M'LUD

I have a client whose boss won an award a few years ago. I'm not talking about a swimming certificate, or a schmolzy industry award. I'm talking knighthoods etcetera. This leader was recognised for their services to industry. This was highly amusing to my client and to me, in the light of this person's utter inability to read a P and L or balance sheet, or to provide anything resembling guidance in the form of strategic direction, or indeed to provide the sort of charisma or plain human understanding which is of value in leading teams. In the absence of these skills, however, this individual did have a large expense account, and had spent it wisely, wining and dining the great and good of the establishment, and was thus a known name and generally thought of as pleasant, if a little intense, company for lunch or dinner.
Annually my client and I celebrate this individuals achievement with the publication of the New Years honours list. "What, no knighthood?" we ritually ask each other, knowing damn well the answer.
In my eyes my client is much more qualified for a national honour than his boss. But I don't make the decisions. Perhaps one day he will be honoured too. Perhaps we both will. On that glad (and I should think inevitable) day of my elevation to the peerage, I shall choose as my title Lord Laytham in recognition of the loveliness of the place where, for the past ten years I have been privileged to live. In choosing a new coat of arms to accompany my honour, the barn owl would have to make an appearance. So much are they the pin up boys of our neighbourhood.
At North Acre, turning down the icy Laytham lane, one flies right across the path of the range rover, and then we follow it, at its own speed, as it dithers between which ditch to hunt, flitting between each, on either side of the lane. We are fascinated by the ridiculously undynamic features. Aerodynamics were not high on the list when the barn owl got made. Listening was. Its great dish shaped face makes it look as though it is flying backwards. But I have heard it said that that huge dish facilitates an auditory ability which can hear a shrew move in grass a kilometre away. Barn owls don't see well, but their hearing is extraordinary.
Owls traditionally have been, for no good reason, emblematic of wisdom, and this would also be a fine allusion for the coat of arms. Perhaps the association derives from extraordinary hearing. For the simple act of listening, just listening, doing nothing other than listening, seems so elusive, so difficult that having a symbolic reminder on the coat of arms to deploy it, can only do good. Were it possible at all, it would be worthier than most causes for honour. I would earnestly treasure recognition for services to listening. I've never met anyone who doesn't, on a level greater than they have received, wish to be heard. It seems almost a trivial gift, yet when I think of my own life, to have been heard, completely heard, fully heard, has been amongst the highest of honours. And those few who have listened. Ah. In my eyes, nobility indeed.