I'm a few days ahead of myself with this challenge (always good to have a few posts in hand with something like this, in case of unforeseen eventualities) so by the time you read this a week will have passed since the closing ceremony of the Olympics and I expect by now, in the way of these things, it's all just a rapidly fading memory. Normal service has been resumed on all channels and maybe even the interminable post-mortems will have become terminable, or terminated.
But for me, it was just last night. A madcap three hours of social networking as friends from as far afield as the other side of the world and literally as close as next door came together in our living room while I sat with iPad in hand both reading and writing a staccato running commentary.
So as the glow of what has been heralded as the best Olympics ever fades, I wanted to say a word about failure. And it's a good job I did, because that's the theme for today!
In among the many superb golds, world and Olympic records, and personal bests that have been clocked up over the last 17 days, I've been struck by the number of athletes who didn't win, and having had a microphone shoved under their noses before they've even had chance to catch their breath, felt compelled to say how sorry they were that they'd failed and "let everybody down."
Dear Athlete, Gymnast, Swimmer, Competitor: In what sense can you be said to have failed? Have you stopped trying? OK, maybe this was your last chance at an Olympic medal. Coming round so rarely, in many sports competitors only have two or three attempts to "medal" (one of the many dire "new verbs" we've been introduced to recently). You may have set yourself the goal of gold, but not achieving your goal is not the same thing as failure. Your attempt at the gold medal depended on so much more than your own efforts. How can you allow for others' training, skill, talent and preparation? Wind conditions (a particular bugbear in the pole vault, and some throwing events)? The last minute sore throat or dodgy stomach? None of these things are under your control. All of them can prevent you winning a medal.
Did you do your best, perhaps even achieving a personal best? You haven't failed.
Did you even make the attempt in the first place, when most of us can only lift ourselves off the sofa long enough to fetch another beer? You haven't failed.
Did you inspire even one young person to visit their local sports club this week, who wouldn't have otherwise gone? You haven't failed.
Did you make one person shout out in support, make one heart skip a beat, make one tear fall for joy or hope or pride? You haven't failed.
Did you turn one person, even for only a moment, from the weary path of the cynic to the sunny broad track of the committed competitor? You haven't failed. And on that basis alone I can tell you that none of you failed, because I was that cynic. And I was turned. If not into a believer then certainly, and perhaps only briefly, into an enthusiastic supporter.
Failure is a big word. And it is also, similar to opportunities and threats on which I wrote a few days ago, one of those things that can disguise itself very well. What might appear at first to be a failure could turn out to be nothing more than a stepping stone. A doorway to another future. A fork in the road. Or a bump.
Many people think fear of failure is a barrier to success, and it can be. What isn't often realised (except among coaches ;o)) is that an even bigger barrier is fear of success. At least that's one problem our Olympians don't have to worry about.
Showing posts with label london. Show all posts
Showing posts with label london. Show all posts
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Subtitles
Last week I was stuck in a hotel where BBC1 had been set to display subtitles without any apparent way to switch them off. This was annoying in the evening but the next morning on breakfast news it turned out to be hilarious.
One article about Russians doing a fake Mars walk ended with the presenter's comment "And all in the name of science!" which the subtitler translated into
"And all in the name of signs!"
Later, a package on the effects of bonfire night on pets included a comment by "some vets at one animal charity," which became mangled into
"Sunbeds at one animal charity..."
And in the same package when explaining that the nervous dog they wanted to "interview" was on his way into the studio but would be late on account of his owners' car having broke down, we got
"The owners kart broke down."
Being a big fan of Damn You Auto Correct I wondered whether there was a special site for subtitling howlers, but all I could find was a few blogs with examples - a bit like this one really :o) Digital Spy does have an interesting explanation about how they're done for live broadcast. An operator rereads the speech into voice recognition software, so that explains a lot!
One article about Russians doing a fake Mars walk ended with the presenter's comment "And all in the name of science!" which the subtitler translated into
"And all in the name of signs!"
Later, a package on the effects of bonfire night on pets included a comment by "some vets at one animal charity," which became mangled into
"Sunbeds at one animal charity..."
And in the same package when explaining that the nervous dog they wanted to "interview" was on his way into the studio but would be late on account of his owners' car having broke down, we got
"The owners kart broke down."
Being a big fan of Damn You Auto Correct I wondered whether there was a special site for subtitling howlers, but all I could find was a few blogs with examples - a bit like this one really :o) Digital Spy does have an interesting explanation about how they're done for live broadcast. An operator rereads the speech into voice recognition software, so that explains a lot!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Snouts in the trough
Politicians, eh? My dear old Dad always used to call it a dirty business, and by God he was right. Even if you accept for one minute the old chestnut trotted out on every news bulletin in the past few weeks - that people go into it in the hope they'll be able to make a difference - it's clear there's a whole bucketload of truth in the adage that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Among the miles of column inches and video footage that's poured from the media since this story broke, there are some who claim there are more important stories that should be grabbing our attention in these credit crunchy times, that the sums of money involved are relatively small (in government terms, if not in average people's salary terms) and that maybe not everyone at Westminster is to blame. A lot of this, for me, misses the point. The point is: integrity. The expectation of it, the lack of it, and its apparent replacement by hubris.
I can't say I'm happy to pay taxes. Is anyone? When I look at my pay slip each month and work out how much is taken away before I see any of it, I scratch my head and sigh. When I was younger I naively consoled myself with the thought that those responsible for spending the money we all grudgingly hand over were at least using it for the general good, to improve the lot of the community and to support the less fortunate. Years of watching them blow billions of pounds on fatuous schemes, illegal wars and town twinning put paid to that notion, leaving behind a much less attractive reality - that successive governments exhibit greater or lesser degrees of incompetence but in the end they are, all of them, incompetent to some degree.
But at least, I told (fooled) myself, they weren't benefiting personally. Were they? Well yes, of course they were. Where there's power and influence, there's money. And where there's money, there's the chance to pocket some of it. And where there's a chance, for most people, there's a temptation, a shrug, and a quiet trousering of the wad.
Credibility, my old boss used to say, is like virginity: one cock-up and it's gone forever. And throughout this sorry tale, there's been much more than one, as credibility and integrity have been shredded. Some random thoughts:
One of the things that has many people scratching their heads is the entire question of having two homes, where one of them is effectively paid for on expenses. What is that all about? There are countless thousands of people who have to work in the City, and live elsewhere. They commute. They work just as long - or longer - hours than politicians, often for much less money. If they don't commute daily, they stay in hotels and claim the cost of that on expenses. Works perfectly well for them, why not for MPs?
If there's a question of security, or for some unfathomable reason London hotels are not suitable for politicians despite being just fine for every other businessman and woman in the capital, then build somewhere, or compulsorily purchase somewhere, and fit it out for the purpose. Either way it's got to be cheaper than the current scheme. And they don't need flock wallpaper and 17th-century desks. They're supposed to be working people. Regular furniture from IKEA is good enough for us, so it's good enough for them. There's only 600-odd of the buggers, and they don't all need another London pad anyway.
And finally, and probably most surprising to the general public, is this whole business of the incompetence or downright fraudulent behaviour in the fees office. Anyone who has worked for a UK company will have had to submit expenses for travel, accommodation, or small purchases needed in the course of doing their job. The Chief Executive of McDonalds, Steve Easterbrook, made exactly this point on Question Time last week. Why is it so hard? He, or any UK business leader, could solve this broken process in a week, given chance and the will to solve it. But maybe that's just the problem? They don't really want it solved. Not by "an outsider." They want another arcane, secretive, self-monitored scheme so they can carry on with their snouts in the trough while giving the impression of reform.
Among the miles of column inches and video footage that's poured from the media since this story broke, there are some who claim there are more important stories that should be grabbing our attention in these credit crunchy times, that the sums of money involved are relatively small (in government terms, if not in average people's salary terms) and that maybe not everyone at Westminster is to blame. A lot of this, for me, misses the point. The point is: integrity. The expectation of it, the lack of it, and its apparent replacement by hubris.
I can't say I'm happy to pay taxes. Is anyone? When I look at my pay slip each month and work out how much is taken away before I see any of it, I scratch my head and sigh. When I was younger I naively consoled myself with the thought that those responsible for spending the money we all grudgingly hand over were at least using it for the general good, to improve the lot of the community and to support the less fortunate. Years of watching them blow billions of pounds on fatuous schemes, illegal wars and town twinning put paid to that notion, leaving behind a much less attractive reality - that successive governments exhibit greater or lesser degrees of incompetence but in the end they are, all of them, incompetent to some degree.
But at least, I told (fooled) myself, they weren't benefiting personally. Were they? Well yes, of course they were. Where there's power and influence, there's money. And where there's money, there's the chance to pocket some of it. And where there's a chance, for most people, there's a temptation, a shrug, and a quiet trousering of the wad.
Credibility, my old boss used to say, is like virginity: one cock-up and it's gone forever. And throughout this sorry tale, there's been much more than one, as credibility and integrity have been shredded. Some random thoughts:
- The expenses fiddling had been going on for years. There's no evidence that anything would have changed if there'd been no leak, despite there being gross, obvious and ongoing breaches of rules, lack of correct monitoring and a general approach of grabbing whatever they could
- When it began to occur to them that we might find out, they continued to do everything possible to cover it up. Parliamentary Ombudsmen who got too close to the truth were sacked, or prevented from doing their job. Motions were passed to try to prevent the application of the FoI Act to MPs. The general impression, far from being one of gravitas and integrity, was more like the behaviour of ants when their nest is uncovered. Scrabbling around trying to hide the treasure
- Once the truth was out, suddenly everyone was a "victim of the system." I've done nothing wrong, I obeyed the rules, why didn't someone tell me I couldn't claim for decorating, moat cleaning, 17th-century mahogany hand-carved furniture, etc, etc. For people who supposedly have the intelligence and leadership qualities necessary to run a country, this was at least disingenuous. I've seen better behaviour from schoolchildren.
- It soon became clear that claiming to only have followed rules wasn't going to wash with the public, who not surprisingly expected more from their leaders. So did they come clean? No. They started looking for a scapegoat, of course. Step forward Speaker Michael Martin, who was required to fall on his sword as the man in charge of the fees office, which presumably was staffed exclusively by people who couldn't tell the difference between a legitimate expense and a fiddle. Today's Matt cartoon in the Telegraph was spot on. Two MPs are standing in the shadow of the House of Commons and one says to the other: "As soon as I saw what I'd been up to, I knew the Speaker had to go"
- Even though the solution to the problem should be very simple - it is one, after all, that every major company in the country solves on a daily basis - the arch complicator Gordon Brown as usual managed to make it sound like a problem so complex that it challenged the brightest minds in government. (*cough*) It was going to take weeks, maybe months to come up with a solution. Remember this: it takes a really intelligent, innovative and astute person to analyse a situation and come up with a simple solution. Just about anyone can think of a way of solving a problem that is long-winded, complicated, and difficult to manage.
- Finally, we had a bit of a backlash from the smarting MPs who didn't like the thought of their gravy train being derailed. One overblown ego even went so far as to claim that the whole expenses debacle was driven by jealousy, just because "I've got a very big house." I don't know about you, but I don't want the country to be run by people like that. People who think the country owes them whatever they choose to take, that privileges are theirs by right and the rest of us should keep our noses out of their business because we're clearly too thick, or too jealous, or too insignificant. Politicians serve the people, not the other way round, and servitude exhibits humility, integrity, compassion and hard work.
One of the things that has many people scratching their heads is the entire question of having two homes, where one of them is effectively paid for on expenses. What is that all about? There are countless thousands of people who have to work in the City, and live elsewhere. They commute. They work just as long - or longer - hours than politicians, often for much less money. If they don't commute daily, they stay in hotels and claim the cost of that on expenses. Works perfectly well for them, why not for MPs?
If there's a question of security, or for some unfathomable reason London hotels are not suitable for politicians despite being just fine for every other businessman and woman in the capital, then build somewhere, or compulsorily purchase somewhere, and fit it out for the purpose. Either way it's got to be cheaper than the current scheme. And they don't need flock wallpaper and 17th-century desks. They're supposed to be working people. Regular furniture from IKEA is good enough for us, so it's good enough for them. There's only 600-odd of the buggers, and they don't all need another London pad anyway.
And finally, and probably most surprising to the general public, is this whole business of the incompetence or downright fraudulent behaviour in the fees office. Anyone who has worked for a UK company will have had to submit expenses for travel, accommodation, or small purchases needed in the course of doing their job. The Chief Executive of McDonalds, Steve Easterbrook, made exactly this point on Question Time last week. Why is it so hard? He, or any UK business leader, could solve this broken process in a week, given chance and the will to solve it. But maybe that's just the problem? They don't really want it solved. Not by "an outsider." They want another arcane, secretive, self-monitored scheme so they can carry on with their snouts in the trough while giving the impression of reform.
Friday, March 28, 2008
London
When Nikki said she'd found a train ticket deal for a day trip to London, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. There was no doubt it was an excellent deal - £16 return for the day compared to the £236 I usually pay to travel down on business - but those last few words held the key to my dilemma. I go down there so often with work (and hate it every time) - how would I feel as a day tripper? Wasn't it going to be a bit of a busman's holiday, even though we were going by train?I needn't have worried. I didn't have to rush, or leave early, or battle the rush-hour tube, or carry a laptop bag everywhere with me, so the entire trip was much more relaxed and didn't have the slightest resemblance to a work day.
We left Piccadilly on the 9.15 and arrived just before 11.30. Not really having any firm plans for the day (a mistake, as it later turned out) we set off to spend a couple of hours in the Science Museum. This proved a bit disappointing. Parts of it were being refurbished and the rest had been thrown out of kilter by having some exhibits housed in alternative positions. I also found many of the displays - designed for today's youth with their microsecond attention spans - quite unsatisfying to browse, although there were some neat items like the first Cray supercomputer and the original DNA model that Watson and Crick put together.
Emerging from the museum around 1pm and unsure where to head next, we walked around the block through a short shower of rain - the only rain we suffered during the whole day - passing the Albert Hall and then setting off for Kensington to find a place to lunch. Walking down Kensington High Street, we passed Paul Weller - our only celebrity encounter of the day.Eventually we recognised a few landmarks and ended up at the Lord Moon of the Mall - the Wetherspoons pub at which we had intended to meet up with a bunch of friends several years before but which had been closed back then owing to a bomb scare in Whitehall.
A couple of pints and a sandwich later, we were suitably refreshed and set off again in the general direction of Westminster. When I first visited London - a 17th birthday present from my parents - we had ticked off all the major tourist destinations. Back then this included Downing Street, and we were able to walk right up to the front door of No. 10 and stare into the whites of the eyes of the single London bobby who stood on duty protecting the head of Government.
Clearly the head of Government requires a deal more protection these days. Not only is it impossible to get within 50 feet of No. 10 owing to the road being closed off with several tons of ironwork and automatic barriers that rise silently from the road, but the single bobby has been replaced with an entire squad of armed police in Kevlar vests, sporting automatic rifles.
They smile at the passing tourists, but the smile doesn't quite reach their eyes. I walk past similar barriers, even sturdier and with an even larger police presence, every time I visit Westminster. It's a blight on the London landscape. Do other countries feel the need to protect their PM this way, or is it just rampant paranoia? I don't know, but I can't help feeling that it may all look very impressive, but none of it would stop a determined terrorist with an ounce of sense.
We walked over Westminster Bridge, snapping away at the Eye and the bizarre artwork outside the Dali exhibition, and along the other side of the river (Jubilee Walk is it? Or something) where four strange figures dressed all in silver were standing or sitting motionless except for the breeze-induced flutterings of their monochrome costumes. Every now and then one of them might lean forward unexpectedly to bop anyone who threw change into his pot lightly on the head with a long silver staff. This lady merely sat with her demur smile fixed prettily on her face, holding her hat on against the wind. London in all its mad eccentricity. Top stuff.Walking back over Jubilee Bridge we stopped for a pint in the Sherlock Holmes before wending our way slowly back to Euston. Here's where our lack of planning really bit home. We arrived at Euston three hours before our scheduled departure time. Not really enough time to pack in any other sightseeing and still feel comfortable about making the train (the dealtime tickets were only valid for the 9.05pm departure), or eat in a fancy restaurant where we couldn't guarantee the speed of service. So we holed up in a bar just around the corner from Euston and then, still with a couple of hours to kill, sat down to a plate of Harry Ramsden's fish, chips and mushy peas in the station caff.
The pre-Summer Time light was fading fast as we walked to the main station entrance on the way to that fine repast. Countless times I've passed through Euston and this was my first chance to take photos. Maybe I should invest in a pocket digital of the kind Nikki uses, and carry it everywhere. Maybe I should turn into a photoblogger. Maybe I should stop stressing about this stuff. Anyway, here's Euston. And there we go - back to Manchester, arriving at 11.29 pm. Footsore and sleepy, but having had a strangely fulfilling experience.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Three short ones
Travel to London always seems to get the blogging juices flowing, and today was no exception.
The Tutter.
This morning, catching the Tube from Victoria Station heading for Westminster, I stood next to a tutter. I don't know what she expected. It was 8.30 on a Tuesday morning. The middle of the rush hour. And yet whenever anyone jostled her, she'd make with an annoyed little tut. Like it was a personal affront, or something. I was behind her on the platform and we stepped aboard together. Having already had to let one train go due to overcrowding, those behind us were determined not to be caught out again, and heaved forward into the train, forcing us right up against those already standing inside. Sardines have it better. But it's nothing unusual for that time of day, on that particular part of the Underground.
After the train departed, the jostling continued for some minutes, as people made themselves more comfortable and adjusted their body shapes to fit whatever space remained. An elbow here. A laptop bag there. Tut. Tut. Tut.
The Wrong Date.
I've been blogging about travelling down to London on and off for almost two years, and actually making the journey for a lot longer. One thing has always puzzled/annoyed me. That car park in Fairfield Street never has the right date on its ticket machine. How hard can it be, I thought each time the ticket was served up, to set it to the right date? In my experience it is the only machine to suffer from this ignominy, but for at least three years it has been set exactly one day ahead.
On occasion it's even occurred to me to phone the number on the machine and complain. Why don't you get the flippin' date right on your machine? Funnily enough, after all these years when it's been the only machine with this problem, I found another one last week when I went to Wakefield to give a presentation. Right opposite our offices. Same problem.
Am I glad I never called up to moan about it. Don't know what it was about this morning that made me more awake than usual, but I finally had a Doh! moment and realised what was going on. It's a full day journey to Westminster and back. I feed the machine to the max. £4.50. It gives me a 24-hour ticket. It shows the expiry time. Tomorrow.
For an intelligent guy I can be *really* dumb sometimes.
Final presentation.
The last of my roadshow presentations this afternoon, and a much reduced audience after last week's high of 19. Both morning and afternoon sessions only had 5 attendees but the second one was marred by one of my audience texting throughout the whole performance. I'd have considered this rude whatever the size of audience but with just the six of us in a tiny meeting room it was not only rude but astonishingly blatant. A couple of the messages were deemed amusing enough to show to her immediate neighbour, along with exchanged smiles.
I just kept on talking. The consummate professional. The old guy at the front never noticed the smiley exchanges. He was asleep for almost the whole thing.
The Tutter.
This morning, catching the Tube from Victoria Station heading for Westminster, I stood next to a tutter. I don't know what she expected. It was 8.30 on a Tuesday morning. The middle of the rush hour. And yet whenever anyone jostled her, she'd make with an annoyed little tut. Like it was a personal affront, or something. I was behind her on the platform and we stepped aboard together. Having already had to let one train go due to overcrowding, those behind us were determined not to be caught out again, and heaved forward into the train, forcing us right up against those already standing inside. Sardines have it better. But it's nothing unusual for that time of day, on that particular part of the Underground.
After the train departed, the jostling continued for some minutes, as people made themselves more comfortable and adjusted their body shapes to fit whatever space remained. An elbow here. A laptop bag there. Tut. Tut. Tut.
The Wrong Date.
I've been blogging about travelling down to London on and off for almost two years, and actually making the journey for a lot longer. One thing has always puzzled/annoyed me. That car park in Fairfield Street never has the right date on its ticket machine. How hard can it be, I thought each time the ticket was served up, to set it to the right date? In my experience it is the only machine to suffer from this ignominy, but for at least three years it has been set exactly one day ahead.
On occasion it's even occurred to me to phone the number on the machine and complain. Why don't you get the flippin' date right on your machine? Funnily enough, after all these years when it's been the only machine with this problem, I found another one last week when I went to Wakefield to give a presentation. Right opposite our offices. Same problem.
Am I glad I never called up to moan about it. Don't know what it was about this morning that made me more awake than usual, but I finally had a Doh! moment and realised what was going on. It's a full day journey to Westminster and back. I feed the machine to the max. £4.50. It gives me a 24-hour ticket. It shows the expiry time. Tomorrow.
For an intelligent guy I can be *really* dumb sometimes.
Final presentation.
The last of my roadshow presentations this afternoon, and a much reduced audience after last week's high of 19. Both morning and afternoon sessions only had 5 attendees but the second one was marred by one of my audience texting throughout the whole performance. I'd have considered this rude whatever the size of audience but with just the six of us in a tiny meeting room it was not only rude but astonishingly blatant. A couple of the messages were deemed amusing enough to show to her immediate neighbour, along with exchanged smiles.
I just kept on talking. The consummate professional. The old guy at the front never noticed the smiley exchanges. He was asleep for almost the whole thing.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Wet wet wet
First time at Euston this year, and first time since they finished that escalator refurbishment. You know what? After all those months of effort, it looks EXACTLY THE SAME as it did before. Presumably it has all new gubbins underneath but the moving bits look just as scabby and the handrails just as worn and tatty. Glad we spent all that money on it.
It was pissing down when I emerged from Westminster tube too. Stupidly I'd seen the forecast but forgotten to bring my brolly. Maybe there'd be a handy taxi? No such luck. It was just shy of 9 o'clock and they were all full. I walked. I got drenched. I sat in the meeting steaming quietly to myself. Both physically and figuratively (it was an annoying and frustrating meeting).
It was pissing down when I emerged from Westminster tube too. Stupidly I'd seen the forecast but forgotten to bring my brolly. Maybe there'd be a handy taxi? No such luck. It was just shy of 9 o'clock and they were all full. I walked. I got drenched. I sat in the meeting steaming quietly to myself. Both physically and figuratively (it was an annoying and frustrating meeting).
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Outlaws #5 - Passport to Pimlico
With the alarm set for 5.30am, it was just like a normal working day for me as I crawled bleary-eyed out of my pit to use the bathroom and make way for Nikki and Shirley. After a quick cup of coffee, I ran them to Piccadilly Station, retrieved their tickets from the FastTicket machine and made sure they knew which platform to use for the 7.05 to Euston. That will get them in at around 9.20am and then they have to make their way to Trafalgar Square.
I advised the tube to Charing Cross but Nikki didn't fancy the crush, preferring instead the option of a taxi despite my warning that at that time of day the queues would be massive.
My job for the day was looking after Neil. This is not so very different from the running order established at the beginning of the week, except that I have sole responsibility for making sure he takes his pills, doesn't get lost anywhere and doesn't spend too long in the pub. I returned home and waited for him to join the rest of us in bidding hello to Wednesday, took him out to buy his papers and made his breakfast.
Around 11am I had a call from Nikki to say they'd arrived at Canada House after queuing for more than half an hour for the taxi. Overall the journey from Euston to Trafalgar Square (four stops on the tube) had taken them an hour. I dropped Neil at the bookies in time to place his first bet and returned home to investigate the cost of using a courier to pick up the passport - assuming it will be ready tomorrow and that this would prove a cheaper option than going back again on the train.
One of the problems is that, even though they had already pulled all of Shirley's details from the records and were therefore sitting there with her photo in front of them before she ever walked in the room, the completed application still has to be checked and verified in Ottawa before the UK embassy can issue a replacement. Thank God for the time difference, but even allowing for that there is no guarantee they can turn this round in a day, and absolutely no chance of it being achieved while you wait.
The problem with the courier option is that if someone else picks it up on your behalf, they must be carrying a signed letter of authorisation from the person in whose name the passport is issued. An original, not a photocopy or fax. So the courier would have to start at Manchester, pick up the letter, drive to London (to arrive before the closing time of 1.30pm), collect the passport and return to Manchester. The first firm I tried estimated this cost to be £208+VAT, the second said vaguely that it would be "about £300."
Suddenly a second train journey was looking like the most attractive option.
Nikki even started to think about sending her Mum back and staying overnight herself to collect the passport, but with no guarantee it would be there tomorrow (the staff member they spoke to even said it might take "two or three days") this just seemed like a step too far.
I picked Neil up from the bookies and took him for a cheese and paté lunch at the Royal Oak. With not knowing how long the processing would take at Canada House, we'd booked Nikki and her Mum on a fairly late train coming back. Luckily Virgin took pity on them and let them on an earlier train - the 15.05 - so after another spell in the bookies and a pint at the Southern we went to meet the train just before 6 and headed off for dinner at Deckers.
Conversation at dinner, naturally, centred on the stupidity of a process that forced already stressed citizens to perform two round trips of 400 miles in as many days, and then strayed into the likelihood of the paperwork being turned round in Ottawa overnight in time for collection tomorrow. If it isn't, then Shirley and Neil's tickets for their flight on Friday will be worthless and they'll have to renegotiate another flight on Air Transat (who only fly twice a week) or go for the much more expensive Air Canada option - who at least fly every day.
That is, thankfully, a bridge we don't need to cross just yet. A problem for another day. Tomorrow's problem.
I advised the tube to Charing Cross but Nikki didn't fancy the crush, preferring instead the option of a taxi despite my warning that at that time of day the queues would be massive.
My job for the day was looking after Neil. This is not so very different from the running order established at the beginning of the week, except that I have sole responsibility for making sure he takes his pills, doesn't get lost anywhere and doesn't spend too long in the pub. I returned home and waited for him to join the rest of us in bidding hello to Wednesday, took him out to buy his papers and made his breakfast.
Around 11am I had a call from Nikki to say they'd arrived at Canada House after queuing for more than half an hour for the taxi. Overall the journey from Euston to Trafalgar Square (four stops on the tube) had taken them an hour. I dropped Neil at the bookies in time to place his first bet and returned home to investigate the cost of using a courier to pick up the passport - assuming it will be ready tomorrow and that this would prove a cheaper option than going back again on the train.
One of the problems is that, even though they had already pulled all of Shirley's details from the records and were therefore sitting there with her photo in front of them before she ever walked in the room, the completed application still has to be checked and verified in Ottawa before the UK embassy can issue a replacement. Thank God for the time difference, but even allowing for that there is no guarantee they can turn this round in a day, and absolutely no chance of it being achieved while you wait.
The problem with the courier option is that if someone else picks it up on your behalf, they must be carrying a signed letter of authorisation from the person in whose name the passport is issued. An original, not a photocopy or fax. So the courier would have to start at Manchester, pick up the letter, drive to London (to arrive before the closing time of 1.30pm), collect the passport and return to Manchester. The first firm I tried estimated this cost to be £208+VAT, the second said vaguely that it would be "about £300."
Suddenly a second train journey was looking like the most attractive option.
Nikki even started to think about sending her Mum back and staying overnight herself to collect the passport, but with no guarantee it would be there tomorrow (the staff member they spoke to even said it might take "two or three days") this just seemed like a step too far.
I picked Neil up from the bookies and took him for a cheese and paté lunch at the Royal Oak. With not knowing how long the processing would take at Canada House, we'd booked Nikki and her Mum on a fairly late train coming back. Luckily Virgin took pity on them and let them on an earlier train - the 15.05 - so after another spell in the bookies and a pint at the Southern we went to meet the train just before 6 and headed off for dinner at Deckers.
Conversation at dinner, naturally, centred on the stupidity of a process that forced already stressed citizens to perform two round trips of 400 miles in as many days, and then strayed into the likelihood of the paperwork being turned round in Ottawa overnight in time for collection tomorrow. If it isn't, then Shirley and Neil's tickets for their flight on Friday will be worthless and they'll have to renegotiate another flight on Air Transat (who only fly twice a week) or go for the much more expensive Air Canada option - who at least fly every day.
That is, thankfully, a bridge we don't need to cross just yet. A problem for another day. Tomorrow's problem.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
A time warp in Westminster
I travelled down to London again yesterday. At Euston, as it has been the last four or five times I've arrived there, the escalator down to the Underground was boxed off and ornamented by a sign saying that the escalator refurbishment would be going on until December, with only one escalator in operation at any time. Passengers going down are expected to walk - some of them dragging heavy suitcases behind them; some of them making heavy weather of the climb due to infirmity.
At the ticket office level, a further escalator - to the Victoria and Northern lines - is closed for routine maintenance which is, apparently, going to take six weeks.
Arriving at Westminster and walking past the seat of government, I couldn't help noticing that the alterations to the roadway immediately outside Parliament have been completed in record time. On my trip the time before last they hadn't started; last time they were in full flow, with the entire road including halfway down Millbank cordoned off and the roadway excavated; now (only a week later) the works are complete, the barriers are being removed and the road is paved in shiny new blocks.
The message is, it's important not to inconvenience those important civil servants and MPs as they hurry about their job of running the country. The average citizen can be forced to endure months of inconvenience because they don't matter.
At the ticket office level, a further escalator - to the Victoria and Northern lines - is closed for routine maintenance which is, apparently, going to take six weeks.
Arriving at Westminster and walking past the seat of government, I couldn't help noticing that the alterations to the roadway immediately outside Parliament have been completed in record time. On my trip the time before last they hadn't started; last time they were in full flow, with the entire road including halfway down Millbank cordoned off and the roadway excavated; now (only a week later) the works are complete, the barriers are being removed and the road is paved in shiny new blocks.
The message is, it's important not to inconvenience those important civil servants and MPs as they hurry about their job of running the country. The average citizen can be forced to endure months of inconvenience because they don't matter.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
A Day in Westminster
Spotted another number plate this morning while I was walking through Westminster: NOT 2B.
It was on a Bentley this time. Very posh. Very Shakespearean. Still, they're all loaded round there. Wouldn't surprise me if he had another one in the garage plated up with "2B", for those days when he wakes up in a more positive frame of mind.
I had this mental image of him finishing his breakfast of lightly poached kippers and wandering out to the lobby to be greeted by the chauffeur:
"2B or NOT 2B today, sir?"
"Ah. That, Jeeves, is the question!"
It was on a Bentley this time. Very posh. Very Shakespearean. Still, they're all loaded round there. Wouldn't surprise me if he had another one in the garage plated up with "2B", for those days when he wakes up in a more positive frame of mind.
I had this mental image of him finishing his breakfast of lightly poached kippers and wandering out to the lobby to be greeted by the chauffeur:
"2B or NOT 2B today, sir?"
"Ah. That, Jeeves, is the question!"
Thursday, May 03, 2007
My pointless existence
I got up at the usual time today. I make a point of mentioning that because ordinarily, when it's a day for travelling to London, I have to be up at stupid o'clock (like 4 or 5am) to catch an early train. Today, the meeting I headed for was at 3pm, with a small pre-meeting, so there was no rush. I caught the 7.05am to Euston and so had a leisurely start.
The 7.05 is an express. Direct to Euston without stopping (except at Stockport of course, for historical reasons) it takes about 2 hours and because it is so quick it's usually packed out. I was lucky to get a table.
But the journey was one of those pointless business trips that any sensible person would assume no longer happens in the 21st century. I got up, washed, dressed, waited for the taxi, arrived at the station, bought a ticket, caught the train, then the tube, walked past the Houses of Parliament, and ultimately arrived at the office. It was around 10am. As usual when I turn up somewhere, I was roped into another meeting - this time to discuss how we're going to manage the series of customer workshops that need to take place once we've signed the contract tomorrow. Nothing I couldn't have done on the phone. When three o'clock rolled around we filed into the review meeting. Part of the business process, this meeting confirms that the contract is "good business" and that there are no problems with the solution, plan, resourcing or commercial agreement.
My job is to state that the solution is deliverable and that the plans have been underwritten by the development units. So I expected that sometime around 3.30 I would be asked that question, and I would say "Yes." That's all. Me saying "yes" was the sole purpose of my trip today. I felt like the man from del Monte. But I have to say it in the room. Like some archaic scene from a Dickensian workhouse, I have to be there. In person. Because that's the way it works. In fact, to discourage (as in, totally prevent) anyone dialling in to the meeting, the organisers don't provide a voice conference number.
Having said yes, I further expected to have to sit there throughout the rest of the meeting listening to the ebb and flow of the debate about whether we can sign the contract or not. People with egos the size of planets trying to score points off each other and prove they're more on the ball than the next person. And when it's all over, I would pack up my laptop and make the return journey.
It didn't quite turn out like that. Since the solution hasn't changed since the last approval review, there were no burning questions about it, so the board member chairing the meeting never looked in my direction, never asked a question and never once mentioned the solution (except to ask the development unit director whether we'd done stuff like this before). So I never got to say "yes." In fact, I never opened my mouth.
What's more, far from dragging on for an hour and a half, the meeting was over in 15 minutes. Now you might think that that's a bonus, but it just made me feel even more annoyed. I left the building at 3.35 and made it to Euston in time for the 4.05 back to Piccadilly. I arrived home almost exactly 12 hours after leaving. A 12 hour day to attend a meeting and not say a single word, just because that's what the process says we have to do. You might say the process is broken. I couldn't possibly comment.
The 7.05 is an express. Direct to Euston without stopping (except at Stockport of course, for historical reasons) it takes about 2 hours and because it is so quick it's usually packed out. I was lucky to get a table.
But the journey was one of those pointless business trips that any sensible person would assume no longer happens in the 21st century. I got up, washed, dressed, waited for the taxi, arrived at the station, bought a ticket, caught the train, then the tube, walked past the Houses of Parliament, and ultimately arrived at the office. It was around 10am. As usual when I turn up somewhere, I was roped into another meeting - this time to discuss how we're going to manage the series of customer workshops that need to take place once we've signed the contract tomorrow. Nothing I couldn't have done on the phone. When three o'clock rolled around we filed into the review meeting. Part of the business process, this meeting confirms that the contract is "good business" and that there are no problems with the solution, plan, resourcing or commercial agreement.
My job is to state that the solution is deliverable and that the plans have been underwritten by the development units. So I expected that sometime around 3.30 I would be asked that question, and I would say "Yes." That's all. Me saying "yes" was the sole purpose of my trip today. I felt like the man from del Monte. But I have to say it in the room. Like some archaic scene from a Dickensian workhouse, I have to be there. In person. Because that's the way it works. In fact, to discourage (as in, totally prevent) anyone dialling in to the meeting, the organisers don't provide a voice conference number.
Having said yes, I further expected to have to sit there throughout the rest of the meeting listening to the ebb and flow of the debate about whether we can sign the contract or not. People with egos the size of planets trying to score points off each other and prove they're more on the ball than the next person. And when it's all over, I would pack up my laptop and make the return journey.
It didn't quite turn out like that. Since the solution hasn't changed since the last approval review, there were no burning questions about it, so the board member chairing the meeting never looked in my direction, never asked a question and never once mentioned the solution (except to ask the development unit director whether we'd done stuff like this before). So I never got to say "yes." In fact, I never opened my mouth.
What's more, far from dragging on for an hour and a half, the meeting was over in 15 minutes. Now you might think that that's a bonus, but it just made me feel even more annoyed. I left the building at 3.35 and made it to Euston in time for the 4.05 back to Piccadilly. I arrived home almost exactly 12 hours after leaving. A 12 hour day to attend a meeting and not say a single word, just because that's what the process says we have to do. You might say the process is broken. I couldn't possibly comment.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Not what I call a Sunday
Regular readers might remember that I had a weekend stolen not so long ago. Unbelievably that piece of work is still grinding on, and we have a "final" - competitive - presentation to give to the customer tomorrow, so now I've had a Sunday stolen too.
In the end, we gave the after-show party a miss. I disappeared upstairs early evening to write up my review of Doctor Who for TV Scoop, which we'd time-shifted, and having been distracted with other stuff while I was online 11pm soon rolled round, by which time Nikki had fallen asleep on the sofa and neither of us really felt like going.
A good thing as it turned out, since we were expecting the workmen back this morning and I had loads to do before catching the 14.10 train to Euston. When they arrived they made suitable expressions of sympathy at the chipped tile, and offered to break it out and replace it. They'll have to be very careful - if they break even one element of the heating pad, the whole thing will stop working. They've done this before, apparently, and have a 100% success rate, but even so there's a risk. It was a hard decision whether to leave it or chance it, but in the end I decided we haven't had the benefit of the heating yet, so if it never works that'll be just one of those things. I'd rather not keep staring at that chip!
We have a fantasy art picture of a mermaid which we decided would be perfect for the space between the windows. You'd better believe that whenever I hang it I'll be standing on a very thick mat while I'm holding the hammer.
I worked until 9.30pm tonight. I definitely wouldn't have fancied that with a party head on. One of the guys I was working with had been to a 40th birthday party the night before and he was *really* struggling. We arrived at the hotel at 9.50 and headed for the bar after checking in, only to find that the hotel restaurant had closed moments before. The four of us staying in the same hotel were pretty desperate for something to eat. I'd had nothing since breakfast and one guy hadn't eaten anything but a bag of crisps all day.
So we headed out around the corner to the local Indian restaurant: La Portes des Indes. We were lucky - the place closes at 10.30pm on Sundays and we made it with ten minutes to spare. The manageress said she'd be happy to serve us as long as we could choose our dishes within those ten minutes. We were so hungry that wasn't a hard task - we just went for the fixed menu. The place is stunning. Carved mahogany banisters everywhere, huge palm trees, expensively tiled floors. The fixed menu was excellent with a choice of three starters and four mains which we all shared, but when the bill came I was glad I was eating on expenses. Over £170 for the four of us, and beer at £7.60 a pint!
In the end, we gave the after-show party a miss. I disappeared upstairs early evening to write up my review of Doctor Who for TV Scoop, which we'd time-shifted, and having been distracted with other stuff while I was online 11pm soon rolled round, by which time Nikki had fallen asleep on the sofa and neither of us really felt like going.
A good thing as it turned out, since we were expecting the workmen back this morning and I had loads to do before catching the 14.10 train to Euston. When they arrived they made suitable expressions of sympathy at the chipped tile, and offered to break it out and replace it. They'll have to be very careful - if they break even one element of the heating pad, the whole thing will stop working. They've done this before, apparently, and have a 100% success rate, but even so there's a risk. It was a hard decision whether to leave it or chance it, but in the end I decided we haven't had the benefit of the heating yet, so if it never works that'll be just one of those things. I'd rather not keep staring at that chip!
We have a fantasy art picture of a mermaid which we decided would be perfect for the space between the windows. You'd better believe that whenever I hang it I'll be standing on a very thick mat while I'm holding the hammer.
I worked until 9.30pm tonight. I definitely wouldn't have fancied that with a party head on. One of the guys I was working with had been to a 40th birthday party the night before and he was *really* struggling. We arrived at the hotel at 9.50 and headed for the bar after checking in, only to find that the hotel restaurant had closed moments before. The four of us staying in the same hotel were pretty desperate for something to eat. I'd had nothing since breakfast and one guy hadn't eaten anything but a bag of crisps all day.
So we headed out around the corner to the local Indian restaurant: La Portes des Indes. We were lucky - the place closes at 10.30pm on Sundays and we made it with ten minutes to spare. The manageress said she'd be happy to serve us as long as we could choose our dishes within those ten minutes. We were so hungry that wasn't a hard task - we just went for the fixed menu. The place is stunning. Carved mahogany banisters everywhere, huge palm trees, expensively tiled floors. The fixed menu was excellent with a choice of three starters and four mains which we all shared, but when the bill came I was glad I was eating on expenses. Over £170 for the four of us, and beer at £7.60 a pint!
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
I met Wendy Richard today...
I was in London today for a business meeting. Nothing unusual about that, nor about the fact that, since the meeting finished early, we decided to repair to the pub around the corner for lunch. Come to think of it that is quite unusual. It would have been only the second time I'd visited that particular establishment, but the second time will have to wait: it was closed for refurbishment.
Following closely on the heels of Nic, who knows the local pubs in the same way as he knows everything else - thoroughly - we dashed around the corner into an alternative pub and ordered pints. As I turned to find a seat who should be standing next to me at the bar but Wendy Richard, aka the recently deceased Pauline Fowler from EastEnders.
It was at that point I turned into a gibbering wreck. I don't know what it is about being "around" famous people, but I don't cope with it very well. It's almost as if I'm trying to prove something. Along the lines of "I know you're famous but that doesn't cut any ice with me so I'm just going to treat you like anyone else and act completely normal and definitely not all fawning and star-struck." Only I don't act normal at all. I go completely the other way - wayyyyyyy too pally and sociable. Because even though I'm from the "friendly" North I just do not walk up to complete strangers at a bar and strike up a conversation as if we've known each other for years. But I did with Wendy. Not even a "hello, nice to meet you," or a "my name's John," or anything else that remotely resembled social graces. With no consideration of the fact that she probably just wanted to sit at the bar and have a quiet drink, I just sauntered up and asked "so what's next for you?"
I felt like Baby Houseman from Dirty Dancing where she meets Johnny Castle for the first time and says "I carried a watermelon."
Wendy removed her coat with infinite grace and replied politely "you can't have been watching much television over Christmas dear," referring presumably to the EE special that had been on which I expect covered something about the work she had lined up. No, I hadn't seen it, I admitted. She went on to tell me that she'd been on some breakfast programme and was about to do a spot on Wogan's radio show, but I wasn't really listening. I was already mortified at my presumption and looking to make my escape. One of the others asked me to order another drink and I gratefully turned around to address the barmaid. Wendy went back to her paper.
I couldn't leave it there though, could I? What would she think of me? So as I turned and walked past her with two drinks in my hands I said: "forgive me - us Northerners just strike up conversations without a by-your-leave." Wendy was ready for me again: "I'm from Middlesborough myself dear, so I quite understand." More embarrassment! Clearly if I'd been a real fan, I'd have known she was from oop t'North.
I sat down, reflecting on my total lack of social skill. I remember meeting Bryan Pringle in the Trip to Jerusalem one lunchtime many, many years ago. Bryan, most famous to me in those days for playing the part of 'Cheese and Egg' in a TV comedy called the Dustbinmen, had been appearing in a play at the Nottingham Playhouse and had also sought refuge in the pub. I spotted him when I was just about to leave the bar. "Hello Bryan!" I yelled, as if he was the long-lost best mate from my childhood, and when he smiled and said hello I beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the pub. Clearly I'd learned nothing about how to handle celebrity in the intervening 30+ years.
Next time I see someone famous I'll just nod and smile. Then they'll only suspect I'm simple minded - I won't have proved it.
Following closely on the heels of Nic, who knows the local pubs in the same way as he knows everything else - thoroughly - we dashed around the corner into an alternative pub and ordered pints. As I turned to find a seat who should be standing next to me at the bar but Wendy Richard, aka the recently deceased Pauline Fowler from EastEnders.
It was at that point I turned into a gibbering wreck. I don't know what it is about being "around" famous people, but I don't cope with it very well. It's almost as if I'm trying to prove something. Along the lines of "I know you're famous but that doesn't cut any ice with me so I'm just going to treat you like anyone else and act completely normal and definitely not all fawning and star-struck." Only I don't act normal at all. I go completely the other way - wayyyyyyy too pally and sociable. Because even though I'm from the "friendly" North I just do not walk up to complete strangers at a bar and strike up a conversation as if we've known each other for years. But I did with Wendy. Not even a "hello, nice to meet you," or a "my name's John," or anything else that remotely resembled social graces. With no consideration of the fact that she probably just wanted to sit at the bar and have a quiet drink, I just sauntered up and asked "so what's next for you?"I felt like Baby Houseman from Dirty Dancing where she meets Johnny Castle for the first time and says "I carried a watermelon."
Wendy removed her coat with infinite grace and replied politely "you can't have been watching much television over Christmas dear," referring presumably to the EE special that had been on which I expect covered something about the work she had lined up. No, I hadn't seen it, I admitted. She went on to tell me that she'd been on some breakfast programme and was about to do a spot on Wogan's radio show, but I wasn't really listening. I was already mortified at my presumption and looking to make my escape. One of the others asked me to order another drink and I gratefully turned around to address the barmaid. Wendy went back to her paper.
I couldn't leave it there though, could I? What would she think of me? So as I turned and walked past her with two drinks in my hands I said: "forgive me - us Northerners just strike up conversations without a by-your-leave." Wendy was ready for me again: "I'm from Middlesborough myself dear, so I quite understand." More embarrassment! Clearly if I'd been a real fan, I'd have known she was from oop t'North.
I sat down, reflecting on my total lack of social skill. I remember meeting Bryan Pringle in the Trip to Jerusalem one lunchtime many, many years ago. Bryan, most famous to me in those days for playing the part of 'Cheese and Egg' in a TV comedy called the Dustbinmen, had been appearing in a play at the Nottingham Playhouse and had also sought refuge in the pub. I spotted him when I was just about to leave the bar. "Hello Bryan!" I yelled, as if he was the long-lost best mate from my childhood, and when he smiled and said hello I beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the pub. Clearly I'd learned nothing about how to handle celebrity in the intervening 30+ years.
Next time I see someone famous I'll just nod and smile. Then they'll only suspect I'm simple minded - I won't have proved it.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Oxymorons
You've got to laugh, haven't you? Well at least, I did this morning walking through Westminster on my way to another of those interminable government meetings. I saw three things that ordinarily would have made me smile quietly to myself, or chuckle, but in the way of things comic their effect was cumulative, so by the time I came across the third I laughed out loud:
1. London cabs
Some of these have now started sporting the strapline "London black cabs - so much more than just a taxi" (or something like that). But are they though? No, not really. A taxi is a taxi - except of course for the legal difference between a hackney cab and a private hire vehicle. Why in today's world is it necessary to employ whizz-kid marketeers to tell us that something is "so much more" than it really is? I know what a taxi does. I know what it looks like. If it's raining, or I'm in a hurry, or where I'm going is too far to walk, I'll hail a cab. Otherwise I won't bother. I know how it works and what to expect. Why should I have to expect "so much more"? What else is there? Is the cabbie going to start offering me financial advice? Make me a BLT with tangy mayo to go? Cut my hair? No. Well, apart from the financial advice of course. Cabbies have been offering this unsolicited since time immemorial.
2. Scotland Yard.
The Met have employed the strapline "working together for a safer London" for some years now, but it's been a while since I've walked past their HQ. Last time I was there it looked quite accessible, but in the interim it has been surrounded by a steel-and-toughened-glass blast shield that could probably withstand the force of a Saturn V rocket from three feet. On top of that, the main door is protected with half-a-dozen of those thick concrete blocks that crop up in semi- permanent motorway repairs because they stay standing when hit by an articulated truck doing 60mph. So, lads, are we expecting trouble? Not QUITE achieved "a safer London" yet, then?
3. City of Westminster Cleaning Department.
My walk was briefly interrupted by a reversing council refuse collection vehicle (in the days before Political Correctness, we used to call them bin lorries) . This sparkly new vehicle was emblazoned with the words "Clean Streets" in two-foot-high green letters. As the driver completed his reversing manoeuvre, he flipped his cigarette butt out of the window onto the street, which heretofore had, presumably as a result of his colleagues' efforts, been Clean. Physician, heal thyself.
1. London cabs
Some of these have now started sporting the strapline "London black cabs - so much more than just a taxi" (or something like that). But are they though? No, not really. A taxi is a taxi - except of course for the legal difference between a hackney cab and a private hire vehicle. Why in today's world is it necessary to employ whizz-kid marketeers to tell us that something is "so much more" than it really is? I know what a taxi does. I know what it looks like. If it's raining, or I'm in a hurry, or where I'm going is too far to walk, I'll hail a cab. Otherwise I won't bother. I know how it works and what to expect. Why should I have to expect "so much more"? What else is there? Is the cabbie going to start offering me financial advice? Make me a BLT with tangy mayo to go? Cut my hair? No. Well, apart from the financial advice of course. Cabbies have been offering this unsolicited since time immemorial.
2. Scotland Yard.
The Met have employed the strapline "working together for a safer London" for some years now, but it's been a while since I've walked past their HQ. Last time I was there it looked quite accessible, but in the interim it has been surrounded by a steel-and-toughened-glass blast shield that could probably withstand the force of a Saturn V rocket from three feet. On top of that, the main door is protected with half-a-dozen of those thick concrete blocks that crop up in semi- permanent motorway repairs because they stay standing when hit by an articulated truck doing 60mph. So, lads, are we expecting trouble? Not QUITE achieved "a safer London" yet, then?
3. City of Westminster Cleaning Department.
My walk was briefly interrupted by a reversing council refuse collection vehicle (in the days before Political Correctness, we used to call them bin lorries) . This sparkly new vehicle was emblazoned with the words "Clean Streets" in two-foot-high green letters. As the driver completed his reversing manoeuvre, he flipped his cigarette butt out of the window onto the street, which heretofore had, presumably as a result of his colleagues' efforts, been Clean. Physician, heal thyself.
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