Dear All,
“And the veil was lifted from mine eyes.” Archaic language, perhaps with a leaning towards the melodramatic, nonetheless, capturing the “Aha” moment that comes to us all at some time in our lives; the lucky ones, more than once.
We take so much for granted, don’t we? Rarely looking around, generally just looking ahead to the next buzz, laugh, holiday, party, acquisition, rock concert, date or social commitment. Yet, so much happiness, pleasure and contentment is here, right under our noses. It’s always here but the tide of today’s expectations presses us to look ahead eagerly. Standing still to look around, never occurs to the busy mind.
Having all this new-found time in quiet, sleepy Lincs is delivering an array of delights that are really little more than ordinary. Being fundamentally a Basildon Boy brought up in a simpler time, it doesn’t take much to bring delight to Easily-pleased, Once Of Essex.
Before I left Essex, there used to be school reunions at my place where my mates and I wallowed and gurgled like fat little happy babies reminiscing about early Basildon, a time when we were children and it was truly a New Town. Conversations were often repeated, not through age-related forgetfulness, but from choice because they carried the simple pleasure of reliving happy times.
I had the same experience when Ford ex-auditors got together. Tall tales standing in baby shoes of truth were recounted, growing taller with each retelling -Sequoias with a tiny root system, easily knocked over if anyone cared to be sensible, but why would we? Why be sensible when fun is available? We all knew the truth of the exaggerations being paraded - but no one cared. The silliness of each story was all that mattered. So far, no one in those increasingly fictional storytelling sessions has felt the need to be sensible. Thank God.
These small cameos are presented just to illustrate that little boys are easily pleased. Memories, however distorted, are welcome at any time. It really doesn’t take much to keep children happy, a bit like a kitten with a ball of wool dangling on a single strand.
The school friends, we Basildon Boys, took all that for granted as kids. Mum and Dad provided food and clothes which met all our needs. Unlike kids today, we didn’t know what money was. It was a mystery till our teens. In those days, no one ever gave us money for Christmas or birthdays. That would have been just plain rude, lazy and uncaring. So with all needs met, we just played, fought and were friends again five minutes later. Now, in retirement, in a complex world bursting with technological toys and high-speed gratification on offer at every turn, our common values appear to be a greater appreciation of simple joys; the gift, the by-product, of having the time and the attitude - with age - to look at things with more open eyes.
And now I have filled a page, babbling about nothing but the happy memories of two groups of disparate friends who have never met yet who share my full heart when we look back; illustrating the earlier point - Joy is cheap - available somewhere near you - at a cost of nearly nothing. The font being located between your ears and in your heart.
In reading back over these letters, I see that I have tried too hard in the past to convince that all is rosy in my life. It is. I have no complaints but, to be fair, I think there was a bit too much stress on the cup being nearly full rather than half full, probably a trait that I learned in Ford where we were encouraged to talk up ‘problems’, glossing them more kindly as ‘issues’ and steering attention away from anything that smacked of reality.
With that in mind, this letter will present thoughts that arise from life here rather than whether life is comfortable or not. It is comfortable. That’s all we need. Now back to the theme of this letter, which is to be about the precipitation from having the time to think.
The first of these is something I half heard on the news recently to the effect that graduates are repaying the investment in them by contributing positively to the economy. If only that were true. This made me smile in that it was the conclusion of a piece of analysis - done by graduates - about themselves. In effect, graduates concluding that graduates are beneficial to society. Normally I would let that pass but some thoughts occur. Here they are.
Having done a fair bit of analysis of databases in my last few years at Ford, by selective inclusion and exclusion, I could make the data say anything I wanted - and I did. Of course the conclusions could not be challenged because unless you knew as well as I did what had been excluded, you were never going to be able to question my findings - all of which could be supported by real data from Ford databases - so looked solid. The trick is knowing what has been left out but who, in an audience of managers, wants to get their hands dirty with detail? Very few. Most prefer to nod sagely, as appearances are everything. So I played the audiences, taking advantage of their vanity.
The other key point about ‘analysis’ is that the architecture matters, i.e. what the logic is that leads to the conclusions. So pardon me if I am sceptical about graduates doing the analysis that congratulates them on making a positive contribution to the economy. I would like to know how the analysis was structured before I accept the conclusion. Having worked with about 500 since the mid-70s, most were nice people who talked theory confidently, with, due to their lack of experience of life, little or no application of common sense. Those few that dealt with realities and showed real social skills, became friends and are among the addresses to this letter. But they were the minority, unicorns in a herd of three-legged nags that non-grads tolerated and rather unkindly, had some fun with.
The ‘inclusion/exclusion’ aspect is highly relevant to a useful conclusion. For example, I wonder if on the COST side of this latest analysis, they included the cost of the Gulf of Mexico disaster - the lives of people, wildlife and the despair at the inhumanity of it all - as well as the cost in dollars? That disaster was down to the board of BP as I remember, (how many were graduates?) - led by a bloke with a degree in Engineering. “Oh yes, we can drill there. It’ll be OK. What could possibly go wrong? I’ve got an engineering degree. I know about these things” (in theory, as events showed, apparently not in practice).
Or Fred Goodwin, who led his bank to the biggest loss in UK banking history - £26 billion. He’s got a degree and how many of the Board of Northern Rock were grads and PhDs? Or the board of Halifax? Or Connaught’s when it went under? Or on the boards of any bank that needed bailouts as they lost billions by over-lending or in buying bad loans, a.k.a. Pass The Parcel so that the mug holding the asset when the music stops gets creamed for a crippling amount that must be compensated by the taxpayer - as high street banks can never fail.
It is warming to know that I pay taxes - not to give kids an education or so grannies can eat and keep warm in the winter but so Casino Banker wide-boys can indulge their gambling addiction with no consequences. I wonder if all of these very obvious bangs on the nose to the economy were included when evaluating the graduate contribution?
Lastly, on a much bigger scale, as the world economy goes into meltdown, how many grads have there been in the governments of Greece, Italy, Portugal, Spain and Ireland? All countries that have been led by their governments to live beyond their means for years and years so that when the piper has to be paid eventually, they are looking bankruptcy in the face while the rest of us face the turbulence of the wash.
Whatever happened to people of ability? While I have met a few grads with ability, in the main most that I worked with at Ford, Microsoft and JP Morgan Chase, were unworldly, insecure introverts - puffing themselves up by the self-appointed label of being in ‘The Top 5%’. Top of what social group? And who decides who’s in the club. Oh look! Just grads, talking about themselves again.
Promoting them to positions of power because of their qualifications got exactly what it deserved. By all means give them a job, but don’t put them in charge of anything until they prove themselves, unless you want mistakes through inexperience and loss of morale in your organisation as we had in Ford. To be fair, there were plenty of not-very-bright non-grads too who argued theory before reality and lacked social skills. I didn’t like them either. Perhaps it’s just me being a grump?
Well, that feels better. Now onto Leonard Cohen, nature’s Tour Guide to suicidal depression. When I listen to music, I just hear a general noise as a background to whatever really occupies my attention. However, I know that there are those amongst you who listen to the words and luxuriate in the poetry. My good friend Paul Underhill is one of these and recommended recently, an album by Leonard Cohen. Many of you will know of Leonard Cohen. He had the resident gig on the Ark; a man when I was a boy and still going strong today - which will lead to me having a whinge about the old men of the Queen’s Jubilee Concert. That joy lies ahead.
Paul believing that I would benefit spiritually from the rather beautiful lyrics, lent me a copy of Leonard’s OLD IDEAS, an album of what I suspect to be gospel songs. I say ‘suspect’ and ‘songs’ as Leonard doesn’t do any actual singing on the album. This is a work that celebrates a bloke talking, slowly, in a very deep voice - on every track. I think these may well turn out to be songs as, when he takes a breather for a bit of oxygen and a sit down, probably due to his impossible age, some very talented ladies pop up and take over, delivering very melodic strains.
You may well ask, “Why did you want to listen to this in the first place? Everyone knows that Leonard Cohen is Music to Slit Your Wrists By.” - as Damon Runyon would say, “A story goes with this.”
Once again I must refer you back to me not really paying attention to a song’s words. Paul is a Technoslave. He has a phone that seems to do everything from Making Tea to Mowing the Lawn. In its array of fabulous talents, it will play music as capably as any modern hi-fi system, while taking up the space of a matchbox - and he played me a bit of a song. The words “Show me the place you want your slave to go...”caught my attention. They were misheard. I thought it was “Show me the place you want my face to go...” See? I was tricked - sold a pup. I plead misrepresentation.
And so I was fooled into listening to this on my last journey to Essex; two hours of Leonard Cohen talking his way through a catalogue of gospel songs. However, the main thing I noticed also came up at the Jubilee Concert. Leonard seemed to be singing/speaking a lot lower than I remember from 150 years ago when I first heard him. I think this is a trick employed by ageing pop stars who can’t hit the notes any longer. Elton did the same when singing to the Queen. He was definitely a couple of keys lower than I was used to hearing, giving his voice a different timbre altogether. Anyone else notice this?
This though, is just a small aside relating to the concert. My main point is that old blokes; Paul McCartney, Elton John, Stevie Wonder and Sir Cliff, should realise that their voices are not up to the demands of a live performance any more. At first I thought it was just poor sound engineering, or, in Cheryl’s case, lack of talent in her duet with Gary Barlow, but the bum notes were far too frequent from people you remember as being able to sing. I wonder if they’ll ‘fix’ that on the video?
Then, Macca, what an OLD MAN! Did you see his face when he was standing behind Prince Charles at the end? He looked like Private Godfrey in that episode of Dad’s army when they were threatened with having to expel the older members as they were considered too old by the Army High Command. In that episode, Private Godfrey’s face looked alarming as he used make-up (to disastrous effect), to try and look younger. Macca looked just like him - an old man looking like an old man. Someone should tell these people that a) their voices are no longer what they were so they shouldn’t do live performances anymore, and b) they should learn to grow old gracefully, perhaps consider retirement. Although, they’ve been around for so long, perhaps they have no real life so cling with desperation to the one thing that they know - well beyond their shelf life?
Then, what about that awfully RUDE interruption by Lenny Henry? He asks the ever-chirpy, ever-charming, everlasting, people’s favourite, Rolf Harris. to help out and fill in a bit, then interrupts him just as he gets to the tear-jerking part of Two Little Boys. It was the last verse for Goodness Sake! What would it have mattered if Rolf had gone on for one more minute and finished the song to tumultuous applause? I know the Queen was supposed to light the last bonfire at 10:49 but would one more minute really have been such a catastrophe? As the crowd was singing along, they must have been miffed too. That was a silly, rude decision. I’d like to hear the justification for showing such insensitivity and bad manners via a worldwide TV broadcast. The timetable is all-powerful. Flexibility, judgement - and good manners - apparently count for naught.
Lastly, the comedians that did the compering were awful weren’t they? Normally, I am a fan of Rob Brydon, Jimmy Carr, Lee Mack and Miranda Hart but they were v. poor weren’t they? Stilted, self-conscious and trying too hard to be over-familiar with the Royals. How embarrassing for them to realise that until Peter Kay came on, the has-been Lenny Henry was the funniest comedian there.
While I am not a monarchist nor a republican, having no view in either direction, I was hugely impressed by the Queen’s dignity, tolerance and commitment to what must have been a draining and probably not too enjoyable weekend for an 86 year-old - three or four hours on a boat in the cold and rain - and then a rock concert the next day! What clown thought this would be fun for her? Must have been someone settling an old score. Secondly, the public euphoria, which, despite being conveyed only by TV, was tangible, infectious and best of all - genuine. In a world where appearances and pretext dominate daily life, this last aspect was the most moving.
And there we have my thoughts from all this time to think. If you find it flawed in any aspect, by all means let me know by phone, letter or mail, or face-to-face if we meet, but don’t expect it to rest there. I relish a good debate. You may find many more thoughts that have not yet been aired. For those of you who volunteered for the Ventarant forum - I’m still trying to find out how to get it started. There is a URL but no one apart from Mike Mason seems to have joined. I will persevere.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
25th April, 2012
Dear All,
Good news - I have discovered The Secret Of Life, the trick of being at one with the Universe rather than, frustratingly, at odds with it, and it is this - COMFORT. But, before I go into what I have discovered and how, a little of my work history is a relevant preamble.
I was, on and off across the last 20 years, a project manager in Ford, not in title, but effectively. Systems I designed, tested and launched, helped users do their work. They were effective. They dealt with realities. To that end, I fought with some of my managers who were more concerned with pretence and appearances that assisted their career aspirations rather than our systems’ effectiveness. Luckily, in the early days of my time in systems design, my Ford of Europe management encouraged effectiveness. More on this further down. It was only in my twilight years that the other type of manager emerged.
Ford, like most large organisations, was and probably still is, a status-based organisation. Many managers thought they were important (and popular) because of their job title - disregarding the consequences of how they spoke to subordinates or how they conducted themselves generally. As I approached retirement, there were people above me who claimed the Project Manager title but in reality knew only superficially, what we were doing. They were less familiar with how the system worked or why it did what it did.
A notable exception is my good friend Norman Lyons who was a bugger for the detail. Norman always wanted to know the ins and outs of a duck’s ask and made the time in his management meetings to understand why something happened as it did or why it couldn’t happen. For most managers, this is rare; at director level, even more so - but in the long-term, this attitude brought benefits. For instance, when we started up Autoeuropa in Portugal in the early 90s (which is why I was in Portugal for five years), the experienced accountants at the Portuguese Accounting Centre (PAC) advised us most seriously that we couldn’t operate Self-billed Invoices (SBIs) in Portugal as this was against the law. They were correct; it was.
Now I appreciate that many of you will neither know nor care what SBIs are, however, just for the purposes of this story, it may help to know that - they are ‘when Ford raises an invoice on itself’, based on what’s been received at the plants, rather than wait for the supplier’s invoice. This is quicker for both Ford and its suppliers, avoiding invoices being lost in the post or the delays from disputes that arise when invoices are for what the supplier meant to ship rather than what they did ship. Best of all, as SBIs come from Ford’s own systems, their appearance is standardised. They look the same - regardless of supplier, and have the same data elements, which, when passed to other Ford systems (automatically), allows Ford to pay suppliers - automatically. Everyone’s a winner. Once suppliers in Britain, Germany and Spain got the hang of this, SBIs became very popular as they got paid with less fuss and dispute than by the old ways.
There are a host of other benefits but for the purpose of this story, this is all you need. Just understand that Ford management felt it was an advantage to have SBIs. Our biggest European suppliers thought so too - therefore it would have helped Autoeuropa, a joint venture with VW in Portugal at that time. Ford, VW and all the big suppliers wanted it, but, it was against the law in Portugal as they were still using very old practices.
Once Norman had understood enough detail to accept, surprisingly graciously for a bloke that was used to getting his own way, that it was against the law, he took the Ford Account Partner from Coopers & Lybrand out to lunch, explained the benefits to Autoeuropa and to Portugal, and asked that he in turn, approach the Portuguese Finance Minister to accept a trial. This is the short version of what happened. SBIs were accepted and Portugal was helped - less than 20 years after its revolution, to join modern financial Europe.
The point about this being ‘less than 20 years after the Carnation Revolution’ - is key. Until 1974, Portugal had been - for many years - under the control of an authoritarian dictatorship. To my Portuguese friends who read this letter, sorry about reminding you of those dark days but it is probably only the old men with fire in their bellies back then; João Mattos, and Rogério, if João passes it on, who will remember those harsh times. The important thing is that only 19 years after such a cataclysmic upheaval, an embryo Portuguese democracy was willing to embrace what must have been - to a new emerging society, dramatic and frightening technology and process changes. They had been used to and had become comfortable with, well-established, old, traditional commercial practices that had long been superseded in the technologically adventurous democracies of Western Europe. Accepting SBIs required great bravery on their part. It would have been so much easier to move more slowly.
As usual, I have drifted off-track. The intent of this preamble was to tell you about the background to comfort, so, let’s skim through the second part.
Prior to this, in the mid-80s, I was given the task of developing COMPAC, a system for the Sales companies around Western Europe. We still had the Iron Curtain then so our Sales companies were only in Western Europe. Sales companies bought cars from Ford of Britain, Germany and Spain (who made them), then sold them to the dealers in each country West of the Iron Curtain, ranging from Ireland to Finland down through the Nordic region, via the Low Countries into France, Austria and Switzerland, across to Italy and back to Portugal.
Now this too could drift into a few pages of stories on COMPAC, as Heaven Knows, there are a host of them, but it is enough to say that this was another system that brought comfort to users through the witchcraft of technology. Small Sales Offices around Western Europe were - let’s face it - bullied into accepting something that they didn’t want - but once grudgingly set in place, something for which they became most grateful.
And now you start to see where I was heading with all of this rambling preamble - Comfort is so often the unforeseen by-product of imposed initial discomfort. Nearly everyone who had the SBI concept forced on them at the beginning, didn’t like it but eventually wouldn’t be without it; same for COMPAC; same for me here in Lincs. The discomfort of an imposed change has brought benefits that a) were never envisaged and b) that are now cherished.
So, what is comfort to me? Easy, it is finding again aspects of pleasure at the ‘simple’ end of the spectrum. I have time once more. Time for what? Time for anything I want; a cup of tea, read a book, go for a walk, take a nap.
When I lived in Essex, I had pressures - even in retirement, mostly, self-imposed. I committed to too much: lunches, dinners, drinks with mates, golf, rock concerts, holidays… It was a roller-coaster. I remember running for a train over a bridge in Newport station struggling with a suitcase and golf clubs so I could rush straight from a golf weekend in East Wales to start a week of golf in South West Wales. I was 60. You’d have thought some sort of sense might have prevailed at some stage of all this tearing about - but, no. Rush, rush, rush. I must have fun. It was compulsory.
Still, that’s the way life is. Due to life and our, let’s be fair - despite hiccups, relatively comfortable financial positions, we have so much on offer to us that we are spoiled; big TVs in our homes, often more than one, bristling with Freeview, Freesat, Sky, Virgin and BT Vision; books and kindles, iPods and iPads, plus films and DVDs with Director’s Cuts and outtakes available to us in so many ways - even on our phones. Then there is the Internet with its wealth of information, maps, more books, poems and fascinating videos via YouTube, or the moving, dazzling spectacle that is a rock or classical concert. And then our hobbies, Yoga, gyms and Pilates, Salsa, Rhumba, Zumba, sport in so many guises, the theatre, worldwide travel embracing exotic holidays or just plain weekend breaks… What a list! We have a groaning table before us.
More importantly, consider - the surreptitious menace of the new social phenomenon FOMO - Fear Of Missing Out. From this subtle, stealthy, sub-conscious, rarely-recognised and yet pervasive influence, we try to do everything that is marketed as ‘pleasure’ or Mind, Body and Spirit-enhancing, without stopping to consider whether standing still and gazing into space with an empty head is one of the options, or how much simple pleasure that brings. Zen Buddhism calls it meditation. The Western World calls it wasting time.
Happily, a few of you write or call me to share those moments when you too indulge in the deep, milk-chocolate luxury of - doing nothing. It’s almost like we’re a secret society who must keep our practices hidden as they are only for the closet hippy. “Do Nothing! Wod-ja mean ‘Do nothing’! Why aren’t you showing the world how much you’re enjoying yourself?”
Comfort for me, is the freedom to follow my heart. To accommodate my nature and not to have to do something. While life has now delivered me to calm waters (in the main), sadly, there is one area of life where I am denied this.
There is a woman, an ogre I believe, at HMRC, who is creating problems through a love of pedantry. I owe them money - I agree, £35 if I’m not mistaken, and I am willing to pay it as soon as they tell me the exact amount that they want. But before they can do that she wants to reopen years where tax returns have been made, accepted and the tax paid - all because I started a company to keep me amused and the brain active (?) back in Jan 2008. It earned a few thou each year (before costs), and I have paid the £600 tax for 2009 and 2010. It was never intended to earn a fortune, just to keep my hand in with business practices and various computer applications like Word, PowerPoint and Excel, and perhaps Dreamweaver and Photoshop.
Although the company started on 3rd Jan 2008, I submitted first ‘year’ accounts to 31st Jan 2009 to align with the reporting period decided by Companies House. When you consider that my company earned a dribble of money - £177 profit for that first year, does it really matter that the tax return went to 31st Jan and not 2nd Jan 2009? Apparently it does. It seems the nations finance’s will be thrown into disarray and anarchy will reign if the tax on the profit from a dot of a company for the period 3rd Jan to 31st Jan2009 is reported in the wrong year.
Now when you consider, if the resultant tax amounts to ‘one penny’, that will be a surprise to me. I am alarmed that our nation’s finances are so precariously balanced that this will matter. But, we are in a recession so I suppose every penny helps. I consider it my duty to put this right so will recalculate that year’s accounts, the resultant tax, and the two years that followed. Now some of you may say, “Why not give them a call?” - a good point and a worthy suggestion. It is always better to talk rather than just exchange letters or emails. So much more can be achieved.
The answer is simple, from my experience of calling the 0207 number on their letters, I believe they must have a policy of not answering, possibly enshrined in law - but I am just guessing here. However, I am led to this conclusion by the following. If you call a number and it just rings and rings, there is a time limit (5 mins? 10 mins?- dunno), then BT cuts you off. Having called them on six separate occasions, that is my only experience of this number. I suspect the phone is in a cupboard and no one can find the key. It couldn’t be that they haven’t provided enough phone lines to cope with demand. I am sure they monitor how many calls go unanswered so that they can adjust the facility accordingly. I saw this technology at JP Morgan Chase bank in Bournemouth in 2000 so I know it exists. No doubt HMRC are considering a measured response.
Having read and reread what she wants me to do for the open tax year and the two (previously-believed-to-be-closed) tax years, I had to smile. This could only happen in the overstaffed, uncoordinated and hopelessly amateurish and unrealistic public sector. We, the pendant and I, are going to be polishing my accounts to her satisfaction for some time to come. I will be as cooperative as she needs. After that, if it makes £1 of difference from what has been paid so far, plus the £35 that I think I owe, then I will sponsor the next one of you to run the London Marathon for £50.
More realistically, we, the pedant and I, will spend quite a lot of HMRC time and therefore public money, gilding the lily for a company that if it paid 100% tax, would make no impact at all on HMRC coffers. Having come from the private sector, I am appalled by how this woman is allowed to (expected to?) waste so much taxpayers’ money pursuing pointless detail. Surely by now someone in HMRC would have realised that it costs them money to chase small companies rather than have procedures that assess low value potential for positive cash flow.
But, for every cloud, there is a silver lining. I am chronicling all of this for an article that I hope to get published. Naturally, I have other stories to make this more interesting to the public, like the £11,000 fine they sent me when I first retired only to cancel that when they realised they had sent 63 (unjustified) fines to my address in Portugal for 9 years after I left, while they had a UK address for me all along in another of their departments. It seems HMRC departments don’t like to talk to each other. That only encourages cooperation and no one wants that.
Or the £13,000 from 130 x £100 fines that they sent to my son’s plastering firm, in 34 envelopes enclosing 130 return envelopes following a computer system changeover, which, when they realised the error - after my call, then got cancelled by another 130 fines - each for £0.00, in another 34 envelopes with another 130 return envelopes so we could send back 130 x £0.00. Great system design. No waste of computer time, paper, handling and postal costs there then?
There is more but I see the bottom of the page looming so suffice it to say that there is quite a bit of material if I find the time to write an article to tout around the tabloids.
For now, I urge you to join me in my pursuit of comfort via simplicity. Take your time. Do things properly not quickly. Smell the roses. Take naps and, in general, ask yourself honestly when your equilibrium is disturbed, “What does it matter?” So often the answer will be, it doesn’t.
Good news - I have discovered The Secret Of Life, the trick of being at one with the Universe rather than, frustratingly, at odds with it, and it is this - COMFORT. But, before I go into what I have discovered and how, a little of my work history is a relevant preamble.
I was, on and off across the last 20 years, a project manager in Ford, not in title, but effectively. Systems I designed, tested and launched, helped users do their work. They were effective. They dealt with realities. To that end, I fought with some of my managers who were more concerned with pretence and appearances that assisted their career aspirations rather than our systems’ effectiveness. Luckily, in the early days of my time in systems design, my Ford of Europe management encouraged effectiveness. More on this further down. It was only in my twilight years that the other type of manager emerged.
Ford, like most large organisations, was and probably still is, a status-based organisation. Many managers thought they were important (and popular) because of their job title - disregarding the consequences of how they spoke to subordinates or how they conducted themselves generally. As I approached retirement, there were people above me who claimed the Project Manager title but in reality knew only superficially, what we were doing. They were less familiar with how the system worked or why it did what it did.
A notable exception is my good friend Norman Lyons who was a bugger for the detail. Norman always wanted to know the ins and outs of a duck’s ask and made the time in his management meetings to understand why something happened as it did or why it couldn’t happen. For most managers, this is rare; at director level, even more so - but in the long-term, this attitude brought benefits. For instance, when we started up Autoeuropa in Portugal in the early 90s (which is why I was in Portugal for five years), the experienced accountants at the Portuguese Accounting Centre (PAC) advised us most seriously that we couldn’t operate Self-billed Invoices (SBIs) in Portugal as this was against the law. They were correct; it was.
Now I appreciate that many of you will neither know nor care what SBIs are, however, just for the purposes of this story, it may help to know that - they are ‘when Ford raises an invoice on itself’, based on what’s been received at the plants, rather than wait for the supplier’s invoice. This is quicker for both Ford and its suppliers, avoiding invoices being lost in the post or the delays from disputes that arise when invoices are for what the supplier meant to ship rather than what they did ship. Best of all, as SBIs come from Ford’s own systems, their appearance is standardised. They look the same - regardless of supplier, and have the same data elements, which, when passed to other Ford systems (automatically), allows Ford to pay suppliers - automatically. Everyone’s a winner. Once suppliers in Britain, Germany and Spain got the hang of this, SBIs became very popular as they got paid with less fuss and dispute than by the old ways.
There are a host of other benefits but for the purpose of this story, this is all you need. Just understand that Ford management felt it was an advantage to have SBIs. Our biggest European suppliers thought so too - therefore it would have helped Autoeuropa, a joint venture with VW in Portugal at that time. Ford, VW and all the big suppliers wanted it, but, it was against the law in Portugal as they were still using very old practices.
Once Norman had understood enough detail to accept, surprisingly graciously for a bloke that was used to getting his own way, that it was against the law, he took the Ford Account Partner from Coopers & Lybrand out to lunch, explained the benefits to Autoeuropa and to Portugal, and asked that he in turn, approach the Portuguese Finance Minister to accept a trial. This is the short version of what happened. SBIs were accepted and Portugal was helped - less than 20 years after its revolution, to join modern financial Europe.
The point about this being ‘less than 20 years after the Carnation Revolution’ - is key. Until 1974, Portugal had been - for many years - under the control of an authoritarian dictatorship. To my Portuguese friends who read this letter, sorry about reminding you of those dark days but it is probably only the old men with fire in their bellies back then; João Mattos, and Rogério, if João passes it on, who will remember those harsh times. The important thing is that only 19 years after such a cataclysmic upheaval, an embryo Portuguese democracy was willing to embrace what must have been - to a new emerging society, dramatic and frightening technology and process changes. They had been used to and had become comfortable with, well-established, old, traditional commercial practices that had long been superseded in the technologically adventurous democracies of Western Europe. Accepting SBIs required great bravery on their part. It would have been so much easier to move more slowly.
As usual, I have drifted off-track. The intent of this preamble was to tell you about the background to comfort, so, let’s skim through the second part.
Prior to this, in the mid-80s, I was given the task of developing COMPAC, a system for the Sales companies around Western Europe. We still had the Iron Curtain then so our Sales companies were only in Western Europe. Sales companies bought cars from Ford of Britain, Germany and Spain (who made them), then sold them to the dealers in each country West of the Iron Curtain, ranging from Ireland to Finland down through the Nordic region, via the Low Countries into France, Austria and Switzerland, across to Italy and back to Portugal.
Now this too could drift into a few pages of stories on COMPAC, as Heaven Knows, there are a host of them, but it is enough to say that this was another system that brought comfort to users through the witchcraft of technology. Small Sales Offices around Western Europe were - let’s face it - bullied into accepting something that they didn’t want - but once grudgingly set in place, something for which they became most grateful.
And now you start to see where I was heading with all of this rambling preamble - Comfort is so often the unforeseen by-product of imposed initial discomfort. Nearly everyone who had the SBI concept forced on them at the beginning, didn’t like it but eventually wouldn’t be without it; same for COMPAC; same for me here in Lincs. The discomfort of an imposed change has brought benefits that a) were never envisaged and b) that are now cherished.
So, what is comfort to me? Easy, it is finding again aspects of pleasure at the ‘simple’ end of the spectrum. I have time once more. Time for what? Time for anything I want; a cup of tea, read a book, go for a walk, take a nap.
When I lived in Essex, I had pressures - even in retirement, mostly, self-imposed. I committed to too much: lunches, dinners, drinks with mates, golf, rock concerts, holidays… It was a roller-coaster. I remember running for a train over a bridge in Newport station struggling with a suitcase and golf clubs so I could rush straight from a golf weekend in East Wales to start a week of golf in South West Wales. I was 60. You’d have thought some sort of sense might have prevailed at some stage of all this tearing about - but, no. Rush, rush, rush. I must have fun. It was compulsory.
Still, that’s the way life is. Due to life and our, let’s be fair - despite hiccups, relatively comfortable financial positions, we have so much on offer to us that we are spoiled; big TVs in our homes, often more than one, bristling with Freeview, Freesat, Sky, Virgin and BT Vision; books and kindles, iPods and iPads, plus films and DVDs with Director’s Cuts and outtakes available to us in so many ways - even on our phones. Then there is the Internet with its wealth of information, maps, more books, poems and fascinating videos via YouTube, or the moving, dazzling spectacle that is a rock or classical concert. And then our hobbies, Yoga, gyms and Pilates, Salsa, Rhumba, Zumba, sport in so many guises, the theatre, worldwide travel embracing exotic holidays or just plain weekend breaks… What a list! We have a groaning table before us.
More importantly, consider - the surreptitious menace of the new social phenomenon FOMO - Fear Of Missing Out. From this subtle, stealthy, sub-conscious, rarely-recognised and yet pervasive influence, we try to do everything that is marketed as ‘pleasure’ or Mind, Body and Spirit-enhancing, without stopping to consider whether standing still and gazing into space with an empty head is one of the options, or how much simple pleasure that brings. Zen Buddhism calls it meditation. The Western World calls it wasting time.
Happily, a few of you write or call me to share those moments when you too indulge in the deep, milk-chocolate luxury of - doing nothing. It’s almost like we’re a secret society who must keep our practices hidden as they are only for the closet hippy. “Do Nothing! Wod-ja mean ‘Do nothing’! Why aren’t you showing the world how much you’re enjoying yourself?”
Comfort for me, is the freedom to follow my heart. To accommodate my nature and not to have to do something. While life has now delivered me to calm waters (in the main), sadly, there is one area of life where I am denied this.
There is a woman, an ogre I believe, at HMRC, who is creating problems through a love of pedantry. I owe them money - I agree, £35 if I’m not mistaken, and I am willing to pay it as soon as they tell me the exact amount that they want. But before they can do that she wants to reopen years where tax returns have been made, accepted and the tax paid - all because I started a company to keep me amused and the brain active (?) back in Jan 2008. It earned a few thou each year (before costs), and I have paid the £600 tax for 2009 and 2010. It was never intended to earn a fortune, just to keep my hand in with business practices and various computer applications like Word, PowerPoint and Excel, and perhaps Dreamweaver and Photoshop.
Although the company started on 3rd Jan 2008, I submitted first ‘year’ accounts to 31st Jan 2009 to align with the reporting period decided by Companies House. When you consider that my company earned a dribble of money - £177 profit for that first year, does it really matter that the tax return went to 31st Jan and not 2nd Jan 2009? Apparently it does. It seems the nations finance’s will be thrown into disarray and anarchy will reign if the tax on the profit from a dot of a company for the period 3rd Jan to 31st Jan2009 is reported in the wrong year.
Now when you consider, if the resultant tax amounts to ‘one penny’, that will be a surprise to me. I am alarmed that our nation’s finances are so precariously balanced that this will matter. But, we are in a recession so I suppose every penny helps. I consider it my duty to put this right so will recalculate that year’s accounts, the resultant tax, and the two years that followed. Now some of you may say, “Why not give them a call?” - a good point and a worthy suggestion. It is always better to talk rather than just exchange letters or emails. So much more can be achieved.
The answer is simple, from my experience of calling the 0207 number on their letters, I believe they must have a policy of not answering, possibly enshrined in law - but I am just guessing here. However, I am led to this conclusion by the following. If you call a number and it just rings and rings, there is a time limit (5 mins? 10 mins?- dunno), then BT cuts you off. Having called them on six separate occasions, that is my only experience of this number. I suspect the phone is in a cupboard and no one can find the key. It couldn’t be that they haven’t provided enough phone lines to cope with demand. I am sure they monitor how many calls go unanswered so that they can adjust the facility accordingly. I saw this technology at JP Morgan Chase bank in Bournemouth in 2000 so I know it exists. No doubt HMRC are considering a measured response.
Having read and reread what she wants me to do for the open tax year and the two (previously-believed-to-be-closed) tax years, I had to smile. This could only happen in the overstaffed, uncoordinated and hopelessly amateurish and unrealistic public sector. We, the pendant and I, are going to be polishing my accounts to her satisfaction for some time to come. I will be as cooperative as she needs. After that, if it makes £1 of difference from what has been paid so far, plus the £35 that I think I owe, then I will sponsor the next one of you to run the London Marathon for £50.
More realistically, we, the pedant and I, will spend quite a lot of HMRC time and therefore public money, gilding the lily for a company that if it paid 100% tax, would make no impact at all on HMRC coffers. Having come from the private sector, I am appalled by how this woman is allowed to (expected to?) waste so much taxpayers’ money pursuing pointless detail. Surely by now someone in HMRC would have realised that it costs them money to chase small companies rather than have procedures that assess low value potential for positive cash flow.
But, for every cloud, there is a silver lining. I am chronicling all of this for an article that I hope to get published. Naturally, I have other stories to make this more interesting to the public, like the £11,000 fine they sent me when I first retired only to cancel that when they realised they had sent 63 (unjustified) fines to my address in Portugal for 9 years after I left, while they had a UK address for me all along in another of their departments. It seems HMRC departments don’t like to talk to each other. That only encourages cooperation and no one wants that.
Or the £13,000 from 130 x £100 fines that they sent to my son’s plastering firm, in 34 envelopes enclosing 130 return envelopes following a computer system changeover, which, when they realised the error - after my call, then got cancelled by another 130 fines - each for £0.00, in another 34 envelopes with another 130 return envelopes so we could send back 130 x £0.00. Great system design. No waste of computer time, paper, handling and postal costs there then?
There is more but I see the bottom of the page looming so suffice it to say that there is quite a bit of material if I find the time to write an article to tout around the tabloids.
For now, I urge you to join me in my pursuit of comfort via simplicity. Take your time. Do things properly not quickly. Smell the roses. Take naps and, in general, ask yourself honestly when your equilibrium is disturbed, “What does it matter?” So often the answer will be, it doesn’t.
7th April 2012
Dear All,
I realise now that my earlier decision to drop the Round Robin in favour of the more personal missive was well-meant but poorly-thought out. Why not have both? It appears I am getting sluggish in my thinking. In the past, when faced with a choice of this or that, it has been my way to choose both. When did I lose that Freddie Mercury attitude? - “I want it all and I want it now!” No matter. It is back, at least in the matter of letter-writing. So, here is a general update of the last few days at Keysland and the start of life in Lincs.
It took a while to finish the kitchen and bathroom improvements at Keysland. Gremlins kept popping out and working their mischief. For every two steps forward there was an unforeseen step back; a technical problem here, a practical problem there. But for a day or so, the house was lovely. Eventually, the kitchen repaid the effort that went into designing it although the proof of the pudding will be how much it sways prospective tenants.
Before I ordered it, I asked friends’ wives what they would like in a kitchen. Naturally, this varied according to the size of family and therefore the needs of the woman I was speaking to. The most influential contribution came from my neighbour Natalie. She is a mum of three, ranging from 7 - 13. As that family has the demographic I am looking for in prospective tenants, Natalie had the most say in the design, although, anyone who offered an opinion had their views considered - except male mates whose opinion was generally along the lines of “What do want to change your kitchen for? It looks fine to me.”
The ladies though, while rarely voicing an open criticism of a 20 year-old kitchen, spoke volumes via the expressions on their faces. The same thing happened when I was trying to sell it back in 2007. The disappointment on the faces of the women who viewed the house and its sluggishness in selling, made me revisit my thoughts on not changing the kitchen and bathroom, and general freshening, like the removal of dado rails, replacing tired carpets here and there, smoothing of Artexed ceilings and repainting throughout. Let’s see how its current appearance affects its marketability.
After all of the work was done, the house’s appearance was pleasing - for well over a day. Then, the removals men delivered the boxes for packing and the house degenerated into chaos again. Its untidiness was just part of the discomfort. Not having to hand something that you need because it’s in a box somewhere, also is annoying. There were a lot of these irritations in the last couple of months, firstly from the ‘refresh the house’ work and then from the ‘I’m unavailable because I’m hiding in a box’ effect. Here in Lincs, the annoyance comes from things still hiding in boxes but also from this house being a lot smaller than Keysland. I can take them out of the boxes but there’s nowhere to put them.
It is fair to say, that no one is to blame but me. I have too many possessions. Bill Groves was helping me pack my kitchen and observed as he wrapped a dozen coffee cups and saucers… “For a bloke that lives on his own, you’ve certainly got a lot of cups.” A fair point, well made. The cups he was wrapping had not been used in years. Why did I have them? Simple, they were in the back of a cupboard and so - “Out of sight, out of mind”. How many of you practice this mantra? When I find them again, a local charity shop will be getting a visit.
Similarly, I have brought a dozen suits with me that will never see the light of day. The only use I have for a suit nowadays is to attend a funeral. So, there we have the need clearly defined - one dark suit, one white shirt, one black tie, one pair of black shoes and a sad expression. The other 100 or so ties will, when I find them, go the same route as the suits. Spalding’s charity shops will think Christmas has come early.
I called British Heart Foundation yesterday to come and collect my conservatory furniture - the three piece suite and two coffee tables. Why did I bring them? Who knows? They only fitted in Keysland because that has a big conservatory. As there is no conservatory here, what was I thinking when I decided that they would fit in somewhere? I even paid extra to the removals people to include them in the list of things to bring after initial exclusion from the estimate. Senility is such a harsh word, and yet…
The move went well; sunny in Essex as we packed, sunny in Lincs as we unloaded. The bungalow was an obstacle course once the moving men left, and still is of course, with boxes stacked floor to ceiling in every room and the hallway. But with each moment that passes, except as I sit at this PC, boxes get emptied, things find a home or go on a list for charity shop re-assignment, and the paths between rooms grow ever wider, ever clearer. However, let me mention, there is still no guest bedroom, unless you know how to sleep standing up.
The back grass got cut on Day 1. At Keysland, I preferred to use my roller-driven hand mower to cut the grass as that gives a really nice finish (with stripes), but the lawns here are bigger and due to the fact that this place has been standing empty since Feb, that grass was longer and lusher. Luckily, there is also an electric rotary mower. That’s the Good News. The Bad News is, I hadn’t used it since 1997. Due to favouring the hand mower, this one has been hiding in a corner of the garage for 14 years. Luckily, it fired up first time and made short work of the back meadow, so now I have a back lawn with a bad haircut, still, it’s neater than it was.
Well, that is more or less an outline of the move. If you want the long version give me a call. I can moan for hours. There are a dozen stories of things gone wrong. Nonetheless, I am happy in my new place and becoming happier with each box that gets emptied. The study is slowly re-filling with books and guitars. The kitchen cupboards are reloading and a streamlining of the crockery inventory is imminent. All is well with the world. You are all in my thoughts - each and every one - yes, even you.
I realise now that my earlier decision to drop the Round Robin in favour of the more personal missive was well-meant but poorly-thought out. Why not have both? It appears I am getting sluggish in my thinking. In the past, when faced with a choice of this or that, it has been my way to choose both. When did I lose that Freddie Mercury attitude? - “I want it all and I want it now!” No matter. It is back, at least in the matter of letter-writing. So, here is a general update of the last few days at Keysland and the start of life in Lincs.
It took a while to finish the kitchen and bathroom improvements at Keysland. Gremlins kept popping out and working their mischief. For every two steps forward there was an unforeseen step back; a technical problem here, a practical problem there. But for a day or so, the house was lovely. Eventually, the kitchen repaid the effort that went into designing it although the proof of the pudding will be how much it sways prospective tenants.
Before I ordered it, I asked friends’ wives what they would like in a kitchen. Naturally, this varied according to the size of family and therefore the needs of the woman I was speaking to. The most influential contribution came from my neighbour Natalie. She is a mum of three, ranging from 7 - 13. As that family has the demographic I am looking for in prospective tenants, Natalie had the most say in the design, although, anyone who offered an opinion had their views considered - except male mates whose opinion was generally along the lines of “What do want to change your kitchen for? It looks fine to me.”
The ladies though, while rarely voicing an open criticism of a 20 year-old kitchen, spoke volumes via the expressions on their faces. The same thing happened when I was trying to sell it back in 2007. The disappointment on the faces of the women who viewed the house and its sluggishness in selling, made me revisit my thoughts on not changing the kitchen and bathroom, and general freshening, like the removal of dado rails, replacing tired carpets here and there, smoothing of Artexed ceilings and repainting throughout. Let’s see how its current appearance affects its marketability.
After all of the work was done, the house’s appearance was pleasing - for well over a day. Then, the removals men delivered the boxes for packing and the house degenerated into chaos again. Its untidiness was just part of the discomfort. Not having to hand something that you need because it’s in a box somewhere, also is annoying. There were a lot of these irritations in the last couple of months, firstly from the ‘refresh the house’ work and then from the ‘I’m unavailable because I’m hiding in a box’ effect. Here in Lincs, the annoyance comes from things still hiding in boxes but also from this house being a lot smaller than Keysland. I can take them out of the boxes but there’s nowhere to put them.
It is fair to say, that no one is to blame but me. I have too many possessions. Bill Groves was helping me pack my kitchen and observed as he wrapped a dozen coffee cups and saucers… “For a bloke that lives on his own, you’ve certainly got a lot of cups.” A fair point, well made. The cups he was wrapping had not been used in years. Why did I have them? Simple, they were in the back of a cupboard and so - “Out of sight, out of mind”. How many of you practice this mantra? When I find them again, a local charity shop will be getting a visit.
Similarly, I have brought a dozen suits with me that will never see the light of day. The only use I have for a suit nowadays is to attend a funeral. So, there we have the need clearly defined - one dark suit, one white shirt, one black tie, one pair of black shoes and a sad expression. The other 100 or so ties will, when I find them, go the same route as the suits. Spalding’s charity shops will think Christmas has come early.
I called British Heart Foundation yesterday to come and collect my conservatory furniture - the three piece suite and two coffee tables. Why did I bring them? Who knows? They only fitted in Keysland because that has a big conservatory. As there is no conservatory here, what was I thinking when I decided that they would fit in somewhere? I even paid extra to the removals people to include them in the list of things to bring after initial exclusion from the estimate. Senility is such a harsh word, and yet…
The move went well; sunny in Essex as we packed, sunny in Lincs as we unloaded. The bungalow was an obstacle course once the moving men left, and still is of course, with boxes stacked floor to ceiling in every room and the hallway. But with each moment that passes, except as I sit at this PC, boxes get emptied, things find a home or go on a list for charity shop re-assignment, and the paths between rooms grow ever wider, ever clearer. However, let me mention, there is still no guest bedroom, unless you know how to sleep standing up.
The back grass got cut on Day 1. At Keysland, I preferred to use my roller-driven hand mower to cut the grass as that gives a really nice finish (with stripes), but the lawns here are bigger and due to the fact that this place has been standing empty since Feb, that grass was longer and lusher. Luckily, there is also an electric rotary mower. That’s the Good News. The Bad News is, I hadn’t used it since 1997. Due to favouring the hand mower, this one has been hiding in a corner of the garage for 14 years. Luckily, it fired up first time and made short work of the back meadow, so now I have a back lawn with a bad haircut, still, it’s neater than it was.
Well, that is more or less an outline of the move. If you want the long version give me a call. I can moan for hours. There are a dozen stories of things gone wrong. Nonetheless, I am happy in my new place and becoming happier with each box that gets emptied. The study is slowly re-filling with books and guitars. The kitchen cupboards are reloading and a streamlining of the crockery inventory is imminent. All is well with the world. You are all in my thoughts - each and every one - yes, even you.
18th March 2012
Hello everyone,
This is probably the last Round Robin style of letter you will get from me, certainly from this address. I am not in favour of Round Robins generally as I find them a bit impersonal for exchanges between friends. However, I recognise that they are sometimes necessary and certainly better than no letter at all. Future letters though, will be addressed to you personally, tailored for our friendship and sent from my new address which will be active from April as I plan to move at the last weekend in March. I hope to be in Lincs for a few years but as Life continues to bowl me googlies, who can tell?
There is no phone number for the moment as it is early days and I just haven’t set that up yet. I’ll let you know as soon as a number is arranged. On this subject, to my suppliers of e-mail jokes, photos, amazing facts(?) and PowerPoint presentation gems, once broadband is set up, I’ll be in touch to resume the old service.
On the matter of communications, the Ventarant forum will start in earnest and there will be a lot more additions to my blog site - Letters To My Grandchildren’s Grandchildren, which ruminates on the world that I have seen in the last sixty or so years.
For those of you with Facebook, you won’t find this new address in there - or indeed, any mention of this move. For that forum, I will continue to publish a heady mix of fact and fiction to mess up their sales of data - without our permission - to advertisers. However, I may add bits about my recent Eastern European marriage-of-convenience bride, the murder I am planning and the indecently-huge lottery win of a few months ago. Nonetheless, Facebook is an important outlet for people who want to share the fact that they have beans on toast for dinner and are not looking forward to the ironing. Revelations of this nature are intensely personal so we must thank Facebook for providing the opportunity to publish such intellectual gold.
My new place is a bungalow in a quiet tributary of a cul-de-sac, set on a relatively new estate; something in the style of Steeple View. A walking distance pub and nearby golf courses nearby have been identified but are still to be explored. It has three bedrooms so the second one (rather large) will be adopted as a study/music room, with the smallest one for guests.
There is a garage for Mum’s stuff, the accumulated sentimental detritus of an octogenarian's lifetime plus photos and LPs, Grandma D’Abreo’s wedding present crockery from India and Dad’s tools, again saved for their sentimental value. I wouldn’t know how to use them. They’re a bit technical (and calibrated in Imperial) as he was an engineer. Plus my golf stuff and the gardening/ barbecue equipment. The garden is small and happily, South-facing with a patio, somewhere to enjoy the evening sunshine in the coming months and muse on the capricious hand that Life deals when in playful mood. I thought in retirement, that Life would get simpler. Apparently, I am the only simple element in this equation.
As a gardener, I am looking forward to the Spalding Tulip festival on the first Saturday in May. Looks like I’ve timed it just right, although… the early arrival of spring may confound the tulips. BBC News advises that there are fields of daffs dying in Scotland as the pickers are still in the South where the kinder weather of this winter has brought out the daffs a bit earlier than usual. If the tulips are also seduced into premature conflagration, then they may all be gone by the time of the festival. My camera will be on hand nonetheless.
Sorry to be babbling on about tulips but as I learn about the place where I will be living for a while, I am immersing in the local culture. The district is known as ‘South Holland’ due to historical links. Apparently, the World Tulip Festival was held here in 2008 - followed promptly by a festival named Tulipmania, (suggesting a bit of a bias in the arena of Hobbies). All of this happened at the start of May that year. Sounds like they had a busy time.
Now, in my experience, tulips last for a few weeks, possibly a month. I wonder what goes on in Spalding and Little Holland for the other 11 months of the year? I will investigate.
This is not the last you’ll see of me as I will be only a couple of hours away from Essex, my home for the last 55 years as D’Abreos were introduced to Basildon in 1956. While Basildon is my spiritual home and thus the invaluable repository of countless happy memories from childhood, through teen years and then into married (and then divorced) life, my nature’s desire to travel, meet new people and have new experiences is now being indulged.
Friends have commented on the fact that the great majority of my friends are here and have asked if I will miss you all. The answer is no, simply because, in my experience, friendship never ends. I do not see this as any sort of full stop. A little distance between us is merely an inconvenience. It does not draw a line, not for me at any rate and we will talk as easily tomorrow as we did yesterday. A few more miles and a different gap in time between our encounters, will not dent the quality of our friendship.
I am still in touch with friends made in Portugal 20 years ago. Beyond that, friends from school days 50+ years ago, gather here occasionally to remember the infant Basildon and the days when we respected our parents, never talking back and in fact, respecting all elders calling them Uncle and Auntie even when not related, rather than using their first name. Separately, close and valued cousins live in Perth, Australia, but despite the 12,000 miles that separate us, we chat by phone, text and e-mail. Due to the wonderful facilities at our disposal, that we take for granted so easily, within our lifetimes, the world has become a smaller place. Aren’t we lucky?
In reality, I will be in Essex now and again for visits to family and friends - so this is not the last you have heard from me.
On Stealing
(As you will see, this started in Nov. 2011. Here we are in June 2012. Life flies by, doesn't it?)
For me, stealing, like lying, is another of those very natural human tendencies. By this I don't mean a few pens from work or post-it notes. No, I mean proper stealing, things of substantial value like sick days when you're not sick, time on the Internet when you should be working - or someone else's husband or wife.
Watching the news across the last few days, stealing seems to have become an initiation ceremony for being recognised as working class. What a shame that the homes above the shops that were burnt were also destroyed - just for self-centred fun. As a Basildon Boy, I remember when being working class was a badge of honour. Now it seems synonymous with any aspect of loutish behaviour. However, to be fair, the people vandalising, looting and torching premises must be sub-working class. Firstly as they don't work, enjoying the benefits of a benefits-lavish society and secondly, as they are being criticised in TV interviews by true working class people.
Still, I can't talk, having stolen plenty myself. Stole the Crown Jewels once. Yep, on reflection, that was probably the biggest caper. Got them home, took a picture of myself with them (Polaroid of course, digital wasn't invented then), and got them back before they were missed. Just for the buzz. Just to prove I could - really! As my car dealer mates would say "Stand on me, John".
Probably, the most valuable commodity though, is other people's words, or more accurately, their thoughts as conveyed in those words. To me, these are beyond value. Perhaps 'stolen' is a little harsh here? 'Adopted' (and adapted), seems more accurate as the ownership and access to the words still lies with the authors.
I have a friend - Colin, who, knowing me well, as true friends do, got me a book called 'Inner Voyager' as a birthday present some 20 years ago. The book suggested that it was for recording your own philosophical views and inspiration. Of course, Colin was right. This was an ideal gift and it still plays a prominent role in my life today, guiding me and providing inspiration when my mood falters.
I don't use it quite as intended but adapt it to record phrases from life that convey engaging wisdom and precious moments. Phrases and scenes from films, TV programmes, books or conversations - that make me think or more importantly, make me feel. Here are some examples.
"Kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith, than Norman blood." Any idea what that means? Sounds honourable. I like it for the metre.
"The heart will know what the head will never see." I heard this 20 years ago and never quite remember it properly. I think it is a piece of poetry by Wordsworth but memory fails. Clara, if you ever read this. Please correct me.
And lastly, for this post, "Once the trust goes out of a relationship, it's really no fun lying to them anymore." Norm, out of Cheers.
So whether you see plagiarism as stealing, adopting or just plain enjoying, words bring gifts to us all.
For me, stealing, like lying, is another of those very natural human tendencies. By this I don't mean a few pens from work or post-it notes. No, I mean proper stealing, things of substantial value like sick days when you're not sick, time on the Internet when you should be working - or someone else's husband or wife.
Watching the news across the last few days, stealing seems to have become an initiation ceremony for being recognised as working class. What a shame that the homes above the shops that were burnt were also destroyed - just for self-centred fun. As a Basildon Boy, I remember when being working class was a badge of honour. Now it seems synonymous with any aspect of loutish behaviour. However, to be fair, the people vandalising, looting and torching premises must be sub-working class. Firstly as they don't work, enjoying the benefits of a benefits-lavish society and secondly, as they are being criticised in TV interviews by true working class people.
Still, I can't talk, having stolen plenty myself. Stole the Crown Jewels once. Yep, on reflection, that was probably the biggest caper. Got them home, took a picture of myself with them (Polaroid of course, digital wasn't invented then), and got them back before they were missed. Just for the buzz. Just to prove I could - really! As my car dealer mates would say "Stand on me, John".
Probably, the most valuable commodity though, is other people's words, or more accurately, their thoughts as conveyed in those words. To me, these are beyond value. Perhaps 'stolen' is a little harsh here? 'Adopted' (and adapted), seems more accurate as the ownership and access to the words still lies with the authors.
I have a friend - Colin, who, knowing me well, as true friends do, got me a book called 'Inner Voyager' as a birthday present some 20 years ago. The book suggested that it was for recording your own philosophical views and inspiration. Of course, Colin was right. This was an ideal gift and it still plays a prominent role in my life today, guiding me and providing inspiration when my mood falters.
I don't use it quite as intended but adapt it to record phrases from life that convey engaging wisdom and precious moments. Phrases and scenes from films, TV programmes, books or conversations - that make me think or more importantly, make me feel. Here are some examples.
"Kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith, than Norman blood." Any idea what that means? Sounds honourable. I like it for the metre.
"The heart will know what the head will never see." I heard this 20 years ago and never quite remember it properly. I think it is a piece of poetry by Wordsworth but memory fails. Clara, if you ever read this. Please correct me.
And lastly, for this post, "Once the trust goes out of a relationship, it's really no fun lying to them anymore." Norm, out of Cheers.
So whether you see plagiarism as stealing, adopting or just plain enjoying, words bring gifts to us all.
A Change of Plan
This blog got suspended soon after it started, as life became turbulent and complicated all of a sudden. Whoosh! No notice. Just like that - I was on a white water ride without the time to devote to an indulgence. Slowly, problems got cleared away and it culminated with a move from Thundersley, 100 miles North to Spading. It's all settled down now and here I am again, with more thoughts.
The first is that I should extend this beyond the 'Letters' that I planned at the start. Nothing is set in stone, other than things that are set in stone - and this is not one of them.
Since moving to Lincs, I have begun writing letters of the Round Robin variety to friends, mainly in Essex but elsewhere around the country too - plus a few friends and relatives abroad. These letters recount my experiences, moods and reflections now that I have more time on my hands. They will appear here for the convenience of those who prefer to read an Internet web site over a Word or PDF doc. However, as they are my thoughts, they qualify for publication here.
The first is that I should extend this beyond the 'Letters' that I planned at the start. Nothing is set in stone, other than things that are set in stone - and this is not one of them.
Since moving to Lincs, I have begun writing letters of the Round Robin variety to friends, mainly in Essex but elsewhere around the country too - plus a few friends and relatives abroad. These letters recount my experiences, moods and reflections now that I have more time on my hands. They will appear here for the convenience of those who prefer to read an Internet web site over a Word or PDF doc. However, as they are my thoughts, they qualify for publication here.
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