Friday 31 July 2009
Thursday 30 July 2009
ZEN TODAY
Is it better to live wide?
Is it better to live narrow?
Is it better to live deep?
Is it better to live shallow?
Is it better to live narrow?
Is it better to live deep?
Is it better to live shallow?
Sunday 26 July 2009
A PERFECT SUMMER'S DAY
Yesterday was a perfect summer's day. The sky was deep blue, but with enough wind and cloud for interest's sake.
Zara and I took Jed to his rehearsal at the theatre.
My replacement Guernsey turned up.
A spontaneously arranged day ensued with David, Karen and Tess, lived out almost entirely in the gardens.
We had broad beans and fat peas straight from the vegetable garden lobbed into a huge salad also containing leaves, cucumber, pancetta and croutons, together with tiny new potatoes. I experimented with making a toffee sauce for ice cream. It turned out better than I'd even imagined.
David and I played shuttlecock on the lawn for ages, he gradually revealing his sporting excellence, me less gradually revealing decrepitude.
The girls played happily in and out of Zara's summer house, in the hammock and on the new swing which Jed has fixed in one of the apple trees.
Yas and Karen chatted contentedly.
There was mint tea and a big jug of elderflower presse.
David and I picked up Jed, elated at the progress the production is making.
More badminton long into the evening with Jed.
Frost, on TV.
Bed.
Can't be more blissful.
Zara and I took Jed to his rehearsal at the theatre.
My replacement Guernsey turned up.
A spontaneously arranged day ensued with David, Karen and Tess, lived out almost entirely in the gardens.
We had broad beans and fat peas straight from the vegetable garden lobbed into a huge salad also containing leaves, cucumber, pancetta and croutons, together with tiny new potatoes. I experimented with making a toffee sauce for ice cream. It turned out better than I'd even imagined.
David and I played shuttlecock on the lawn for ages, he gradually revealing his sporting excellence, me less gradually revealing decrepitude.
The girls played happily in and out of Zara's summer house, in the hammock and on the new swing which Jed has fixed in one of the apple trees.
Yas and Karen chatted contentedly.
There was mint tea and a big jug of elderflower presse.
David and I picked up Jed, elated at the progress the production is making.
More badminton long into the evening with Jed.
Frost, on TV.
Bed.
Can't be more blissful.
Friday 24 July 2009
CALLED TO THE BAR
Last night, an unusual amount of pomp and circumstance. I attended the Call to the Bar ceremony at Middle Temple. For my host, who was being called, it was a proud occasion. He has every right to feel proud after the outrageous slog to qualify. And he was duly called and signed his name in the register that has been kept for centuries on the Middle Temple's cupboard, made of a deck hatch from The Golden Hind.
Some impressions then.
What stuck out to me were the furrowed brows and intensity of the young men and women who had been Called. Their predominant concern - unemployment. Having taken first class academics, and massive amounts of sheer sweat and application to get to this point, they almost all face the prospect of .............. nothing. Pupillages will be given ultimately to less than 20% of them. The wastage rate is ridiculous.
Then there were the parents. Diffident. Congratulatory. But not joyous, not affectionate, not exuberant.
Some say that the very role of barrister is arcane. Maybe. But it can't be right to put so much talent through so many tests and challenges, only to waste it.
And those parents! Every step of restraint in the matter of love seems to me wasted, every moment of potentially joyous contact missed, again a waste.
Some impressions then.
What stuck out to me were the furrowed brows and intensity of the young men and women who had been Called. Their predominant concern - unemployment. Having taken first class academics, and massive amounts of sheer sweat and application to get to this point, they almost all face the prospect of .............. nothing. Pupillages will be given ultimately to less than 20% of them. The wastage rate is ridiculous.
Then there were the parents. Diffident. Congratulatory. But not joyous, not affectionate, not exuberant.
Some say that the very role of barrister is arcane. Maybe. But it can't be right to put so much talent through so many tests and challenges, only to waste it.
And those parents! Every step of restraint in the matter of love seems to me wasted, every moment of potentially joyous contact missed, again a waste.
Tuesday 21 July 2009
SMALL AD
Someone asked me recently to write a lonely hearts ad. Here it is.
"Utter git, no redeeming features, seeks well manicured, well heeled goddess to laugh at life's shortcomings. No nutters."
"Utter git, no redeeming features, seeks well manicured, well heeled goddess to laugh at life's shortcomings. No nutters."
CORPUS CHRISTI
Last night there was a special moment.
I went to church. Not something I do a lot. But my nephew Matthew was leading the service for the first time.
He spoke the service and when it came to it I joined the communicants and knelt before him. Light streamed through a high roseate window. He administered the sacrament. I said, "amen." It was a quiet piece of magic.
I went to church. Not something I do a lot. But my nephew Matthew was leading the service for the first time.
He spoke the service and when it came to it I joined the communicants and knelt before him. Light streamed through a high roseate window. He administered the sacrament. I said, "amen." It was a quiet piece of magic.
Monday 20 July 2009
TOUGH LOVE
Tough love pays. Sometimes. Here is a recent example.
During my recent trip to France Big Ged and I talked ourselves into a spontaneous viewing of the Tour de France. It was quite an adventure, involving as it did getting up literally at dawn and driving some four or five hours to get to the Col de Porte and see the mountainous stage. Despite the nay-sayers we did it of course. Hangover and all.
We were rewarded with a splendid day of Pyrennean views and a lot of arseing about flapping our arms at the Tour caravan to see if we could build a mountain of freebies, chucked at us by the promo girls. Much laughter and ribald commentary about said promo girls.
And then the riders appeared. Mark Cavendish, the British sprinter was well near the back. As he crested the Col I shouted at him "Get on with it Cav, you fat b*stard."
A few days later,on the BBC News website I saw the headline CAVENDISH SPURRED ON BY CRITICISM.
Tough love. Must've worked.
During my recent trip to France Big Ged and I talked ourselves into a spontaneous viewing of the Tour de France. It was quite an adventure, involving as it did getting up literally at dawn and driving some four or five hours to get to the Col de Porte and see the mountainous stage. Despite the nay-sayers we did it of course. Hangover and all.
We were rewarded with a splendid day of Pyrennean views and a lot of arseing about flapping our arms at the Tour caravan to see if we could build a mountain of freebies, chucked at us by the promo girls. Much laughter and ribald commentary about said promo girls.
And then the riders appeared. Mark Cavendish, the British sprinter was well near the back. As he crested the Col I shouted at him "Get on with it Cav, you fat b*stard."
A few days later,on the BBC News website I saw the headline CAVENDISH SPURRED ON BY CRITICISM.
Tough love. Must've worked.
AGONY AUNT
I have a number of Sunday rituals. One is the purchase of the SUNDAY EXPRESS. I know, dear reader that you wouldn't have me down as a Sunday Express reader. You'd be right. I buy the paper and instantly throw it away. No. Correction. Not quite instantly. I check first as a sort of personal game that the words DI or MADDY are (as usual) on its front page, together with the latest accompanying non story. But I like the general knowledge crossword, which offers a thousand pound prize on completion. I don't really need the grand but I like the thought of winning it. Not that I ever have, mind. It's the plant genuses which get me, and the compiler is fond of them.
But you'll be pleased to know that this eccentric reading choice is balanced by the choice of OBSERVER and SUNDAY TIMES. Within the latter my very favourite bit is Mrs. Mills, the acerbic Agony Aunt. Being a coach can, at times be akin to being an agony aunt. It's a clue as to your own poor performance as a coach, when you feel that's what's happening.
The other week, in typically acid style, Mrs. Mills was peremptory about some loser who was droning on about their relationship difficulties. "If you can change it, do so," she advised. "If not, be happy with what you've got."
Universal advice.
But you'll be pleased to know that this eccentric reading choice is balanced by the choice of OBSERVER and SUNDAY TIMES. Within the latter my very favourite bit is Mrs. Mills, the acerbic Agony Aunt. Being a coach can, at times be akin to being an agony aunt. It's a clue as to your own poor performance as a coach, when you feel that's what's happening.
The other week, in typically acid style, Mrs. Mills was peremptory about some loser who was droning on about their relationship difficulties. "If you can change it, do so," she advised. "If not, be happy with what you've got."
Universal advice.
MY NEW TATTOO
.......... is a heart, nice and red and throbbing. And a scroll under it for the recipient of my affection. The name in it: EVERYONE.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
EXPEDITION PACKING
I am packing my ruck sac for my Raide Cevennois. It's important to get it right as there are long distances to walk, no habitations on the age-old transhumance routes, and only camping sauvage at the end of each day. I say "only," as one of the greatest imaginable pleasures in life is to doss down in the Cevennois wilderness after a hard day, with only the moon and stars above you and and a fire beside you.
Packing like this, for the absolute minimum of weight, and working out where everything should be tucked away so that it comes easily to hand in the right order is also a great pleasure. it reminds me of endlessly packing and repacking bergens and webbing so that you know exactly where the full magazine is when you need it, and no farting about.
It also brings to mind a trip I took to the Hoggar mountains, back when it was safe(r) to travel overland in Algeria. Lashing and Stashing became a twice and sometimes three times daily routine of enjoyable problem solving so that the roof rack on the Landrover would just about be able to survive the endless bashing it took over the desert pistes. You have a choice on these rutted tracks: drive very slowly and safely but get shaken to bits and frustrated with the lack of progress, or drive at between 50 and 60 mph, floating over the surface of the ruts, but with dangerously little control. I wonder if you can guess my preference? The roof rack did in fact survive. Just. Only three of its spars were unbroken by the end of the trip. Whereas the Landrover itself just ate the journey, leaving me with an enduring respect for these machines. Only two breakdowns: an almost unbelievable wearing out of the contact point on the rotor arm, which was fixed by adding metallic paper from inside a fag packet; and a broken leaf spring. Amazingly I had learned the French for leaf spring (lames de ressorts) and had no trouble therefore getting it clamped and welded in a tiny Algerian settlement, by a bloke with a welding kit, watched by a herd of goats. He charged me the equivalent of 40p for the job. The clamped and welded leaf spring was still on the Landrover when I sold it tens of thousands of miles later.
All the packing and repacking of this sort has another dimension too. It convinces you that you are in charge of events, ready for anything. Pleasurable, but false. People and events take the oddest turns. If you are not careful you can turn your life into one big chess game, full of control based on predicting the actions of others. This has the danger of getting you what you wished for. And, as we all know, you need to be careful about what that is, in case you get it. Instead, it is a good man indeed who can see that the real joy of life is the essential item lost and the fumbling and cock ups that result, the broken and damaged things you've packed into your life. These are the treasures. Just give me the eyes to see them.
Packing like this, for the absolute minimum of weight, and working out where everything should be tucked away so that it comes easily to hand in the right order is also a great pleasure. it reminds me of endlessly packing and repacking bergens and webbing so that you know exactly where the full magazine is when you need it, and no farting about.
It also brings to mind a trip I took to the Hoggar mountains, back when it was safe(r) to travel overland in Algeria. Lashing and Stashing became a twice and sometimes three times daily routine of enjoyable problem solving so that the roof rack on the Landrover would just about be able to survive the endless bashing it took over the desert pistes. You have a choice on these rutted tracks: drive very slowly and safely but get shaken to bits and frustrated with the lack of progress, or drive at between 50 and 60 mph, floating over the surface of the ruts, but with dangerously little control. I wonder if you can guess my preference? The roof rack did in fact survive. Just. Only three of its spars were unbroken by the end of the trip. Whereas the Landrover itself just ate the journey, leaving me with an enduring respect for these machines. Only two breakdowns: an almost unbelievable wearing out of the contact point on the rotor arm, which was fixed by adding metallic paper from inside a fag packet; and a broken leaf spring. Amazingly I had learned the French for leaf spring (lames de ressorts) and had no trouble therefore getting it clamped and welded in a tiny Algerian settlement, by a bloke with a welding kit, watched by a herd of goats. He charged me the equivalent of 40p for the job. The clamped and welded leaf spring was still on the Landrover when I sold it tens of thousands of miles later.
All the packing and repacking of this sort has another dimension too. It convinces you that you are in charge of events, ready for anything. Pleasurable, but false. People and events take the oddest turns. If you are not careful you can turn your life into one big chess game, full of control based on predicting the actions of others. This has the danger of getting you what you wished for. And, as we all know, you need to be careful about what that is, in case you get it. Instead, it is a good man indeed who can see that the real joy of life is the essential item lost and the fumbling and cock ups that result, the broken and damaged things you've packed into your life. These are the treasures. Just give me the eyes to see them.
Saturday 4 July 2009
MURRAY MANIA
In the words of Pseuds corner: "So. Farewell. Andy Murray."
And let it be a lesson to us all.
There he is: a young man who is tall, fit, reasonably good looking, incredibly successful, absolutely loaded, with a nice looking girlfriend and......... surely one of the top three people you'd least like to get stuck in a lift with.
You can't write it off as him just being a dour Scot. I know plenty of Scots of various hues of dourness, and they ain't even in his league. He might "only" make the semi final at Wimbledon, but if there was a Grand Slam at being a totally miserable c*nt, his name would be engraved on the board.
Now, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe with a couple of Glenfiddich and cokes inside him he's a wild, chilled guy. But there could be a lesson here. Look. Learn.
Does success make you happy?
Does money make you happy?
Does having a loving partner make you happy?
Does being a winner make you happy?
Does being fit make you happy?
Does influence, power and being in the media make you happy?
Apparently not, dear reader.
And so it is. These things don't make you happy. You make them happy. Or not. It's your choice.
And let it be a lesson to us all.
There he is: a young man who is tall, fit, reasonably good looking, incredibly successful, absolutely loaded, with a nice looking girlfriend and......... surely one of the top three people you'd least like to get stuck in a lift with.
You can't write it off as him just being a dour Scot. I know plenty of Scots of various hues of dourness, and they ain't even in his league. He might "only" make the semi final at Wimbledon, but if there was a Grand Slam at being a totally miserable c*nt, his name would be engraved on the board.
Now, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe with a couple of Glenfiddich and cokes inside him he's a wild, chilled guy. But there could be a lesson here. Look. Learn.
Does success make you happy?
Does money make you happy?
Does having a loving partner make you happy?
Does being a winner make you happy?
Does being fit make you happy?
Does influence, power and being in the media make you happy?
Apparently not, dear reader.
And so it is. These things don't make you happy. You make them happy. Or not. It's your choice.
Friday 3 July 2009
BUSY AS A B******
A thank you to the good people of this blog's readership who have commenced the appropriate nagging action towards me about my recent absence from the blogosphere.
Sorry.
Is it limp to say I've been busy?
But I have. It's a question I'm often asked - are you busy? The "recession" did for a while mean I could answer "No". But the respite has been short lived. I am now (and have been for the last 3 or 4 months) as busy as I could possibly be, and then a bit busier than that. And then just a wee bit more activity squeezed on top.
Do I like busy? It's good, but it reminds me of the adrenalin toll that being long term busy takes, and the creative spirit it robs. In the middle of my little patch of Yorkshire, free from traffic noise, and in a space to empty rather than fill, creative and beautiful things can happen. In the hurly burly it isn't that they can't, it's just that they don't much. Too busy. Too busy to think.
It's a good job people in organizations are way too busy to think otherwise I wouldn't get half the work I do. Much of that work is to get people to slow down long enough to think. Ironic then that just recently I've had so little slow time myself. Still here are some notes of the doing I've been doing:
Sorry.
Is it limp to say I've been busy?
But I have. It's a question I'm often asked - are you busy? The "recession" did for a while mean I could answer "No". But the respite has been short lived. I am now (and have been for the last 3 or 4 months) as busy as I could possibly be, and then a bit busier than that. And then just a wee bit more activity squeezed on top.
Do I like busy? It's good, but it reminds me of the adrenalin toll that being long term busy takes, and the creative spirit it robs. In the middle of my little patch of Yorkshire, free from traffic noise, and in a space to empty rather than fill, creative and beautiful things can happen. In the hurly burly it isn't that they can't, it's just that they don't much. Too busy. Too busy to think.
It's a good job people in organizations are way too busy to think otherwise I wouldn't get half the work I do. Much of that work is to get people to slow down long enough to think. Ironic then that just recently I've had so little slow time myself. Still here are some notes of the doing I've been doing:
- Saying "have you been to the opticians recently?" in a coaching session, and meaning have a think about the glasses you are looking through....
- Being challenged myself about lines of connection running on axes of physical beauty...
- Running across the gravel courtyard and swearing at Blackie who's stripped my netted cherry trees the cunning blighter.....
- Listening to multi faceted sides of argument about personalities and their difficulties with not a penny of profit motivation to guide it.....
- Accepting that things can come to an end...
- Generating new retail concepts....
- Plotting to get the man the top job...
- Inventing an experiential conference design, and building chaos into it....
- Hearing managers ask permission to laugh (My God!)...
- Writing a rewrite of tales of the Arabian Nights to inspire participation....
- Visiting Jimmy in prison (he's bearing up well)...
- Worrying about A. in YOI, where he's so depressed he's on 24 hour suicide watch...
- Deliberating whether catharsis is needed by talking about problems rather than getting on with solving them....
- Watching the world go by in the artificial street at Gogarburn...
- Producing a personal vision on an ordnance survey map...
- Telling people to drive slower...
- Reading Caught by the River.....
- Wondering whether Mike and my "cockle shell heroes" adventure canoeing down the Trent might be on after all (note to self: dig out old commando cap comforter)...
- Spreading out the Randonneur map for St. Hippolyte du Fort and plotting our Raide Cevvennois... (buy Zippo lighter for fires, consider tarp for basha)..
- Arguing about whether you have to die to get to heaven or can have a bit now...
- Saying "you're not just nice, you're amazing"...
- Setting close up photography as an assignment...
- Noticing bodily tension and how infrequently I am truly relaxed. Taking good note of Michelle's advice about chakras...
- Weeding the vegetable garden and discovering that this makes me feel claustrophobic...
- Wielding a machete. My kinda town....
- Building a Zara House in the garden with Ken who moans the whole bloody way through the exercise...
- Skipping breakfast...
- And dinner...
- Going out on my bike just to go out on my bike, rather than beast myself...
- Feeling like I was thirteen again....
- Being amazed at Lucy's luminescent quality and impressed by her idealism...
- Billing so much I think "that can't be right"...
- Making stuff with peas and tiny broad beans as I've got so many I don't know what to do with them...
- Eating the one cherry that Blackie didn't get from tree 7...
- Thinking I must have names for all my trees just like Stella, the cherry named after Ged's Mum, and Ged, the old chestnut he is....
- Hoping for rain to break the static...
- Searching out a decent BMW R1200GS for riding to Italy...
- Admiring George's kilt...
- Getting pissed off at the British Museum for having nothing that helps you access cuneiforms...
- Eating at John Torode's place...
- Using "I'm a f*ckin' vegan" (in Welsh accent) as a catch phrase...
- Being upset about playing Cox and Box...
- Walking home by moonlight pissed (eight miles from the station - lovely country lanes but feet ripped to shreds in Church boots)...
- Making major shirt investments...
- Praising EAT...
- Playing Elephant Balls with David...
- Only occasionally pausing for breath.
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