Category Archives: General Musings

Stories, recollections and ideas on a wide range of topics

Falling in love

I remember the first time I got off the plane at Entebbe. It was October, the start of the rainy season, and the heat of the sun was mingling with a recent rainfall.   The smell was intoxicating, like a half-cooked clay pot mixed with the rising scent of begonia, the murrim dust burnt orange underfoot. murrim soil Entebbe.jpg This blast of heat and smell and dust blew in front of me; the noise, aroma and sensation, an enticing beckoning into a love affair that has never left.

I have waited nearly 12 years to share this with my child.  Wanting him to be old enough, aware enough, to build his own relationship with this special place.  We chose South Africa, “Africa light” as I’m apt to describe it, for a slew of reasons, all of which were rational and pragmatic.  We decided to visit in Winter, better to see the wildlife on safari, less mosquito’s, less tourists.  We chose a mix of African bush and city to provide contrast and maintain interest, carefully selecting the places to stay.

And the first few days were magical – all I could have wished for.  I watched his eyes widen img_7427at the sight of elephants so close you could smell their breath, at lions lying feet away replete from a kill, at rhinos locking horns in violent play-fight, at hungry hyena and wild dog scrapping, at giraffes fixing him with their beautiful hooded eyes before sauntering away.img_7855  I saw him listen to every word of Stu the safari guide and George our spotter.  He playfully gave himself into the music and culture delighting the staff at Etali Lodge with his desire to learn their songs and participate in their sounds. He jumped in deep;  watching lizard, zebra, bush buck and warthog from the depths of our plunge-pool and singing loudly and with great abandon in the outdoor shower.  This is a happy child, falling in love with my Africa.

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And then we arrive in Cape Town and it changes.  The city itself is beyond recollection and I keenly feel what Elizabeth Marx terms “reverse culture shock“.  It is at once familiar yet strangely alien.  I search for Africa and see the successful commercialisation of an international city.  Small family owned restaurants are now large, bland, international affairs.my-citi-bus-waterfront-1  In revolt we purchase a MyCiti card and take to travelling in and around the city on local buses, desperate to retain a link to the culture that made this place so unique.  We encounter slivers of this, just enough to keep searching, but it is becoming more futile by the hour.  To make it worse, Roscoe keeps talking of Madikwe and us returning there and it is obvious that the Mother city has only attracted his consumerism and not his heart.

So we headed off to the Cape Winelands, basing ourselves in Franschhoek the Huguenot town renowned for its gastronomic delights, engulfed by a plethora of high-quality vineyards and nestled in the spectacular Franschhoek valley.  img_8425
This is the home of La Petite Ferme, the award-winning, family run vineyard where Craig and I used to stay in our young and carefree days.  Only this is currently closed, having been sold, and is now undergoing renovations, no doubt to make it bigger, better and more commercially lucrative than before.  Everywhere we go, we see the march of touristic progress from the penguins sidewalk at Simons Town to the rise of new hotels in the middle of Hermanus.  The charm and culture appears to be ebbing away and it bruises my soul.  Of course I have no right to wish stagnation on a country that so desperately needs the tourist dollar, no right to expect the culture to be wrapped in cotton wool and preserved for my child to experience.  I would not want this place, this continent. to do anything but rise and prosper and flourish. img_7194 But to see it through my child’s eyes – we could be anywhere in Europe, America, Canada, Australia – this is not Africa, this homogeneity choking a culture so colourful and vibrant.

And yet, we take a thread of hope and a promise of tomorrow, back with us.  For Franschhoek also hosts a number of small boutique art galleries.  And on day one of our visit we fall in love with a painting by a local artist called Katherine Wood.  It’s an exorbitant cost but it beckons us back each day to gaze at its sweeping skyline and discuss how it makes us feel, think, breathe.  We are in the in-between land of knowing but not knowing, reminded that life is fleeting and ephemeral.  This art, it calls to us and commonsense and pragmatism fade and disappear in its incessant need to be heard.

We buy hope and dreams, future not past. And the crate arrives three weeks later, massive in size, it alone making a statement that refuses to be ignored.

We will gaze at this painting, and its companion piece,  to the end of our days.  I too have succumbed to commercialism and magic.  Yes, Africa remains within me, a concept, a promise, a never-ending love affair.

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It’s okay to be scared

I’m writing this post from another hospital bed with another view of another car park,  having undergone yet another procedure for another suspected ailment.image

And as a healthy person, this is scary.

I am the person who survives on minimal sleep during challenging work periods.   I’m the woman who is ultra calm and able to make clear, quick decisions during crisis. imageI’m the Mother always up for the 100metre dash at school sports days, who swims and skis, dances and laughs.  I’m assertive. Goal orientated. Caring and supportive.  I am lots of things.   I am Not sick.

So this latest adventure is more challenging than the first.  Because I can’t unknow what I now know. I know what it feels like to wear compression socks and hospital gowns, to have the anaesthetist say “slight scratch and sting”  before the land of nod arrives. I know about the half-life-waking in the recovery room and the waves of pain in-between the trips of morphine.  The bloods, the pulse checks, the blood pressure checks. I know. I know. I know.
And yet,  I’m more knowing of the concept of unknown.  Having embarked on this 8 week journey of fog, uncertainty and ambiguity, the answers remain elusive, even after today.  Perhaps this is how it’s meant to be.  For now.

I am more curious and inquisitive of the procedure, the consultant, the potential diagnosis and outcomes. I explore the dance of the mind from the outside in, knowing my thoughts and fears are just thoughts and fears. I live the experience of managing the mind and body on a daily basis, trying to stay present and not look too far forward.  And there are days when this goes great and I achieve gold star status and days where I’m outright, downright scared.image

On scary days I have to force myself out of bed.  I set small tasks to manage myself.  Cleaning out cupboards, filing, tidying.  I like silence but scary days demand loud dancing or singing music of infinite variety.  I try to get out but sometimes the really bad scary days mean I hide inside,  all the while knowing this is not the answer.  I chant and tap and do star jumps and stretches.  And I say  over and over “I am healthy, this is just a moment-in-time, a dose of bad luck”.

I AM healthy.  This is a wake up call.  To look after my body.  To eat clean organic food. To get and stay fit. To dance more. Laugh more. Live more.  To get scared more.  Because in those really scary moments in those really scary days, I know I’m alive.  I’m upside down with my guts in my throat roller-coasting through life.  And yes, it’s uncomfortable and dark and stressy at times. And it’s not rainbows and stardust and big, glitzy, glam ‘shout it from the rooftop’ experiences.  It’s real-life on a micro scale.image

What am I learning?

1. Patience.  I admit this has never been a great attribute of mine but I’m learning to wait, To stop, To breathe, To let go.  Being patient is an ongoing work in progress.

2. To talk out my fears.  When I hear myself speak out my darkest, most ridiculous thoughts I often immediately realise how mad they are.  Or I discuss and defend these until I talk myself out of the loop and then they go and I laugh at my own craziness.

3. To be able to feel without feeling too much.  I’m reacquainted with my feelings and stating what these are, while knowing they will change.  I also know now, how to put a lid on this so I’m empathetic but don’t get so involved.

4. That living with an unknown is not as bad as I thought it was.  It just is. I play with breathing and mindfulness and micro-doing and I get through the myriad of days with a better degree of thankfulness, grace and joy.

5. To shout for help.  Or, sometimes,  to just shout.  I’ve stopped trying to cope in silence.  I’ve put my pride to one side.  I’ve reached out and said “can you….” and I’m blown away by the time and generosity of my incredibly special tribe of friends.  And by my lovely husband who sometimes finds it as cathartic as I do, to shout loudly to relieve stress.

My latest scar is my ambiguity tattoo.  The unknown is scary but predictability is worse!image

Certainty

The concept of certainty often taxes my grey matter.

Certainty challenges change.  When searching for certainty, I look for stability, assurance, guarantees.

Humans can’t help looking for consistency, for security.  It is as natural as breathing.

So when change happens we feel nervous, uncertain.  We search for patterns and behaviours that help us feel secure.  Sometimes we do this consciously, often it’s sub conscious or “other conscious”  – a new term I was introduced to last week.


In terms of change at work, we often don’t like it but in my experience, there are several options:

1. I don’t like this but I’m interested to see/hear what will happen next.

2. I don’t like this, I’m not going to stay.

3. I don’t like this but I have little option but to put up with it.

4. I don’t like this so I’m going to oppose it all the way and try to stop it from happening.

5. I don’t like this so I’m going to show them an alternative way.

Rarely have I experienced someone rushing towards me, arms outstretched in greeting, yelling, ” Hurrah,  we’re going to change”!!!

Working with change and uncertainty is challenging because it affects our basic need of knowing we can provide for our families.

I think about this in terms of the Mothers in Aleppo.  The nurturors of the innocents, the oppressed and the oppressors.

These Mothers face uncertainty and change beyond imagining.  This, the oldest city in the world and dominated by its great citadel, was once a thriving, bustling city of souks and khans and stuffed full of extraordinary archeological treasure and culture; now it lies in ruins in the dust. Where allowing your children to go and play, as children the world over all want to do, may mean you never see them again.   I listen to a radio report from Krishnan Guru-Murthy,  who witnesses the immediate aftermath of an airstrike into an already shelled building where three brothers are playing.  Two brothers suffering from shock, stand mute  while their Mother rushes in and picks up her third son, cradling his still warm life form close to her. She begins to rock and wail, crying “he is not going for burial today”.  “He is not going for burial today”.  The men on the scene try to encourage her to let him go.  Mohammed, who is forever seven, Mohammed who is forever loved, Mohammed who moments ago was playing with his brothers, lies dead in her arms.

imageThe siege of Aleppo means these Mothers don’t know from day to day, hours to hour, if their children will survive.  Will they die from a shell strike from somewhere and someone unknown, or from a sniper’s bullet from a fighter hiding out in this atrocity of a city? Perhaps they will go more slowly, in a hospital which has no drugs or supplies to stop their piercing pain, their blood from flowing, their screams of agony.  Or maybe death will come from malnutrition as no food has been allowed to get into the city for months and months.  These Mothers, like all Mothers the world over, fret about the basics. “Is my child safe and secure?”  “Does my child have food and water to survive?”  “Can I provide for my child?”  As any psychologist will tell you, without these basics, what we know, or think we know, counts for nothing.  We are reduced to our elemental selves.  Humanity and human are two different concepts when our backs are so far to the wall we are leaving our shadows imprinted in the brickwork.

A different radio report from Aleppo,  responding to the question of “what do you want to be when you are older?”, garners the response “I don’t plan; I don’t think I will survive”.  She is twelve.

So, in this context, I refuse to allow my body and mind to be bowed by any continued uncertainty over my health.  I now have support at work, and my tribe and husband continue to be amazing.  After meeting the consultant last week, and with a date for my next operation now set, we hit the internet and phone, frenetically  pack and board the plane.

Yes, I am living with a level of uncertainty.  But my basics and much, much more are being met and often exceeded.

So I suggest we all live life to the best of our ability. Let’s cherish the moments of calm and knowing. And consider those who have challenges greater than our own. 

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Tomorrow

It’s now less than 24 hours to go. I am being industrious, keeping busy, busy, busy.  The house is in uproar.

Cutlery trays are cleaned and repacked, the cutlery lying within is gleaming with polish, glinting even in the grey drizzle of the day.  The shoe store is cleaned out – the 12 pairs of Roscoe’s various sports and school shoes (he has grown  one and a half sizes this summer..ouch!)  are ready  to accompany the two black bin bags of his now too small clothes.  Craig’s clothes are tidily arranged into colour, shape and form, ready for him to muck up the new order within 48 hours. Soft linen drawers stuffed full of napkins and table cloths are sorted and rearranged, towels lie askew in the bathroom floor waiting to be folded and reorganised in the empty cupboards.

Grocery shopping has been done, menus planned for the week.  Shoes have been re-heeled, dry cleaning dropped off.  Roscoe is now with a friend, the constant requirement for him to pack and re-pack is not bothering him.  He is full of excitement that fresh from the fun he had with his buddy Ned in Ibiza,IMG_8751 a rapid turnaround to visit Cupar, Fife, so to be with his Aunties, he is now having fun with James, another wee mate from school.  He is worrying about South Africa and the mosquitoes, sharks and potentially scary locals who have little to lose in their daily chore of survival.  I am worrying about South Africa for different reasons but I don’t tell him this, only mentioning that his Dad and I wonder if we should wait until it’s warm again.  Truth is, this is all on hold. We have not organised Rand, accommodation, car hire, internal flights, packing.  I have not looked out our travel insurance, avoiding any jinx of fortunes.  We have booked no more, done nothing else. Not until we know tomorrow’s news.

These past three weeks have been tricky.  There have been moments of blissful forgetfulness in the joy of digging toes into warm sand as the sea pulls me forward, of talking future plans with Julia,IMG_8808 of sharing sunsets and gin,  of yelling at the moon
and doing yoga while watching Es Vedra.

There has been curiousity particularly in the tour of St Leonard’s in St Andrews by the delightful outgoing Head of History.  This curiousity is heightened when we stand in the (haunted) bed chamber of IMG_9473Mary Queen of Scots as the dog lies whimpering at our feet.  As the new Head of History, Auntie Jan’s classroom comes with its own balcony and turret and is complete with spectacular views over the sands of St Andrews.  I imagine Roscoe learning there, history wound in history as the chalk marks and scratches on the turret walls attest.  IMG_9509It’s not the place for a child of faint heart but a warrior child will progress beyond the stone grey walls and into the world to make their mark.  It’s a place of boy-men and female heroines.  A place which has all the potential to shape my child into the man he will become.  A place over 450 miles away…

Friday, I’m picked up by some lovely girlfriends and driven to a local spa where we spend the day sorting out the world and its woes, gossiping, having treatments and then hanging out at the bar.  I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow,  much, and only when asked.  I don’t ponder, its okay to make some remark or comment which allows the conversation to move onto more jocund topics.

Saturday arrives and with no child and no football pitch requiring a consenting adult to stand on the sidelines, biting tongue and shivering in the wind, we can make our plans unfettered.  We have a  true middle-aged moment and decide to have a National Trust day out at Kingston Lacy.  We forget about tomorrow as we stroll around the house, gazing at the vast collection of sculpture, fine art, architecture and paintings on display.  I stand transfixed at the most Marchesaexquisite Rubens of Marchesa Maria Serra Pallavincino.   I can almost touch the silk of her dress brought to life by the skill of his brush.  So much to see and hear, so much to take in and understand, by the time we reached the Egyptian room I am done in and need the respite of the garden IMG_9543to allow my mind to slowly absorb the visual feast of art.

The Bankes family, who previously owned Kingston Lacey, originated from Corfe Castle further into Dorset, so we head down and I play memory games of happier BG times as we used to be sent here to learn about the rocks and geology of the Jurassic coast.  Replete with fabulous seafood we gaze at the blush pink of the sun as it set over the castle ruins.  IMG_9562On Sunday we reunite with the boy and to celebrate drive from Southampton to Portsmouth to have lunch by the water and watch the boats.  But all this driving allows the mind to roam free and the stress bubbles underneath, catching us all by surprise as we yell about where to park.  We are thinking about tomorrow while trying to stay in the day.

Now it’s today.  And tomorrow is tomorrow.  The big day.  The day of answers to questions.  When uncertainty is removed and replaced by who knows what.  I wonder if I will long for the ignorance of this moment or will I sigh relief.

In the meantime I have a towel cupboard to sort, an outfit to plan and a gin to drink!

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Just listen

Blog. Listen. Crystal BallIt’s fair to say that we are facing a decade of unprecedented change. None of us have a crystal ball and goodness knows what may  or may not happen.

I’m seeing an explosion of advice on social media on topics such as;

resilience;

how to lead through Brexit;

how to manage though uncertainty;

how Brexit may affect organisational culture,

as companies and individuals seek to understand,  gain kudos and see financial opportunity during this period.  Blog. Listen. Tianmen Mountain ChinaI am neither shocked nor surprised at this proliferation of words.

Out of the chaos will come new order and in shaping new order there is a myriad of opportunities.

 

Personally I’m dealing with the result of the EU referendum vote by trying to understand the other side, by actively seeking out and listening to those who have a completely different point of view to my own.  I struggle to reconcile my perception of a United Kingdom with the harsh reality of what others’ think and feel.  However,  it’s obvious that others’ views and experiences of our country are very different to mine.  Each is valid in its own right.  So I’m stepping into a conversation where I put my own values and beliefs to one side and ‘whole body listen’ to an opposing view.  It’s hard sometimes, to not interject, influence or argue, yet ask probing questions.  Even harder to move the conversation forward when it’s obvious that to stay on that topic would potentially be detrimental to valued relationships.  I have learned a lot from listening; concerns over future employment, NATO, our ability to defend our country and its rights and rising immigration are all levers for people making their recent democratic mark.

Today, leaders are beginning to realise that listening, not transmitting, is a skill they need to demonstrate and deploy. No where is this need more evident than watching Tony Blair’s performance this week in light of the Chilcot enquiry.  There he is, stripped of the trappings of office, cocooned by self confidence and belief, veering between humility and belligerence as he responds to wave upon wave of questions while divulging more than he has done in the previous 13 years.  Yet despite being the most successful leader of the Labour party in the last 100 years, with 3 terms elected to Prime Minister’s office, based on the newspaper and media reports of this week,  his personal reputation, in the UK, lies in tatters.

Blog. Listen. Blair headlines from chilcot

Some were more  prescient about Blair’s weaknesses.  When the late Robin Cook, then Leader of the House of Commons, resigned  as a result of his opposition to the Iraq war, he was the first MP who was universally clapped  in the debating chamber by all parties at the end of his speech.  And the late Charles Kennedy, then leader of the Liberal Democrats, did more than most in his opposition of the war on Iraq, and was scathing in his damnation of Blair’s style of government, as the following extract from one of his many speeches testifies:

‘We are not the masters. The people are the masters. We are the people’s servants. Forget that and the people will soon show that what the electorate give, the electorate can take away.’ That’s what Tony Blair told his new MPs in his first speech to them after his first election victory. Good instincts. Great ideals. Today tarnished for good.

No more glad, confident morning for this shop-soiled Labour government. They seek to manage, not lead; to manipulate, not tell it as it is. I don’t actually subscribe to the view that all power corrupts. But absolute power – when secured on the back of massive parliamentary majorities, which don’t reflect the balance of political opinion in the country – can corrupt absolutely.

The soul goes out of politics. So the system itself simply has to change. I tell you this.  If the British House of Commons had known then what it knows now – about the events leading up to that fateful parliamentary debate and vote on committing our forces into war in Iraq – then the outcome could and should have been fundamentally different.

But, of course, parliament did not know these things. Because the government’s instinct is to shroud itself in secrecy. To act like the office of a president instead of as a collective cabinet government held to account by the elected House of Commons. This is supposed to be a parliamentary democracy. What we’ve seen is a small clique driving us into a war, disregarding widespread public doubts. That is not acceptable.

Charles Kennedy, Liberal Democrats party conference 2003

The Chilcot findings lay bare the consequences of selective listening.  Perhaps the decision to go to war, along with some other tenants of New Labour philosophy, planted the seeds of division and discontent,  feeding, watering and growing the reality of a Brexit exit.

Back in 97 The Labour government allowed nationals of new EU nations to come to the UK with little check or brake applied (unlike the rest of the then EU).  The effects of this policy are clear in the Institute of Public Policy Research.

 Many places in Britain previously almost untouched by immigration, such as rural counties and market towns, now host significant migrant communities. One of our contributors, Arten Llazari, an Albanian by birth, works in Wolverhampton, a city in which the long established communities from the Indian subcontinent  and the Caribbean have been joined by new communities of Iraqi and Somali refugees, as well as economic migrants from Poland and Romania.   London, and in a smaller way, Birmingham, Manchester, Cardiff and Glasgow, have become super-diverse global cities. Over the last six years of Labour rule, the UK’s Polish population alone increased by some half a million – a population equivalent to the size of Britain’s fifth-biggest city, Sheffield. In short, it is no exaggeration to say that immigration under New Labour has changed the face of the country.  

                                The Institute for Public Policy Research (ippr), Nov 2011

New Labour also adopted a more centrist approach to funding.  For example they continued to cap local expenditure, allowing local government to raise only 30% of its own funding, introducing more and more targets and reviews so local government became constrained and unable to respond appropriately to local concerns. Quangos, think tanks, Parliamentary and Ministerial ‘special’ advisers proliferated, choking and subverting the machinations and knowledge of the civil service, giving rise to underhand and contradictory media briefings, preventing a cohesive story to an increasingly disenchanted electorate.

In addition New Labour followed Antony Gidden’s “Third Way” philosophy, effectively creating the foundations of  more globalist thinking:

The Third Way sees the nation state as too big for small problems and too small for big ones – hence the enthusiasm for devolution in the UK and the passing of some functions to Europe. And recently with the war in the Balkans there has been the beginning of a debate about the end of the sanctity of the nation state and the emergence of a new moral order which does not accept the old notion that what one does within one’s own borders is one’s own business.

Niall Dixon, BBC Social Affairs editor, Sept 1999

Blog. Listen. Scottish and English flagsA central tenant of the Third Way and  New Labour’s manifesto in 97 was the promise of devolution in Scotland and Wales.  As a result  of their election, this promise was enacted, swiftly followed by the recognition of a similar body in Northern Ireland as part of the 1998 Good Friday agreement.  Thus began the fragmentation of identity and sense of belonging to the United Kingdom.

Even with limited powers these parliamentary bodies began to create greater divide from the Westminster elite. And while  Scottish, Northern Irish and Welsh Ministers could still vote in English matters, (the ‘West Lothian question’) this was not a reciprocal arrangement.  The argumentative Scots took full advantage. And as a Scot living in England while the Scottish referendum for independence raged, I narrowly avoided several bursts of vehemence and frustration directed at my compatriots north of the border.  The normally placid Southerners were outraged that the Scots wanted more cake even though their bellies were full from all of the cakes they had already eaten!! It was clear even then that we were becoming a divided nation, turning inward to squabble.

The thorny issue of the West Lothian question demonstrated the extent to which New Labour proved to be very good at parking or ignoring difficult policy issues in the mistaken belief that once the policy was reality, the big issues would sort themselves.  Another example is GP’s pay and the subsequent impact on the much beloved and beleaguered  National Health Service.  Back in 2004, the British Medical Association (BMA) were incredulous when the Government offered GPs the opportunity to not do evening and weekend work for a 6% pay cut. While Doctors lost out in basic pay they were able to top up their earnings by hitting targets under a performance-related bonus scheme.  So when the new NHS contract came into force,  nine out of 10 practices opted out of providing weekend and evening care.  While most NHS trusts put in alternative arrangements at significantly increased costs, hospital A&E departments continue to this day to report on an increase in patients and an overload on costs, efficiency and the system. Protecting our NHS system for future generations is  less to do with usage and money being diverted than with the additional costs it has had to bear since the new GP contract of 2004 (since the deal started in 2004, average GP pay has topped the £100,000 barrier.  This is not the case for other NHS professionals!)

And while funding the NHS will alway strike a chord with the electorate, the popularity of making grandiose promises in party manifestos has grown in favour since New Labour’s historic election win in 1997.  Now most political parties make such promises – as the Scottish Independence tenant as part of the  Scottish National  Party manifesto demonstrates. Equally Cameron must rue the day he made an EU referendum vote central to his election promise in 2015. Most voters don’t vote on manifesto promises. However, this may ultimately change if the Liberal Democrats maintain their proposed manifesto promise of returning Britain to the European Union.

As for the Iraq war; going to a war that vast swathes of the population did not want, told the man on the street his views did not matter.   As the electorate discontent grew, the fighting inside the Labour Party reached a crescendo that eventually saw it fall to a hung parliament of Conservative/Liberal Democrats.  blog.listen con lib dem allianceThus began an uneasy alliance which seemed to herald a new era of politics for the country, a potential way forward, requiring collaboration and co-creation.  But the seeds of ill ease within the Conservative Party  were growing, more liberal policy adoption angered the right of the Party, who began more and more to align themselves with the venom of UKIP.  David Cameron, in order to see off UKIP in the 2015 general election, offered a simple EU referendum as part of his election manifesto.  Once elected he had to come good on this promise.  But his timing of this EU referendum was awful, too early in the parliamentary term and too close to the impacts of years of austerity.

Cameron’s inability to listen to large swathes of the population who had lost faith in experts, who had no relationship with an economic argument, who reacted badly to threats and fear and who wanted to gain back some control, created huge division in our country.  Listening, questioning, probing is crucial when forming narratives and story lines, adapting these as you build your understanding is crucial to winning hearts and minds.  Lamentably this was missing from the Remain side.

Ironically the parallels between Blair and Cameron’s leadership are all too evident.  Both had clear ideals and vision.  Both were buoyed by charisma and youth.  Both, eventually, believed too much in themselves, in their own rhetoric, in communication transmission. And with UK politics becoming much more Presidential in action (with ultimate authority effectively resting with one individual) rather than what the system is meant to be in practice – a parliamentary democracy, with collective decision making and accountability,  through a cabinet to Parliament – the increasing danger of one individual not listening, but following their own course of action is all too evident in today’s outcomes.

Effective communication is all about listening, engaging, responding. It’s about dialogue and discussion. It’s about flexing and adapting.  In a 24/7 digital world, where we all have a voice and opinion, being able to listen sorts the leader from the manager.

Women tend to be naturally better at this type of listening than men.  Let’s see what the next few months hold for the country….

Blog. Listen, May and leadsome

 

 

 

 

 

 

The realities of choice

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When you hear something you don’t believe, what do you do?

When you see something that contradicts what you hear and believe, what do you do?

When decisions are made that you don’t agree with, what do you do?

The result of the EU referendum debate, leaves those on all sides with this question – what do we do?

imageWhat’s been done cannot be undone – much as though we may wish it to be so.  All of the reports and media articles of people saying I didn’t realise what it would mean, do not change the outcome. Change is upon us.  Our choice is,  now what do we do to make this work?

I am fortunate to love and live with a senior Foreign Office diplomat. Over the past 10 years  I have struggled  hugely with him remaining in the FCO.  With my commercial mindset I  find it difficult to reconcile why he does not go out into the world of business and use his extensive experience, skills and knowledge of policy and economics in some of the largest trading regions of the world, to benefit us financially as a family.  If skills, experience and  knowledge are currency, his are eminently marketable.

But despite supporting him through a year off to do a Masters degree in Corporate Social Responsibility and a further year to then support his ailing parents and look after our son, he chose to return. I was baffled and resentful – this surely was the opportunity to move into corporateland?  To make money commensurate with his knowledge and experience.  To expand his experiences.  Why would he want to return to an ailing Foreign office  with budgets cut to the bone, people resources cut to the bare minimum, pay cuts over the past 10 years (not picked up in the media as populist press would have you believe the life of privilege and Ferrero Rocher chocolates)?  The reality is while the cost of living increases year on year, he has seen no pay rises since his promotion 8 years ago (and his take home pay now actually lower than it was then, as more money is taken out through frequent increases to pension contributions) little development (hardly any money for this either), and an increase in responsibility and accountability as roles that were senior Ambassador /Director level 10 years ago are re-graded to save further money.  Why on earth, is he still so loyal?  Why on earth does he stay?

His response?  Because he loves his job and his country.  It’s a vocation and a belief all wrapped up into one.  imageI have never claimed to understand this.  I have been irritated beyond belief that this is how he is built.

But today I am so grateful he is there. Today when as a country we are in turmoil, in disarray and division, it’s the vocational footsoldiers, those with the knowledge, skills and experience of how we work as a country, how we can work as a country in an uncertain future, who will support the emerging politicians and new burgeoning establishment,  in the months and years ahead.

And over the course of the next few days, weeks and months when the political punters, social commentators, print, digital and visual news media, the politicians, local councillors, bosses, colleagues,  friends, family and neighbours all pontificate and have their say, people like Craig will be tirelessly and diligently working long hours, quietly stressing about what more they can do to make the consequences of 24 June work for the electorate.

They deserve our support.  And our recognition.

Democracy hurts.  Choice of either/or will always create division. Friendships, beliefs and values are challenged.  But our personal choices, in these times of change,  fundamentally lie in our levels of  humanity.

Do we choose to love more or hate more?

Do we choose to get involved or observe?

Do we choose hope or fear?

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The culture of our time.

This is a sombre week in the world of UK politics.  The murder of Jo Cox, a dynamic, vivacious woman of the world and Member of Parliament, has garnered a collective enquiry into the levels of belligerence and hateful speech that has characterised so much of the EU referendum debate. Did this contribute to her death?  No one knows.  But it gave pause to the rhetoric as people from all faiths, gender, colour, creed and political persuasion come together to celebrate her life and remind each other that the values of respect, tolerance and caring are essential to a thriving democracy.

It has me thinking about time and dealing with loss. Jo Cox leaves behind a husband and two young children.  A dear girlfriend who lost her husband to prostate cancer, leaving her with two twin boys under five, once shared that the pain never leaves with time.  It never gets any less.  All that happens is you learn to deal with it better.  Often time is not the healer that we hope for.  It just is.

Time. Rose Kennedy quote

In my  “Returning” post I shared some thoughts about cyclical time  versus linear time and our relationship to time.  Time and loss, and equally loss of time, are viewed from different perspectives dependent upon where you are born and raised. So much of our concepts of time are equally formed from habit and practice learned from our environment and relationships. Our attitude to time can also become a learned behaviour.

Many of my friends and colleagues know about “Laura time”, where I have placed relationships, activities and conversation ahead of punctuality.  So when I am with you, I am truly with you, in the moment with my full attention.  This is not helpful if you are the next person I plan to see.  If I can, I will tell you that I learned this habit in Africa; where waiting in State House to see President Museveni could take anything from 1-6 hours and required a decent book and lots of patience.  Craig laughs at me when I share this – as a senior diplomat, he’s never waited this long to see a Head of State.

Cultural differences towards time are often cited for breakdown in communications.  I recently had a conversation with a Head of HR in the Netherlands.  There were no pleasantries, no preamble, the conversation started straight at the specific point and went from there.   To the uninitiated this could have appeared rude, but I know that time is of importance in this culture and it’s not to be wasted on small talk.  Conversely when I worked in Egypt, the opposite was true and I learned to wait for my cue to talk about work.  Even for me, this seemed to take some considerable time.

I once went to Khartoum to train Shell Sudan staff in time management – a course loosely based on Stephen Coveys Seven Habits. Time. kaizad-irani-7-habits-of-highly-effective-people-smaller-version The course organiser had forgotten it was scheduled for the first days of Ramadan.  We were in +35 degree heat, attendees  had caffeine withdrawal symptoms, no one could sip water never mind eat, many asked for permission to lie on the floor and I was supposed to educate on a Western concept.  To better understand my attendee’s experiences and culture, beliefs and rituals, I decided to fast with them and its one of my everlasting memories, seeing the vibrant aliveness of these kind and generous people as we all celebrated and enjoyed Iftar together in the evening coolness. During those few days time took on a new meaning – it became the essence of substance, of endurance, of belief.  There was no clock involved, just the rising and setting of the sun. During this week, there were many life lessons; learning to adapt myself, my thinking and the course content while still achieving a good outcome.  And this was achieved by us working together,  tailoring and adapting time management concepts for the Sudanese.  The outcome became, practical and realistic rather than a great theory in a Western management handbook.

Students of culture use the terms monochronic and polychronic to describe differing cultural relationships to time. Richard Lewis is the academic who has studied this at length.  Business Insider did a great summary article on his findings.  To summarise further,  monochronic cultures consider time to be linear.  People are expected to do one thing at a time, and lateness or interruptions are not tolerated. Think about your interactions with Americans, Canadians or Northern Europeans – these nationalities tend to err towards being monochronic cultures. “Time is money”, days, hours and even minutes are scheduled and accounted for. Plans are detailed and costed. Time. Good graphicConversely,  polychronic or cyclical cultures  like to do multiple things at the same time.  They tend to view people and relationships as more important than tasks and time.  If you are from  this kind of culture, you will aim to build trust and  lifelong relationships. Being on time will depend on the  relationship, or status, rather than any stated task and objectives. My African friends and colleagues, Latin Americans, Southern Europeans all tend to be from polychronic cultures.

I have a lovely example of this.  I was on a judging  panel for the Ugandan employer of the year award.  This was a live televised event and in typical Ugandan style,  the presenters preamble was colourfully effusive and overly long. As the camera turned to us for the big announcement, one of my fellow judges heard his mobile phone ring.  To my amazement he did a half duck behind the table answered the call and carried on his conversation, which lasted most of the presentation! time. Hiding a call To be fair, he was senior in Celtel, one of the Ugandan mobile phone operators, so perhaps he was indirectly promoting the brand.  But it was a perfect example of a polychronic trait in action.

But it is possible to create a change in behaviour.  In change we often look at the systemic levers to see how this can best be done.  I once  facilitated  an ICL employee group in Harare, Zimbabwe.   I set up the first morning session by explaining that anyone who was late back to session had to entertain the group for the number of minutes they were late. After the first break, one male attendee found himself at the front of the room busting some moves to Dolly Partons D I V O R C E,  helpfully provided by the hotel tannoy system. We were all convulsed with hysterical laughter.  But no one was late for the rest of the week. Thus proving habits can be broken if the incentive is powerful enough!

So what can we learn from all of this?  Yes we are all different.  Our concepts of time are based as much on our cultural identity as our attitudes about what’s important  to us.  But just as we recognise these differences, we must also recognise our similarities.  We are all human beings, all trying to do our best to make our way, pay our bills, look after our loved ones, stay safe and healthy.

If only we would make the time to understand each other better before we act…

Time. Marie-Curie-Quote-Nothing-in-life-is-to-be-feared-it-is-only-to-be

Doing the Hokey Cokey


Hokey Cokey textIt’s Tuesday, the week is still young and already it’s emerging as one of these times where change seems to happen almost every minute.

Craig took off again today on yet another work jaunt.  This time he is off to Ukraine.kiev  For the first time, Roscoe pays attention to his destination and is full of questions – is it still at war?  Is it safe? What is he doing there?  Trying to have an informed discussion at breakfast is challenging, I’m not a ‘morning person’ and I don’t have satisfactory answers to any of his questions.  But I also notice I’m quietly trying to define the word ‘safe’.  What is safe?  To what extent is safety a good thing or does safety lead to complacency and indifference?

I look up the definition of “safe”  in the Oxford dictionary;

“Protected from or not exposed to danger or risk; not likely to be harmed or lost: Not likely to cause or lead to harm or injury; not involving danger or risk: Uninjured; with no harm done”.

This makes me think about work.  In the oil and gas industry staying vigilant, being safe, is a culture, a mantra, a creed and way of being that is drummed into you from day one.  It’s a strongly held belief that if you can engender a safety mindset, it will permeate into your social and home life and so acting safe becomes second nature no matter where you are or what you’re doing.

safety icons

It’s so true. Some personal examples include holding the handrail, rarely walking up and down escalators, looking for a lid for my hot coffee, never walking and looking at my phone and intervening when I feel safe to do so.  I’m more conscious when I’m doing naughty things, recognising the potential consequences and making my decisions based on risk and probability.

We know from recent attacks in Paris, Belgium and today, once more in Turkey,  that staying safe, being safe, is often not an option if you want to live life.  That by unfortunate quirk or circumstance, you may fall victim to events which cause life changing situations for you or your loved ones.  But staying small, indoors, hidden, fearful isn’t being safe, it’s allowing terrorists to infiltrate our thoughts and well being.

All of this uncertainty and insecurity affects confidence. Sterling is dropping in value. Investors are spooked. The markets are reacting to the pollsters predictions.  Yes, the EU referendum is dominating every news bulletin in the UK. Brexin and BrexitAt dinner with some girlfriends it’s a lively topic of discussion.  We agree that the politics of fear from both sides; dire economic consequences/too much immigration, don’t work for us.  I share my view that it is fundamentally a vote about belief and values.  The best way for me to decide is by being guided by my beliefs; on what I hold to be true formed by my history and experiences and my values and hopes for myself and future generations.  To make a decision based on any of the arguments being postulated in the news items, by people who have obvious personal motivations,  is potentially foolish, particularly when some of what is being said has so many holes we could evoke the curds of the Swiss! HE_swiss-cheese_s4x3_lead

Our discussion winds its way onto groups who are most likely to vote in, or out, and our conversation focuses on older voters, those who have lived though war and bloodshed, who have a strong sense of cultural identity,  are those more likely to vote out.  When safety wasn’t an option in this country, when bombs were going off, rationing was in (both in the 40’s and again in the 70’s under the Heath government) there was a strong sense of national identity, created though fear and loss and a greater sense of togetherness. Erosion of this identity, the desire for greater cultural homogeneity motivates the older voter.Britishness 1  Those of us who have never experienced, or only been lightly touched, by the impact of war,  or rationing, have less fear of losing our national identity . What does being British mean these days?  Are we not now the sum of our parts rather than the whole?  And true, when I asked around the table, “what nationality are you?” the answer is “I’m English”, or “I’m Irish” or in my case, “I’m Scots”.  To the question “where do you belong?” there was a more interesting response “Europe, but not continental Europe”.   Are we proud to be British anymore?  Or are we so impassioned by our smaller parts of the United Kingdom?  Perhaps we would rather associate ourselves with the much larger EU?  Maybe Gordon Brown was onto something when he spoke in 2007 about our national identity.   The full text of this speech is worth a read given our current political context.

Perhaps if we view the in/out debate through the prism of history, of safety, of identity and beliefs, it generates a more systemic perspective. Perhaps if we adapt to greater uncertainty, we will let go of the politics of fear and division.

One thing for sure, we are lucky that this is what we are focused on. It’s a big decision for us and for future generations.  But if I was Ukrainian, peeking into UK right now,  I’d be thinking “These people are so fortunate, they have nothing to complain about”.

Let’s not be complacent. Let’s not get confused by the rhetoric, scallywagging and scaremongering. Whatever we believe, we know our mark counts, British democracy works and, no matter what the outcome, we will still sleep safely in our beds.

vote_1563949b

Swim

Swim. Scoland wimmming pool

I sail through the air like a bird before landing with an almighty ‘splosh’, into cold, dark and wet.

“SWIM”, I hear and I clamber to get to the top, my arms trying desperately to claw the surface.  My mouth opens but makes no sound; water is everywhere. I open my eyes and see his big, hairy legs, standing on the side.  I rise again and hear the angry voice, “SWIM”.  I want to do as he says, I want to please, but nothing is working.  I thrash around but it’s not happening.  I try and try to stay on top of the water but it’s everywhere and I cannot get to the side.  I can see it.  I can see the legs but they seem so far away.  Everything is heavy.  The water will not go away.  My body hurts, my arms are tired, my legs won’t work any more.

I try to scream but the water fills my nose, my ears, my head.  I cannot breathe.  As I go under again I think I hear him yell  “S W I M” but I can’t be sure.  I can see the legs standing there.  They do not move.  My eyes close.  No more yelling.

I am coughing and retching.  I feel embarrassed; I have been a bit sick.  I cannot stop shaking.  There is lots of shouting and yelling.  A man is crouching beside me, his big hand is on me and he is really cross with him.  He is saying things that make me more frightened, I can hear his really angry voice in response.   I know this is not good.  I know I will be punished for not doing as I’ve been told.  I want to move but want to stay still, stay there, stay safe.  I know what’s waiting for me when I go through the changing room door…

I am four. Swim. Four

It’s many years later, yet I am still shocked by my reaction as I write this. The recollection is so vivid, the colours, the smells, the emotions, the sounds.  At four years old, from that moment – the moment of welcoming nothingness – I learnt silent screaming, outright terror, fallibility, self-reliance and ultimately to stay safe.
I shower so water never touches my face, I avoid swimming pools unless I can stand up in them, I paddle in sea water no more than 3 inches deep.  I watch from a large boat, deck chair or shore as friends dive head first into blue-green water.  My fear condemns me to the position of watcher and waiter.  Swim sea paddlingPretending that I am fine to stay dry but, inside, dealing with the mix of jealousy, self-loathing and anger.

And then I meet Craig and one of the first memories we share is of a public information advertisement that the Government of the time was prone to inflict on the population.  Craig remembers it word for word and copies the accents with precisional accuracy.  I am in tears of laughter and it is a real bonding moment.  The advert is “learn to Swim”.  And of course it would be the perfect time to explain that I haven’t learned to swim but I am embarrassed and still wanting to impress, so I say nothing.  A few weeks later, and as friends, we take a trip  to the West of Uganda, as Craig has some diplomatic reason to visit a prison near Fort Portal.  We are staying in the beautiful Ndali lodge,  in Kibale Forest. Swim ndali_lodge_23 Perched on the side of an old volcanic crater ridge, Ndali also has a private lake at the base of the crater.  So when Craig suggests that we hire the (only) rowing boat, I agree.  Perhaps this is the point, when it’s just we two in the middle of a crater lake, that friendship may turn to romance?  Reality dawns when we are standing by the side of the murky water, the Colobus monkeys shaking the trees with laughter.  We are going out on a sliver of a canoe, small enough for only two people and rackety enough to have been there since God was a boy.  But I am in full show-off bravado mode and clutch my overly large camera bag for comfort as I gingerly sit down. ColobusWe push-off,  Craig seems to expertly wield the paddles and in no time at all we are away from shore heading like some Victorian steam boat towards the middle of the lake.  Just as my anxiety is subsiding, I become aware that my feet are damp; err, they are definitely getting wet and I look down to see, to my horror, the swirling green of the lake comfortably filling the bottom of the canoe.  Surely not?!!  No. Its got to be my crazy imagination.   It is coming in, it’s not the splash of canoe paddles.  “Craig”, I practically shout, “water is coming into the boat” He glances down, and laughs, “Yes, we might have to swim for shore”.  Even at this point, where I can feel the terror rise, I still don’t want to admit I cannot swim.  “What about my camera, it will be ruined”. ” Haven’t you got insurance”? he responds calmly.  Only now do I have to confront my reality.  Only now  do I confess.  And I feel so ashamed.  He responds by telling me to bail as fast as I can and, somehow, miraculously manages to get us back to the safety of shore.  I am astounded that we did not see the hole at the bottom of the boat before we set off.  And although I’m a bit shaken, I’m laughing as we trudge back up to the lodge while he regales  “Learn to Swim” once again.

Determined to make sure that I don’t pass on my fear of water, I take Roscoe  to a Mother and Baby swimming class when he’s just 6 weeks old.  By the time he is 18 months, he can only go with Craig as I can no longer keep up.  When he is two and a bit, I nervously watch as Craig takes him into the warm Bajan sea water so they can swim with the turtles.Swim. Turtles  Roscoe is shrieking with delight and as the boat bobs up and down, I realise that I am going to miss out if I don’t sort out what is a completely irrational fear.  But the years pass and I am relegated to the side once more as they jump into pools, career down water-slides, run into the sea.  Roscoe barely hiding his irritation that I am unable to join in.

Swim - shoulder musclesThen comes the side effects of my cancer.  To take out my lymph nodes, the consultant surgeons have to cut into the nerves and muscle surrounding my neck and shoulder.  Some damage is done and as it turns out I am having problems with raising my left arm as my rotator cuff has stopped working and my Levator scapulae is so knotted that it’s making my Trapezious do its job.  I find myself in the warm waters  of the hydrotherapy pool doing exercises to get the ball of nerves to loosen and these muscles back to work.

I like this warmth and its great to be able to move my arm more freely.  Water is now no longer an enemy; it is part of my support system to get better.

And so, emboldened and enlightened, I take a big deep breath, put my pride and fear to one side and sign up at our local gym.  Every Sunday morning,  I meet Vicky, and we slide into the cooler waters of the pool where she encourages me to put my head underwater, breathe though my nose and swim.

It’s not easy learning to put a long-term fear to one side.  And some weeks it’s easier than others. Thankfully Vicky has infinite patience, delivers the right amount of encouragement and has a command voice of steel.    Today, I almost didn’t go.  I got caught in traffic, had left my gym card behind and it almost seemed just too darned difficult.  But I talked myself off the ledge, got into my swimming ‘cossie’, snapped my goggles over my head, gritted my teeth and got into that pool.

And now I’ve ‘come clean’ and shared this, I’m going to have to continue.  I will front crawl the length of the pool by lesson 10.

For it turns out that – for me – the fear of admitting failure to do something so simple is far greater than the fear of the water itself.

Swim. Final image

Points of View

We are two hours into our first university lecture for my MA degree and I’m feeling slightly bewildered about the passion in the room.  We are talking about bread.

Points of view. bread

Of the 27 nationalities represented in this discussion, the only thing everyone agrees upon is that English, white, “plastic”, “chewy” “squidgy soft and glutinous” bread is an abomination on the taste buds. One girl is fighting tears as she describes the taste of her homeland leavened bread, torn by hand with the pieces used to mop up stews and sauces. Another student talks about his Mother collecting fresh, warm, dark rye bread from the baker each morning and him piling it high with pickles, hams and cheeses, so high it’s unbalanced and tricky to pop into his mouth in one go! Yet another shares the taste of a crisp flat bread used as the base for a number of staple national dishes.Points of view aa milne the kings breakast I talk about Scottish Morton rolls, close in texture and taste to French baguettes but in a high round crisp roll dusted with a light touch of flour, stuffed with butter and honey or spicy square sausage or bacon and runny egg. This recollection makes my taste buds tingle and my salivary glands work overtime.   In this one discussion, my eyes are opened to how bread is a metaphor for home. And that home is very different for everyone in the room.  27 differing points of view, each one valid, each one connected and rooted to that taste-memory of comfort, safety, family.

Of course talking about bread is safe. No-one is going to go to war or challenge another to a fight over describing their national use of flour and water!

Points of view; image 2

I was always taught to avoid discussing or sharing my thoughts and opinions on more emotive subjects – anything to do with beliefs, religion, money, etc. Sometimes, in company I know and trust and to be provocative, this is all we talk about!

But this discussion on bread clearly demonstrates we can all feel passionate about the simplest of subjects.   And every day we encounter different perspectives from our own. While we think we are saying one thing, others may interpret a completely different message based on their own experiences, thoughts and opinions.

Shaping our view of the world are all the stories and experiences  we have gathered through childhood into adulthood.
Daily, we interpret the world through the prism of our personal narrative, our values and beliefs, the pressure of our peer group or the direction of our leaders, using what we hear, observe, read, see, taste and smell.  Wilson_The_Volleyball We are all foreign to each other. Cast in our own small island, keen to be listened to, liked, loved, counted for and understood.

And in all of this uniqueness we are constantly learning, interpreting, deciphering, questioning.  Alternatively,  we are free to assume the demeanour of a despot Points of view bad Sir Brian Botanyand decide that it is only our point of view which has validity and truth.

It takes courage to openly put forward a different point of view, knowing that others will interpret and judge.  Particularly when sharing new thinking, not fully evolved but waiting for others to help me bake it with their curiousity and questioning.  It takes a degree of bravery to put myself out there, to stick my head above the parapet, to speak or write the words that may be the beginning of greater collective understanding or wider exploration.  I believe that debate, discussion and discourse are freedoms we take too much for granted in the West. We don’t progress democracy and learning by silent disagreement, sheep-like subversion or proverbial nodding heads. We stand a better chance of understanding each other and the wider world by engaging, communicating and sharing our perspectives, by being prepared to stand up for and defend our views and opinions, and by being flexible enough to change these if persuaded by a better informed argument.

We are fortunate enough to live in a society which allows free speech and freedom of expression.  Homogeneity and silence do not progress our thoughts and ideas, our understanding, our learning and development. Whether we are talking about bread or about our personal experiences, sharing our knowledge and truths should be taken in the manner in which they are intended.

As gifts. To  be honoured and respected.

And shared with  love and positive intention.

Points of view final quote