I grew up in a dictatorship…

I grew up in a military dictatorship.

I grew up in a country at war with itself.

I have been hit by stones thrown at me by children who used to be my friends because their parents saw my parents as the enemy.

I saw refugees carrying bundles lining the roads walking slowly, heads down away from the conflict.

I saw people with missing limps and bandaged heads begging for food in the town.

I have been in a car surrounded by demonstrators, the car was rocked, people were angry, it was close to a riot, we were fearful that we may not see the next day.

People close to us were hacked to death with machetes in their homes.

Older friends of mine went to fight proudly in their uniforms as soon as they were old enough.

As a child, the thing that made all of this real was when our dog was shot by a soldier.

Looking for Sally…

At high school, Sally was brilliant at pure maths. When the teacher raised a topic, she would research it in depth, she would learn complex proofs. She could create multi-dimensional worlds based on the maths that she read, she would play there, testing the work of geniuses.

Sally went to university to study maths. It was so boring! In her first exams, she came third out of 120. But she had done no work! She had soon realised that almost every lecture was about a topic she had already mastered, so why work? In her second set of exams, she came 10th, she had done no work and was still on course for a 1st but borderline.

Her third set of exams were a shock, 91st and borderline fail!

Sally was determined not to fail, her dreams depended on getting a doctorate, she needed to do research. What had she done for 3 years, had she day dreamed her future away?

Sally chose subjects she knew nothing about for her final year, that way she would be interested. She worked every hour she could until her final exams – 2:2 … borderline 2:1 – no doctorate for Sally.

The job market, Sally got jobs because she was clever. She lost jobs because she was too clever for her bosses. She belittled her colleagues by being so much faster and better. She was a maverick, her appraisals would say that she was “unmanageable”.

But she did learn. Sally learned about living in the real world as well as her dream world. She learned how to be patient and let others knowledge grow slowly. She learned how to be non-threatening. She learned how to be valuable to others. She learned how to help other very clever people give value to the world outside academia.

She saw an advert with the line “weirdos from William Gibson novels like that girl hired by Bigend as a brand ‘diviner’ who feels sick at the sight of Tommy Hilfiger“. She had never read William Gibson so she had no idea what this meant but she liked the sound of it. She wanted to be that girl.

Sally was that girl. She found herself in a place she had never dreamed of. The author of the advert was not clever enough to know what he would unleash…

A chip… (alternative ending)

Son

This is a difficult letter to write.

Please do not speak to your mother or your brother of its contents.

I am writing to you because of the work that you did before the war.

You were working in a noble cause to find treatments for cancer.

You are now working in a more noble cause to save the lives of many of our brave soldiers.

I know that you are sometimes abused for not fighting, the common man cannot see that some must fight at home using their brains.

You will have guessed now the subject of this letter.

You were right to tell me to visit the doctor.

Your suspicions, although you did not speak of them, were right.

He referred me to have a photograph taken of my lungs.

There is a spot, a small spot.

I am advised that it will grow, with it’s growth my cough will pass from being a mild irritant to being painful and distressing.

The greatest distress will be for those around me who will see my body gradually shrivel, they will see the pain that I am in, they will see my weakness, I will become dependent for the most basic of human needs.

I will continue working for as long as possible.

I will hide away from your mother and brother for as long as I can.

The effects of the war give me enough cause to work long hours and to sleep in the office from time to time, I am thankful for the role that I have.

And now for the real purpose of my letter.

I asked my doctor if there was a way to prevent me becoming a burden, of preventing the distress that the erosion of my health will cause.

He said that his oath prevents him from acting, but he will overlook the act of another.

The terrible purpose of my letter is to ask you to be that other.

The doctor will send for you and give you the signal.

Destroy this letter, just wait for the doctor, your actions will be clear at the time.

For what you will do, you are forgiven.

Your father

34 years later…

Brother

I went home last weekend, father is ill, seriously ill.

You need to go home and visit.

This could be the last time you see him looking healthy.

Catherine

A week later…

Son

I need to ask you to do a terrible thing.

I am dying, I saw my father die a slow lingering death, he became ashamed of the burden he put on the family and he asked me to do a terrible thing.

I am on the same path and I must ask the same of you.

I asked the doctor to help me on my way, he didn’t reply, he just changed the subject and then left. I don’t want your mother to have to cope with me as a deteriorate. If I need help, please help me. For what you will do, you are forgiven.

Six months later…

Son

It is time…

The next day…

I arrived, father was in sitting in his favourite chair, he was in pain, he acknowledged me with a weak smile.

He told me he had called the doctor to get something to ease the pain.

That night he went to sleep, the doctor said that he may not wake.

I sat with him for several hours.

I got up to go to stretch and have a short walk around the garden.

As I left the room there was a low wet cackle, he was gone.

I was spared…

A chip…

Son

This is a difficult letter to write.

Please do not speak to your mother or your brother of its contents.

I am writing to you because of the work that you did before the war.

You were working in a noble cause to find treatments for cancer.

You are now working in a more noble cause to save the lives of many of our brave soldiers.

I know that you are sometimes abused for not fighting, the common man cannot see that some must fight at home using their brains.

You will have guessed now the subject of this letter.

You were right to tell me to visit the doctor.

Your suspicions, although you did not speak of them, were right.

He referred me to have a photograph taken of my lungs.

There is a spot, a small spot.

I am advised that it will grow, with it’s growth my cough will pass from being a mild irritant to being painful and distressing.

The greatest distress will be for those around me who will see my body gradually shrivel, they will see the pain that I am in, they will see my weakness, I will become dependent for the most basic of human needs.

I will continue working for as long as possible.

I will hide away from your mother and brother for as long as I can.

The effects of the war give me enough cause to work long hours and to sleep in the office from time to time, I am thankful for the role that I have.

And now for the real purpose of my letter.

I asked my doctor if there was a way to prevent me becoming a burden, of preventing the distress that the erosion of my health will cause.

He said that his oath prevents him from acting, but he will overlook the act of another.

The terrible purpose of my letter is to ask you to be that other.

The doctor will send for you and give you the signal.

Destroy this letter, just wait for the doctor, your actions will be clear at the time.

For what you will do, you are forgiven.

Your father

34 years later…

Brother

I went home last weekend, father is ill, seriously ill.

You need to go home and visit.

This could be the last time you see him looking healthy.

Catherine

A week later…

Son

I need to ask you to do a terrible thing.

I am dying, I saw my father die a slow lingering death, he became ashamed of the burden he put on the family and he asked me to do a terrible thing.

I am on the same path and I must ask the same of you.

I asked the doctor to help me on my way, he didn’t reply, he just changed the subject and then left. I don’t want your mother to have to cope with me as a deteriorate. If I need help, please help me. For what you will do, you are forgiven.

A year later…

Brother

You need to go home and visit now

This could be the last time you talk to father.

Catherine

The next day…

I arrived, father was in bed, barely conscious, I think he acknowledged me.

I felt guilty.

That night he went to sleep, the doctor said that he may not wake.

I sat with him for several hours.

I got up to go to stretch and have a short walk around the garden.

As I left the room there was a low wet cackle, he was gone.

33 years later…

I am coughing, there is a dull ache in my chest.

the content

every character in described on this site is fictitious, including “me”

the stories are derived with significant licence from observations of real events

I might glue two or three observations together to create a story

the characters that participate in the stories are constructions created to put a little life into the stories

any similarity to a real person is purely unintentional and surprising since I try to make sure that I haven’t accidentally described someone

I hope you get something out it

Double glazing

J and D had a good day at the market, they shifted a lot of gear. They were successful together.

Tired with money in their pockets they packed up the stall, locked the van away and went for a drink.

The Old Duke was a quite traditional, a few dark and secluded spots away from the bar, a good selection of real ales and European lagers. The highlight was the small plates menu.

J and D sat down with some food and drink and started to relax.

Murmuring from a nearby table started to get louder, odd words started to make themselves clear above the background noise. There was some menace in the words, a sharpness, an edge, a need to create pain.

D looked over. The words stopped. Eyes were fixed on J and D. It was not comfortable. D looked away.

The group got up and walked slowly over to J and D, one of the group poked D in the arm, it was almost a punch, enough to bruise.

J said, “We’re going now”. The group said nothing.

J and D got up and pushed past the group as gently as they could.

D’s foot touched one of the group’s feet. He was shoved hard towards the door, he blundered into J. The foot’s owner quietly said, “You’ll pay for that!”

J and D started walking fast as soon as they got out of the door. They heard footsteps behind them getting louder. They started to run, the group did too.

D fell, the group were on him kicking and spitting. J turned and shouted, they stopped for a moment, D got up and ran. The group didn’t follow.

They ran home to their 19th floor flat, threw themselves down on the sofa shaking.

They didn’t say a word for 30 minutes.

J got up and said “tea?”, D nodded.

While the kettle boiled, J washed some dishes in the sink and stared out at the other blocks of flats. He didn’t really see the countryside in the distance. He did briefly notice some movement on a roof top – kids doing drugs, he thought.

A small hole appeared in the outer pane of glass, cracks radiated from it, a bullet dropped inside the double glazing.

Gateway to the Sahara

They were the only non-white family in the village. Although they all had British passports, they were foreigners in their own country. 25% of their genetics was from West Africa which meant, in an isolated country area where everyone else was pasty white, they stood out.

The locals could never remember his name. “N***r”, “s***o” and “j****e b***y” became familiar terms of endearment. The adults would never use the first two if they thought he could hear them, but he heard them. The children weren’t so careful.

He was desperate to play so he lived with it. And he played hard which meant that he gained some sort of respect. He was reasonably good at football and cricket which meant that they eventually wanted him on their side, he got picked ahead of the “fat” kid. His brother didn’t like sports, so he had a harder time.

At his school, which had around 600 children, there were only two others who “stood out”. One was in his class, he had darker skin and got most of the attention. Everyone called him “Sam”, even the teachers. Maybe they forgot his real name.

Strangely, he grew to like the term “j****e b***y”. He had grown up 100 miles south of the Sahara. The ground was mainly a thin sand coloured dust layered over hard sandy coloured ground with an occasional bush or tree. There was a small tributary of the Niger nearby which meant that every now and again the water table would be close enough to the surface to allow a few trees to grow. When the wind blew, and it did in the Harmattan season, the dust rose in the dry wind and created a haze that diffused the light and desiccated your skin. Not really like a jungle. And to be likened to a cute rabbit, well, what is bad about that?

Clever child …

The child pointed and said “she’s a n****r”.

The child was about 3 years old sitting in a shopping trolley pushed by her mother.

The mother shushed the child harshly.

The woman that the child pointed at turned around and looked at the child.

She smiled and spoke to her kindly and with love in her eyes

“You are a clever child. I was born in Africa, in a country called Ghana. I have brown skin like many people who are born there. Ghana is a long way from here. The sun shines a lot. We wear colourful clothes with reds and greens and yellows. The sea is near where I grew up, my brothers went fishing in small boats and caught huge fish which were delicious to eat. I live here now and I am happy here because I can meet lovely children like you.”

She turned around, pushed her trolley to the counter, paid and disappeared.

Gravitas – my mother …

I failed the job interview. The recruiter told me I lacked the gravitas required to do the job.

A blank confused look came to me. What do I do with that? Where can I get gravitas? What is gravitas? I was told I will know it when I see it.

So I looked it up:

In the British education system, gravitas was seen as one of the pillars of the moral formation of the English gentleman during the Victorian and Edwardian eras. It is partly derived from the notion of aristocratic pedigree, indicating polish, grace in manner as well as dignity in outward appearance.

Wikipedia

There are other definitions:

seriousness and importance of mannercausing feelings of respect and trust in others

Cambridge Dictionary

I particularly like:

A hidden, invisible but extremely palpable, perceptible Dark Jedi Power

Urban Dictionary

I took an intense course over several weeks entitled “Gravitas” where I examined my motivations, I examined what it is to be me. It taught me a huge amount and helped me be myself at work. It also helped me leave my job when I found that being myself and working with that company with those people incentivised to act in those ways were incompatible. But I still couldn’t define gravitas in a meaningful way.

It took my mother to teach me!

I used to imagine gravitas embodied in a middle aged white man with a paunch dressed in a suit smoking a large cigar. His shirt would be starched, the suit would have chalk stripes, the shoes shiny. His face would be slightly red, his nose a bit swollen, may be he enjoys a glass or two of port. But he would command the room, his voice would boom and everyone would say “yes sir”. I remember this guy walking around my school when I was about 14.

A much better image of gravitas came to me when I saw my mother’s way with people.

Suppose you saw a group of young people, late teens and early twenties outside your house apparently eyeing up the premises opposite, running in and out quickly, possibly looking to break in or steal a vehicle. What would you do?

Would you call the police? Would you call the owner? Would you confront them and warn them off? Would you be afraid? Would you be aggressive?

My mother was 5 feet 4 inches (1.62 metres) tall, in her 70s, slightly built, wearing a head scarf. She went out and spoke to them as the grandma everyone would want. She had a chat like she was chatting to her own grandchildren. She didn’t lecture them. She was calm. She soothed them. She respected them and they respected her. She was interested in them. She charmed them and made them feel that they should be respectful. I suspect they went away feeling they had been bewitched. They had changed their actions without knowing why and without being able to control themselves. She worked her special magic.

That is gravitas.

A Tale of Three Managers

Helmut

Helmut is a German technologist. He lives in Frankfurt. He moved there to develop his career as a technology leader. He is extremely successful. He is a widely recognised thinker, speaker and writer on the industrial use of new technologies.

Helmut gets his kicks when he is teaching, when he is waving his arms about, speaking passionately, drawing frenzied pictures to explain a complex concept. He is thrilled when he creates. He is excited when he wakes others up to new ideas. He loves to create excitement.

Helmut grew up in the black forest. He loves the mountains, the fresh air, and the lakes. He spend his spare time walking, skiing, and sailing. Getting back to nature allows him recuperate from the intensity of the corporate world. It allows his mind to recover. Towards the end of a weekend or more extended break you will find Helmut frantically scribbling down ideas in a mixture of words and pictures.

Jamie

Jamie’s accent is immediately recognisable to the non-Scot. It is Scottish. It has a slightly musical quality that holds the listeners’ attention. But to anyone brought up in Scotland, it is mystifying. There are elements of Glasgow, of Edinburgh, of the Highlands and some unplaceable oddities. Jamie is Scottish, posh Scots. He went to a very good school in England. He tries to hide his background by adopting a “Scottish” accent based on characters from the TV.

Jamie inherited a castle, a large estate which he has farmed for him and a collection of very valuable paintings. He has shipped the paintings to America where he now lives. No one in the USA spots the fake accent. Some people think it quaint and like to listen to him no matter what is actually said.

Jamie has two passions. His pictures and gambling. He just about balances his finances. The farm income and his job give him enough to live comfortably and to cover his losses. Big losses mean selling a picture. Big wins mean buying it back.

Jamie is intelligent. He is a theorist. A conceptual thinker. But when he talks he doesn’t care if he communicates. It is all about the voice. He loves to hear it. It is as though through oratory, in that perculiar accent, Jamie enters another universe where he is at the centre.

Zach

If there is a caricature of an American that will irritate the British then Zach is it. Film star looks, square jaw, bull neck, blue eyes, tall, loud, confident, talks and doesn’t listen. There is the goal, let’s go for it now, we will push through obstacles when we hit them.

Zach was always on the up. Could have played pro football but for injury. Glittering military career. Worked at the top consultancies. Lived in the most glamorous locations. He knew all the stars and even allowed himself to be an extra in a couple of movies. And then he joined us!

What is the opposite of a servant leader? What is the opposite of humble? Zach is! Who knows best? Who doesn’t need advice? That’s Zach! Zach knew us better than we knew ourselves and he knew what was best for us.

Me

I worked for Helmut first. Helmut was inspirational, I would have followed him into any venture that he tried. And I did try to. But Helmut knew me, what I was good at and what I wasn’t so good at. So when he got frustrated with corporate life, he moved on and I stayed put.

Then Jamie came along. This was a struggle that I eventually won. The guy tried to micro manage me. Plus he was a bully. After a bitter six month battle, he was fired. No one should go through the stress of being bullied. Some forms of bullying are illegal, why not all?

Zach was a whirlwind! He was gone before most people noticed he had joined us. The organisation regurgitated him like a pill it could not swallow.

Which brings us to Prem!

PREM

Prem was insecure. He came from an Indian family with a long and aristocratic history. He could bask in glory of his ancestors, but he was not adding to the story. He went to a second rate private school, his elder brothers went to more prestigious schools. He joined the navy because that was what expected of him. As an officer, he was never given respect by other officers or by those he commanded. When he left the navy, his service record was OK, but those he served with didn’t keep in touch. Prem left India and went to live in the USA. He joined a middle sized retailer with the help of an uncle. His career outside the navy was following a familiar path somewhere between success and failure.

Prem was headhunted, much to the surprise of his colleagues. He was offered a huge step up to create a new team. He jumped at it! It was finally a chance to make his mark, to be someone, to show the doubters, to prove himself. He would no longer be looked down on. He would no longer be mediocre.

But Prem had a flaw. He liked people around him who agreed with him, he wanted to be the cleverest person in the room, those who didn’t fit were quietly pushed out.

Me

Prem would have been the fourth manager in the tale of three managers. However, I had seen his style, I knew what was in store for me. I just wanted to do a good job for my customers and help my team become the best they could be. I was tired of the political battles. I was tired of the organisation protecting bullies at the expense of talent.

It was time to move on. Time for a sabbatical. Time to recover. Time to open my eyes to the outside world. Time to laugh. Time to get my creativity back.