe, just maybe, my suspicions are correct.

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Labels: General me

Emma and I get things done in different ways. Emma has a list written on a small bit of paper which is usually a stream of consciousness; everything she can think that needs to be done for the rest of time. There's also a second list that isn't written down, a series of observations; 'the bird bath will need moving in March', 'that crack needs some pollyfilla', 'the cat could do with a harness for when it jumps on the table'. These jobs are either started in favour of the written down lists or not started at all and serve only to clutter and lengthen the to do list which increases stress levels.

On Saturday night, whilst I dropped my mum and dad off at the airport, Millie was in bed and she had a couple of hours of spare time to kill, so she built a bedroom wardrobe in the living room. She seemed surprised, on a Saturday night which is usually reserved for seeing friends, watching films or eating takeaway, that I wasn't awash with enthusiasm to find a six foot wooden cabinet sitting in the middle of the living room floor.

This list-focussed thing comes from her mum who obsesses with two things; 'jobs' and 'sorting'. She also has lists; they all start with "bed, breakfast, bath..." as if she'll forget. If your life is a list, there's not much time left to do anything else. I'm sure this is some sort of self-validating process; if you have things to do then you are useful and valuable; therefore you are good.

I am more goal oriented; I prefer to set a small number of objectives which we both know about and can be arranged around the real purpose of the weekend; socialising and rest. Emma will rest once the list is complete. But because there's always more things to add, the list is never complete.

Quite often Emma will ask me to do something from the list; or the second list, or the magic third list (this is a list of quickly dreamt up activities that are assigned when she has something to do and I have nothing). 'You've got nothing to do? Can you, um, start a giraffe sanctuary in the garden?'.

Because of Emma's constantly replenishing lists she is not good at resting. She feels guilty about doing nothing. We are taught that doing nothing is bad and wrong, so it's very easy to spend all your time flitting from one chore to another. Today I've booked off a day to do nothing. Although there is temptation to plan something, I've been resistant; I will wait until something takes my fancy and do it. If I sit in bed all day, so be it.

I don't think I've ever taken a day that has been so precisely set aside to do nothing. 'Don't you feel guilty doing nothing' said my club promoting, hill walking, eco-warrior colleague. I explained that typically our day starts between 4am and 6am when Millie wakes up for a feed, I go to the gym at 6.30am or dress Millie, go to work at 7.45am get back at 6.15pm, put Millie to bed at 7pm, eat, tidy, wash bottles, prepare for the next day, settle down about 8.30pm go to bed about 11pm all in preparation for 4am the next morning. It's just one day, and I'll be back on the clock when Emma and Millie get back tonight, so nope, I'm not feeling guilty doing nothing.

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Labels: General me

I know, it's not healthy, but just one more thing on this racism debate. On Newsnight last night Paul Morley made a point that the whole thing had triggered a plea from the nation to define what is and isn't racism.

There isn't a single definition and interpretation; it is different calling someone a 'ginger' to calling someone a 'paki' even if both are discriminatory in some way.

One thing is for sure, however, much easier to avoid walking into a racism storm than not. Nobody, least of all Channel 4 who are £3 million poorer for it, saw Jade and thought 'we need someone to get hammered over racist remarks, she'll do.' Nobody was lying in wait, her tirade couldn't have been engineered.

In other words, whether she's racist or not, there was no compulsion for her to go anywhere near the issue. After all, the best way of avoiding being hit by a car on the motorway, is to avoid standing on motorways.

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Labels: TV and radio

More refined thinking on the Jade/Shilpa debate seems to conclude that Jade hasn't (yet) been conclusively racist. Racism is a rather inflammatory way of describing something that is more likely simple ignorance and stupidity. It's likely that Jade is incapable of anything as sophisticated as racism; which involves the development of a pretty thorough, if warped, ideology. It is not easy to hate an entire race. More likely; Jade is a simpleton and a nasty piece of work who is ferociously cruel when crossed. This is no lesser charge.

We could create a meritocratic society based of age or height, which would be OK for me. But we live in a society based on transactions; when you do something good; you get rewarded for it. The more talented and good you are, the more you are likely to benefit.

Millionaire Jade seems rather overcompensated for whatever talent she is selling. She is not very bright, funny or attractive. She has no capacity for strategy or politics. But she is neither thick, dull or ugly. She's a successful, strong independent woman and a caring mother. Her talent seems to be that although she's like no other woman at the same time she's like every woman. She is rewarded handsomely for her, em, normalcy.

But she can't represent the average woman in the street now she's been exposed as a viscous bully with an ugly ruthlessness. She is stripped of the only talent she has, and so her marketability has plummeted, which is presumably why sponsors are turning away in their droves. It always seemed unlikely that Jade could sustain such a profile and riches in return for such flimsy talents. It seems that the celebrity market is on the verge of an adjustment.

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Labels: TV and radio

Oh Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo. What did you do?

When Leo Sayer walked in to Celebrity Big Brother, it was his to win. H from Steps, Jo from S'Club, Danielle Lloyd were fame seeking desperadoes, Dirk and Jermaine the Hollywood weirdoes, Shilpa was the wrong class, sex, nationality and, let's face it, race to really garner a groundswell of support. Cleo had a chance, but it was Leo's to lose.

He fitted the bill perfectly; just enough profile for people to know who he was, but he'd been out of the limelight long enough to avoid accusations of fame seeking. He'd been successful, had his time, left his legacy and was now able to drift around the outer rim of the celebrity world like a kindly uncle. He knew everyone; Donny Tourette had been to his house, he greeted Jermaine with 'Hi Jermaine, how's Michael', even Kuddly Ken Russell knew him. All he had to do was hang out in the house for three weeks being small and curly wearing that bemused look on his face. Then he could come out (and not in an H way - H from Steps, gay, who knew?), release a Greatest Hits compo and enjoy a little Indian summer.

Then he revealed the monster. It's not just his slow mental breakdown, that could happen to anyone; it's the inner feelings he revealed. He is Leo; no surname required and he is Legend. He hated celebrity, then dismissed Jo from S'Club as a non-celebrity because she didn't wear expensive clothes and didn't have a car. S'Club are has-beens, according to Leo. Now, the concept of a has-been is entirely subjective, but it's been 23 years since Leo had an original hit whereas at least Jo saw chart action in this millennium. Then he flounced out due to a percieved lack of respect; when the key to winning Celebrity Big Brother is to demonstrate that you don't need anyone to validate your celebrity through fawning respect.

One thing for certain about this year's Celebrity Big Brother is that it's crushingly dull, the other is that Leo Sayer leaves the show a damaged man.

Whilst I'm at it; when Jack (Jade's boyfriend) entered the house he introduced himself as a football agent. Fair enough, at least he didn't want to be his legacy to simply be Jade's Boyfriend. I would wager that he's not a very good football agent given that he's entered a house cut off from the outside world just as the January transfer window opens.

Look, I've never pretended to be vying for a job with The Telegraph.

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Labels: TV and radio

For those of you who visit regularly, you'll notice that I'm looking a bit different. For those arriving via searches like; 'Nigella's red satin dressing gown', 'Kate Garraway eating a banana' (no, I can't find my link either) and 'Fern Britton's tights' you probably won't know that anything has changed, but honestly, we're not going to see you again, are we?

I started blogging four and a half years ago when you had to insert your html coding for bold, italics, hyperlinks and such like. Comments came from an external service, pictures were difficult to upload, lists of categories and RSS feeds didn't exist.

The old site was a Frankestien's monster, so now Blogger is all new and sparkly I thought I'd return to its womb. The old comments have gone but the address stays the same. Those of you smartypants enough to use such things, you'll want to update your RSS feeds.

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Labels: General me

Not much happens at a car dealership during the week. Well, not judging by my hour long wait at the Mazda garage this morning. My car needed a service, so I sat drinking weak complimentary coffee reading car magazines I didn't understand waiting to pay them £123 for the privilege of being told that everything was fine. I really wanted to browse through the copy of Heat but it was a bit too blokey a place in which to reveal my latent campness.

People wandered around at 9am arranging who was going to lunch and when. People would phone up to book in services for 'first thing next Tuesday, OK see you then, bye'. Saleman Number 1 stared out the window he must stare out of every day whilst Salesman Number 2 was on the phone reassuring his Grandma about something. Someone turned on a computer.

These people work together for five or six days a week, 7 hours a day and nothing much happens for most of that time. Occasionally they'll engage in well rehearsed skits; when the postman arrived complaining how wet it was, Salesman Number 1 replied with 'that might have something to do with the rain'. Nobody laughed.

After an lengthy silence; Salesman Number 1 walked up to Salesman Number 2 - 'that's an interesting sandwich you have their young James, what kind is it?' That'll be a tomato and cheese sandwich on crusty bread. 'Mmm I do like sandwiches with crusty bread'. They parted in silence, back to their own thoughts.

This may have been for my benefit as I was the only other person there, but I suspect it was just them putting on a mental screensaver, a little routine to prevent their brains from closing down completely.

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Labels: General me

TV gave up on Christmas. The big Christmas film has been gazumped by Sky Movies, and plugging in your brand new Nintendo Wii is always going to be preferable to watching Noel Up The Telecom Tower.

Focus has switched to New Year; schedules have been finessed to offer some comfort in the bleak mid-winter. This Life +10 aimed to take us back to the dog-days of Britpop. This Life was all terribly zeitgeist-y apparently; 5 lawyers who lived in London, did drugs, had sex and listened to Portishead. A reflection of my generation indeed, well I do have a Portishead album.

It did make me feel a bit sick that Egg was seen writing on his Mac Powerbook whilst listening to his iPod docked in a Bose speaker system. Turns out My Life is a bit of a thirty something cliche.

Celebrity Big Brother is the ultimate in carbohydrate TV offering comfort that's both unchallenging and soporific. How do they put together the Celebrity Big Brother contestants? Do they all sit down at a early production meeting and pick their ultimate wish-list...

"So, who do we want?"
"What about Nelson Mandela, Madonna, Khazakstani President Nursultan Nazarbayev and Pele?"
"Great, let's get to it."

Three weeks later...

"So, how did we get on with tracking down Pele?"
"Pretty good, it's taken a bit of researching, he first played in the World Cup in 1958 in Sweden. Well, in the Swedish squad that year was Sigge Parling."
"And he's friends with Pele?"
"No. Sigge Parling played for Djurgardens IF Fotball in Sweden; which is the same club that Jesper Blomqvist played for before he went to Manchester United as an understudy to Ryan Giggs."
"You've got Ryan Giggs?"
"No. But Ryan Giggs won the Champions League with another player of note from Djugardens; Teddy Sheringham, this is where I came up trumps."
"You got Teddy Sheringham!?"
"Not really."
"Who then?"
"His automaton girlfriend and disgraced Miss Great Britain; Danielle Lloyd."

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Labels: TV and radio