Category life

Jun 3 2013

Building culture

River Gade and the Kodak building, Hemel Hempstead

River Gade and the Kodak building, Hemel Hempstead (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was my first day in a new job and coincidentally the first time I saw the office building in which I was to work. It was a plain, red brick, shoebox shaped affair. It must have taken all of 5 minutes work for the architect to come up with the design. Inside, the fittings were elderly and tatty. When I reached the door to our particular office, I took a moment to take in the atmosphere.

It was untidy. In one corner, a pool table sagged under the weight of old computer equipment. There were shelves everywhere struggling to support the myriad of computer books, some of which wouldn’t look out-of-place in the British Museum. The whole place reeked of quiet industry, everyone far too busy to even think about tidying up.

The company had just been acquired and a move to smarter premises was afoot. We moved into a floor of Kodak House, the tallest building in Hertfordshire. Although the building itself is drab on the outside, no expense was spared on the internal fixtures and fittings. Although it was nice to have such a pleasant place to work, there was a part of me that missed the atmosphere of the old office.

We weren’t there for too long before we moved into a brand new state of the art building. It looks very space age from the outside with vanes that track the angle of the sun to shade the building from excess sunshine. Unfortunately, they don’t work. They track the sun OK, but unfortunately don’t block it out so they are effectively useless. In fact they are worse than useless, because a man has to come out in a cherry picker now and then with a big spanner to tighten the nuts. If it gets too windy, the vanes blow off in spectacular fashion threatening to decapitate any passers-by.

Not only that, but the air conditioning is poorly configured. We are on the ground floor and we freeze. The guys on the top floor get so hot they cook so there’s no air conditioning setting to keep everyone in the building happy. The landlord’s solution – to fit heaters on the bottom floor so that we can keep out the worst of the chill. It’s such a clunky, inefficient fix but at least we don’t freeze anymore. The feeling of quiet industry is still there but there is more of a pride in keeping the place tidy.

We managed to maintain the culture despite occupying 3 very different office buildings. It was not the same story when I worked for BP. We had an aging tower block in the town centre, part of which was condemned. The office culture was amazing – everyone knew everyone else, despite it being a large building. We moved to a purpose-built affair close to the motorway. The building, allegedly in the style of a country manor house, won many awards for its architecture. Unfortunately, the layout of the place meant you were unlikely to bump into many other people day-to-day. Almost instantaneously, the buzz about the place died.

Our working environment has a big effect on the culture that exists within so it’s no wonder that companies like Google and Apple spend so much money on providing world-class office blocks for their employees to thrive in. In doing so, they need to be very careful they don’t lose their culture along the way.

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May 26 2013

Not in Kansas anymore

English: Kapitanska-captain's Polish vodka

English: Kapitanska-captain’s Polish vodka (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I became blase about travelling to Poland. After all, I’d been to Warsaw several times before. I remember one trip in particular when we went for a celebratory meal in a restaurant. It was a very cold January outside. Inside, it was like entering Dante‘s inferno. We travelled downstairs where the inside of the restaurant glowed red from the infernal heat of the kilns.

As we took off our coats, a waiter approached us brandishing a bottle. In heavily accented English he asked if we would like some vodka. We declined and asked for the wine list. He looked puzzled and offered the bottle again with a single word “vodka?” We gave up on the wine list and used one of the few Polish words we’d learnt. I held up 3 fingers and said “Pifco” indicating we’d like some beers. “Vodka?” was the reply.

The vodka was so cold that we found it refreshing in the searing heat of the restaurant. However, it didn’t last. The warmth of the surroundings seeped into the vodka and as the temperature rose, the drink became more and more chewy. The relief when the last of it disappeared was palpable. I couldn’t believe it when my boss called the waiter over and asked for another bottle. We all looked at him dumbfounded and he explained “We can’t just drink one bottle – they’ll think we’re poofs!”

This particular trip, however, was not to Warsaw – it was to the industrial heartland of Katowice. The plane was so small that the pilot gave the safety briefing. Katowice airport had exactly one gate, exactly one luggage carousel, exactly one x-ray arch and exactly one runway. Yet all the signage was strangely reminiscent of a larger airport. A young guy picked me up – a sheet of paper with our company logo the sole means of communication between us.

The hotel was an old KGB headquarters and seldom have I stayed in such a dour building. I checked in after a game of charades with the receptionist. Upstairs a bizarre Benny Hill style sketch played out between the prostitutes leaving cards with their phone numbers everywhere and the hotel staff getting rid of them.

I went down to the bar. Getting a drink was easy enough. Not only did I know the Polish word for beer, but there was a nice big pump I could point to. I asked for a menu and the barman looked puzzled. I mimed shovelling things into my mouth and the penny dropped. He gave me a laminated sheet which was no use to me at all – everything was in Polish characters.

I kept asking if anyone spoke English and after a while, someone had a light bulb moment. They dashed off and returned with a boy wearing a ridiculously large rubber apron and rubber gloves that looked like they might fall off any second.

“Please?” he said.

“Do you speak English?”

“Please?”

I thought what the hell and asked for a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. He nodded as if he understood and disappeared off to the kitchen. I sat back, wondering what manner of food lay ahead of me. After a short delay, a waiter appeared with a massive silver platter topped with a handled dome. With a flourish, he revealed my meal. Underneath was a beautifully prepared salad, topped with two slices of toast upon which stood a cube of cheese.

I couldn’t help but smile.

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May 19 2013

Jet lag

Jet Lag (album)

Jet Lag (album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After a long night flight, I don’t know what I want. I’m usually too wired to sleep and too tired to undertake anything but the simplest of tasks. I don’t know whether I feel hungry or thirsty. I just feel a general malaise and a burning desire for it all to go away. Unfortunately, there is no magic cure or none that I’m aware of. Depending on how far your journey took you and whether you went East or West, recovery could take days.

When I arrived home very early on Friday morning from Abu Dhabi, I felt exhausted. Last week was the company’s annual conference and it was a massive success. It was positive in every way, but it made no difference to the jet lag. After the buzz of the conference came the awfully timed flight home and that familiar washed out feeling when we landed.

My strategy for dealing with the jet lag was to stay awake for a few hours, have some lunch followed by a short nap in the afternoon. Hopefully, this would be just enough to bridge the gap until that night when I could crash out and hopefully sleep through until morning.

We decided to surprise our 3-year-old niece, Maisie, by picking her up from school. She had no idea and was expecting her mum to pick her up. When we arrived at the class room, the teacher carefully monitored the people coming into the classroom and released children as appropriate. Before the teacher could release her, Maisie spotted me and cried out “Mart-Mart” before running headlong towards me and jumping into my arms. The teacher smiled and nodded her assent for Maisie to go with us.

She showed me what she made at school that day and insisted on showing me her hook where we found her coat and her bag. She told me about her day and insisted on showing me the way home, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we had already found our way to the school in the first place.

We went out for lunch where we conspiratorially blew out all the candles we could find. Then we wafted as much smoke as we could from the smouldering wicks whilst laughing maniacally the whole time. I taught her to stick her finger in the melted wax to form a crust around her finger which made her laugh even more.

On the way home, I suggested that Maisie go back to her mum. After all, I really needed that nap. She insisted on coming with us to the house. As I lay on the sofa, she insisted on lying with me. After 5 short minutes we were both fast asleep.

If ever you have jet lag, seek out the Maisie in your life. I guarantee it helps.

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May 18 2013

You can’t be that fussy

English: Blonde girl Русский: Блондинка

English: Blonde girl Русский: Блондинка (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I didn’t want to go out. I wanted to stay in and revel in my misery, but my friend was insistent. Having recently split up with my girlfriend, the last thing I wanted to do was go out and party. My friend tried every trick in the book to persuade me to go out and eventually, against my better judgment, I acquiesced. That first conversation set the tone for the rest of the evening.

We met a few friends from college in a bar and had a few drinks. My melancholy softened, but never entirely went away. It was ever there in the background throbbing away like toothache. As the night wore on, someone suggested we extend the revelry by paying a visit to the local night club, The Living Room. Again, like a reluctant mule, I dug my heels in.

I stood with my arms crossed and slowly said “I am NOT going to the Living Room”.

Everyone in the group looked at me. My friend came over, put his arm around me and again tried to persuade me to tag along. I explained that the place would remind me of her, my ex. Even as the words came out, I felt the misery rise from inside me, threatening to tumble out in tears. Again, my friend used his silver tongue to win me round. Eventually, against my better judgment, I acquiesced.

There was only one table big enough for us all to sit round in the nightclub. It was a large square surrounded by a padded horseshoe seat. My friend and I sat to one side of the horseshoe. We must have looked like the two masks of drama. He was in his element. I was drowning in sorrow. The music pulsed around us, making conversation difficult.

“What do you think of her?” My friend asked.

On the opposite side of the horseshoe sat a girl I went to college with. Her doe like expression was surrounded by a flock of blonde hair. She was pretty, but did nothing to dispel the notion of dumb blondes. Alongside her sat her very plain-looking companion.

“I assume you mean Donna” I said, indicating my college friend.

He nodded and went on to explain that the slow dances would be on any minute. He wanted me to ask the plain girl for a slow dance leaving the way clear for him to ask Donna.

“No way.” I said.

Right on cue, the first slow record came on and couples started sloping off to the dance floor. My friend continued in his quest to persuade me. I continued to resist. The record finished and another came on. My friend went on and on until…

Eventually, I acquiesced. I stood, leaned across the table and asked the plain girl if she’d like to dance. She looked me up and down and said;

“No!”

I stood dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe it – No?? Before my brain could kick in and stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth, I spluttered;

“You can’t be that fussy!”

By this time, Donna realised what was underway and started whispering in her friend’s ear. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was obvious she was trying to persuade her to accept my offer. Eventually, she acquiesced and we made our way onto the dance floor for the most awkward slow dance I’ve ever had. I think we were both thankful for the fact that it didn’t last long.

On the way home, I remembered the events of the evening. For the first time since the break up, I laughed out loud.

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By bluedeckshoe • Posted in life
0
Apr 28 2013

What kind of juice would you like today Sir?

Orange juice

Orange juice (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I despise corruption. There’s something about a person entering an office which should be above reproach and abusing their post that really grates with me. In some countries though, corruption is almost a way of life. An Indian colleague told me a story about the corruption in his country. The subject material annoys me, but I liked the story.

He told me that when the police stop you in India, it is seldom for a particular traffic violation; they want a bribe. He rode home from work one evening and the police stopped him. To my colleague’s dismay, he realised how little money he carried. Getting stopped twice was not beyond the realm of possibility and he only had enough money for one bribe.

As he handed over the cash to the police officer, my colleague explained his predicament. For some reason, the officer sympathised with his cause and gave him the following piece of advice. If you get stopped again, just tell the officer you had orange juice this morning. My colleague went on his way, eager to get home.

On the way, another police officer stopped him. My colleague had no money to give this time, so he told this officer that he’d drunk orange juice this morning. To his amazement, the officer waved him on. My colleague could scarcely believe his luck, but he was thankful and thought no more about it.

A few days later, the police stopped him again. He had the money to pay the bribe this time, but he wondered if the orange juice phrase would save him having to hand it over. As the officer approached him, he repeated the pass phrase once more and yet again, the police officer waved him on his way. My colleague felt like he’d cracked the system. No more traffic bribes for him.

Week after week, whenever the police stopped him, he trotted out the same old line and he paid scarcely a rupee in traffic fines. He couldn’t believe it and it saved him a fortune. It was almost a month later when one fine day, a policeman stopped him. My colleague was in a hurry, so he shouted across to the officer that he’d had orange juice this morning. The policeman smiled and said “Oh no sir. It’s apple juice this morning.”

So if you’re ever stopped by the police in India, just tell them you had some random kind of fruit juice. You never know you’re luck!

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Apr 24 2013

A sense of perspective

Eye death

Eye death (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

On paper, I was very ill. The trouble was, I right at that moment in time, I didn’t feel very ill. Locked inside the hospital with the dead and the dying, I was akin to a caged tiger pacing around. I bore quickly at the best of times. After 3 days of medical confinement, I contemplated digging a tunnel.

In the TV room, there was a guy about my age, which was unusual. Most inmates could claim at least 3 decades on the pair of us. We were already on nodding terms. As I sat down on the sofa beside him, he asked me what was up.

I told him how frustrated I was with the continued confinement. I went on about the boredom, the tedium, the mind-numbing routine of it all. I was sick of the food. The TV set only had a dozen channels and what I wanted most of all was to go home. My diatribe must have lasted 5 minutes or so.

“Yeah – it’s no fun.” he replied laconically.

I looked at him properly for the first time. “How long have you been in here?”

“3 years.”

At that instant, I realised how stupid my frustrated speech must have sounded. I realised how selfish and insensitive I had been. Altogether too locked up in my own misery, it didn’t occur to me that the other people must have stories of their own. We spoke for an hour. He told me that he spent most of his life in and out of hospital. Born with a congenital problem, he had a lifetime of hospital treatment to look forward to.

I returned to the ward and for the first time, spoke to the guy in the next bed. A fellow patient now, not just one of the dead and the dying. He told me of his wife, how they’d been happily married for 60 years. Then a short while ago, someone decided he was no longer fit to drive so they withdrew his license and with it, their independence.

It wasn’t long before someone else decided that him and his wife could no longer cope and committed them to a care home. Unfortunately, for some bizarre reason, they were housed in different care homes. Together for 60 years, separated in a heartbeat, he quickly fell ill. It was a tragic story and I doubt it has a happy ending.

I will always be grateful to those people. They taught me a lesson I will never forget.

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Apr 21 2013

It’s a classic

Classic car

Classic car (Photo credit: vpickering)

“What on Earth possessed you to buy this?”

As the freezing cold rain dripped off my nose, I couldn’t think of a sensible response. Somewhere deep inside me, an indignant voice screamed out that a roadside rescue man should not be so insolent, but such was my misery that I couldn’t bring it to the fore.

I simply looked on as he struggled to inject life into my crestfallen steed. It was a Jaguar, a series III. Magnificent in every detail except the fact that it wouldn’t go. I considered his question. Why indeed had I spent a load of money, which I couldn’t afford, on such a fragile artefact?

When I first saw it, I fell in love. Those smooth lines, the opulence of the interior, the effortless performance of the 5 cylinder engine. It was a 6 cylinder engine when it left the factory, but one of my cylinders had given up the ghost. Whenever the damn thing was moving I had the biggest smile on my face ever. Whenever it stopped, I looked miserable.

I can’t help it. I am an absolute sucker for a classic car. If someone bottled the scent of an old car, they would make a fortune from people like me. That heady mix of stale sun-baked leather together with the aroma of walnut dashboard is how I imagine Heaven smells. When you add the sight of the industrial strength rocker switches and the Smiths industries instruments, I challenge any man to resist.

There are three types of people in the world. There are those who are blissfully ignorant of classic cars. They might make a passing comment such as “that looks nice” as a priceless example of automotive history rolls by. These people are fortunate. The idea of buying a piece of our motoring heritage would never occur to them. Blessed are they.

The second type knows their way around an engine. As they walk past, a sensitive nose might just detect the faintest aroma of engine oil. They know their big end from their crankshaft. They are perfectly suited to buying a classic car. If anything goes wrong, they are in with a fighting chance of remedying the situation without descending into ruination. Blessed are they too.

I belong to the third type: absolutely clueless idiots who fall in love with classic cars, but would struggle to know one end of a spanner from another. They are destined for a life of misery. They will spend their days desiring complex machinery that they have no hope of maintaining. They will buy something stupid and be stranded on the side of the road. They will be miserable.

But during those few moments that their trusty steed is firing on all cylinders on a sunny day, they will be the happiest people on Earth – and that is worth all the misery. I don’t currently own a classic car, but occasionally, before I board a flight, I buy a classic car magazine and allow myself to dream.

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Apr 15 2013

What do you want to be when you grow up?

When I Grow Up (Pussycat Dolls song)

When I Grow Up (Pussycat Dolls song) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After I filled in the questionnaire, the computer considered my future. After a short pause, the printer chugged into life and rattled out line after line of career suggestions on green and white piano paper. Once the clattering came to a halt, the careers officer ripped off the two feet or so of suggested vocations. As he checked the printout to make sure it was OK, he asked me what I thought I wanted to do.

As a young child, it was obvious. I wanted to be a train driver first. Then I decided that I would have much more fun as an astronaut. No, maybe a scientist or a spy. As I went through school, I dismissed such fanciful ideas and came to terms with the fact that I had no clue what I wanted to do in the future.

I scanned down the piano paper at the list of jobs. I could not see any common thread connecting them. They looked like a random list of careers plucked from a hat. Some of the selections made sense and I noted with some amusement that most of the fanciful posts I’d whimsied about as a small boy were present and correct – with the notable exception of spy.

The careers officer said to think about which entries on the list appealed and told me there was an upcoming careers evening where I could find out more. I went home baffled. How do you decide what you would like to do from a list of things you’ve never experienced.

During careers evening, I wandered from booth to booth to see what they had to say. A GP told me all about his job. You study hard for seven years and then you get to sit behind a desk whilst sick people visit you. Hmmm – no thanks. Someone told me about a career in education, but I didn’t really want to stay at school even if I would be on the other side of the desk. The only job that floated my boat was on offer by the navy, ironically enough.

Their offering was a life on the ocean waves as an engineering artificer. During a five-year apprenticeship, you learned about maintaining all the military technology they had at their disposal and all while sailing around the world. It sounded adventurous. I often think about how different my life would be if I chose to take that apprenticeship.

So what do I want to be when I grow up?  I’ll let you know closer to the time.

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Mar 21 2013

Lies, damn lies

statistics often lie

statistics often lie (Photo credit: mac steve)

According to Reuters, approximately, we produce 14 billion bullets annually. That’s enough to kill everyone on the planet twice over. Seeing as we are all still here, a statistician might tell you that bullets are a woefully inefficient way to kill someone.

According to the World Health Organisation, 1.2 million people are killed annually on the world’s roads. Seeing as there are a mere 60 million cars produced a year, choose a car if you want to off someone. Or you could just leave them be. They are 1,500x more likely to die from cancer or 3000x more likely to die from heart disease.

Every time my Grandad saw statistics on accidents caused by drunk drivers, he used to make a quip that all drivers should be drunk whilst behind the wheel. After all, if 20% of accidents are caused by drivers who are under the influence, we could eliminate the other 80% if everyone was drunk. I think even a statistician would spot the error in that analysis. Every day, newspapers are full of stories backed up by statistics but how do we know they haven’t just done the same analysis as my Grandad and got the complete wrong end of the stick?

Everyone fills in surveys. In the UK, we are required to fill one in by law every 10 years – the census. I’m always amazed at how banal the questions seem. As I think it’s important for the government to have good information about the population, I take it quite seriously. I take care over my answers to make sure they are correct. Many people don’t. Everyone should, as there are harsh penalties for those who provide incorrect information and yet the 4th most popular religion in England and Wales in the 2001 census was Jedi.

If I fill in surveys other than the census, I tend to start with good intentions but then halfway through, there will be a question that seems utterly ridiculous or invasive and from that point on I either give up, or it becomes a box ticking exercise that I don’t take much care over. And yet, it is precisely these surveys that form the bedrock of many of the statistics we are bombarded with. It’s worth remembering that when you read some exhaustive analysis on why people who play Angry Birds are more likely to drink strawberry milkshakes.

After all, 78.4% of statistics are made up on the spot.

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Mar 17 2013

My to do list

174x108

174×108 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I try to be organised, really I do. I work from a list. Occasionally, I rewrite my to-do list because many of the items can be scrubbed. I’m sure I’m not alone with some stubborn items that sit at the bottom of my to do list which get transcribed again and again. Well, enough’s enough. I can’t procrastinate forever. Each week, one of these items will get crossed off.

  1. Make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs
  2. Buy a clapped out DeLorean, restore it, get it up to 88 miles per hour on a dark and stormy night and go back in time to tell my first girlfriend to get over herself
  3. Run into a petrol station wearing a crazed expression and sporting a Zippo lighter. Flick on the lighter and shout “Yippee Kayey m***** f*****”
  4. Successfully face the Kobayashi Maru
  5. Cross the beams for a laugh
  6. Make my boss an offer he can’t refuse
  7. Buy a bigger boat
  8. Try defying gravity
  9. Say “I’ll be back” in a menacing voice and be taken seriously
  10. Shout “Get away from her you bitch” whilst toting a pulse rifle inside a power lifter
  11. Take some gremlins to the drive through and then throw them into the sea after midnight
  12. Put everything I own on 17 black and order a Martini, shaken, not stirred
  13. The next time I’m in a meeting where we dissect something that’s gone wrong – shout “Inconceivable!”
  14. Tell everyone I know about the fight club
  15. Poke Sauron in the eye
  16. Eat three shredded wheat and observe the consequences
  17. Cut the blue wire even though everyone is screaming at me to cut the red one
  18. Check out of, and leave the Hotel California
  19. Push an Oompa-Loompa into the chocolate river
  20. Turn my stereo up to 11
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