Black Notebook

Doing the Important Things First

I woke up today with a pre-prepared list of things that I need to do. It was mostly housekeeping tasks: get a haircut, sort out some bills, start preparing my VAT return and file my notes from MSC away. The day was shaping up to be another one where I filled my time rather than chilling a little. After the first cup of tea of the day I decided to have different sort of day. My completed actions today include: a long drive to let my mind unspool; a long walk on a wind swept beach and playing with a nine-week old puppy. I like the second list better than the first.

I don't want to be here

I am watching an elderly man try and piss into a urinal. He is so drunk that he is having to rest his head against the white ceramic tiles of the pub toilet to steady himself as he struggles with to open his heavy coat. His face starts to slide down the tiles, now he is bent almost double trying to get his trousers open. I know that he needs my help but I can't bring myself to do it. I stand at the door of the toilet, terrified that he will fall and hurt himself. It takes two minutes, but eventually he gets the zip open and begins to spray urine into the galvanised toilet, on the floor, and all over the right leg of his trousers. I can see the brown corduroy turning black as the urine sinks in and I know that I don't want to be here. I also know thatit's my fault because I chose to get involved.

It had started fifteen minutes previously. I had arrived at the pub early, waiting for my wife. It was the first time I have been home for nearly a week and we had arranged to go out and catch up with each other. I was excited to be back in my home town and to be going out. The pub was heaving, it being the week before the Christmas Holiday, and the only space available was a single seat at the bar. I seated myself, ordered a drink, and waited. The old man is seated next to me. He is seventy to eighty years old. His grey hair is slicked back with hair cream, and his face is heavily lined and I can see that his eyes are unable to focus on the beer pumps in front of him. He is resting his elbows on the bar, trying to keep himself erect. In his left hand he waves a ten pound note, trying to get the attention of the bar staff. I notice that they are ignoring him. The head bar man walks past and does not even look at him. The old man keeps opening his mouth, trying to form words, but he cannot do it. He waves his ten pound note for five minutes or so, oblivious to the staff's indifference. His next strategy is to tap the beer pump with his right hand. I am surprised that his hands are clean, the nails neatly trimmed, and I notice the quality of his clothes: a long woollen overcoat, and a well made brown corduroy suit, an old but smart silk tie. He has the battered face of a wino, but the clothes tell me that someone is looking after him. The tapping does not work. Another five minutes pass and then the head barman speaks.

"You've had enough. Where's your taxi?"

The old man looks up, his face blank and his eyes confused. He tries to speak, cannot, then shrugs his shoulders with the exaggerated movement of the totally drunk. He makes a move, trying to get off his stool. He falls and instinctively my arm catches him. He is a deadweight, and I struggle not to fall off my own stool, as I try and stop his head falling onto the terracotta tiles. His is in my arms, by default I am now involved and his is my responsibility. I turn to the bar staff and no-one seems desperate to step up to the mark and help me. I look outside and see the milky white frost on the windscreens of the parked cars and think about the compacted snow and ice on the pavements. This man is too old, too drunk, too frail to be allowed out there. I don't want to get involved, I want to have a nice evening with my wife, but I know that if he tries to go outside on his own and he will fall and injure himself

I prop him against the bar, and he begins to mutter, having got his lips to finally work. It take me a few seconds to realise that he's telling me that he needs to go to the toilet. He cannot support his own body weight, I am leaning against him to keep him standing against the bar. There is no way that he is going to make it to the toilet. A group of men are watching the sideshow, sniggering quietly as they nudge each other. I turn to the biggest.

"He needs the toilet, and I can't do it on my own. He's too heavy. You'll have to help me."

His is stunned, he does not want to get involved either, but I am relying on the fact that he won't be brave enough to say "no". We manhandle the pensioner through the crowd and manoeuvre him in front of the urinal. I step back, and by the time I have got to the door, my "assistant" has vanished back into the crowd. I watch the pensioner soil his clothes and feel a slight panic about what is going to happen next. What do I do with him now?

The head barman comes to my rescue.

"We've booked him another taxi. It will be here in ten minutes"I ask him to get me a chair so that we can sit the old man down outside the toilets rather than trying to get him back to the bar.

"I'll wait with him", I say. The old man turns from the toilet, swaying, and I know he is going to fall. I move towards him and he grabs at my hand to steady himself. His grip is surprisingly strong and his fingers are wet against my skin. I know my hand is now covered in his urine and want to pull my fingers away in disgust but he will not let go. I am just relieved that he is managed to get his tackle back in his trousers without my help. I help him to the chair and we wait for the cab to arrive.

It takes about fifteen minutes and I sit with this sad old man, who is completely reliant on a stranger to get him home. I can't be angry with him, and direct my frustration at the barman.

"You shouldn't allow him to get in this state." I say, my voice tight with anger.

"He was fine when he came in. He's only had one drink here. Besides, he's on medication, he shouldn't drink at all." he replies.

The taxi arrives, and the driver, barman and I get him across the pub, over the treacherous pavements, and into the vehicle. His head is about to bash the sill when I reach out and guide him in. His scalp is sweating profusely, melting the hair cream, and it smears across my palm. I want to run away, get my hands clean.

The drivers belts him into his seat.

"You are in a state, aren't you. Let's get you home to your sister." The old man smiles and so do I. I am released from my responsibility, knowing that someone will help him into the house. "Second time I have picked him up in this state this week." says the driver, as he eases himself into his taxi. Within in a moment they are gone, and I am standing on the icy pavement with the barman.

"Thanks for your help, come back to the bar and I'll get you a drink on the house."

I barely listen, rushing back to the toilet to scrub my hands under hot water, using too much soap, desperate to get the piss and Brylcream off my skin. I return to the bar.

"For your compassion." says the barman, drawing me a fresh pint of cider, and placing it in front of me.

I smile and thank him, sip at the cider, trying to ignore the chemical smell of strawberry soap in my nostrils and the nagging doubt that my fingers are still contaminated.

Relax!

I should be relaxing. I have finished my masters degree dissertation. I am only doing client work two days a week. There are no client deadlines to worry about, no books to read, no reports to write. For the first time in nearly two years I am free from the constant nagging worries that there is much to be done and not enough time to complete it. I have emerged blinking into 2010 with the opportunity to get on with the rest of my life but I am finding it very hard to adjust to not having to do anything. It feels like I have institutionalised myself into being constantly stressed and worried. I have even fallen into the ridiculous trap of allowing myself to be worried about not being able to relax. I think I need a long walk and to institute a manual reset on my brain.

Friends, Gossip, Red Wine and Grub

I have just enjoyed a fantastic evening with simple but delicious food, a little wine, and lots of banter with good friends. Much of the discussion was scurrilous, potentialy libellous, and because of this, very funny. I always know when I have had a good evening when it involves nearly snorting red wine through my nose because I am giggling. A fine start to the Christmas Season.

Snow

I am looking out of the window of the flat watching fat and fluffy snowflakes falling from the sky. I am in heaven. [UPDATE] I should be working, but I'm going for a walk in the white stuff.

Fear of Change

It has been an interesting few weeks for me. I am exploring new business opportunities as I come to the end of my masters degree. During this process I have been meeting and talking with intelligent, articulate and interesting people about what is possible in the future and whether there are any areas that we can work together. It has been a fascinating experience, because in talking about the future we have all confessed that we have no idea what change will actually be required in ourselves, and in our businesses, to deal with the challenges that we face. We all know that we need to do things differently, but have little tangible idea about what this actually will be. This has got me wondering about why people fear change so much, if we actually have no control over it, and that there is no real "plan" we can overlay on the world. When we plan we create an illusion of control, convince ourselves that the world will bend to our will and desires. I am not sure planning has ever delivered exactly what I want. The world is always getting in the way with its own agenda, and rarely seems to care about my detailed little project plan. I am not advocating that we should stop making decisions about what we would like to do, but more that these decisions will be moulded and changed by circumstances that we have little or no control over it. It feels quite liberating to me think of the future in that way - it's not about trying to control everything, more about making some decisions that work for me and seeing what happens.

Test

This is a test post.

National Novel Writing Month

I have just signed up for National Novel Writing Month for 2009. Now that my college work is coming to an end I want to return to the writing again. Over the last two years my head has been too full of MSC learning for me to seriously commit to any pieces of work. Signing up for the challenge has two purposes. Firstly, it is an explicit commitment to writing again and working towards a serious amount of words. Secondly, I have an idea for a new novel and I think the discipline of writing 50k words in a month will be a fantastic way to get the first rough draft done. It feels good to be back in an artistic groove again.

The Gentle Art of Saying "No"

I run my own business and one of the curses of being self employed is the fear that you will run out of work, that the clients will stop calling you. For this reason, I have always struggled to say "no" to pieces of work that I know will not end well.

I'm currently working for a client where I have had a challenging three weeks. At the start of the project I knew that the omens were not looking good but I ignored my gut instinct and ploughed forward. Today, I did a handover to a senior client representative. The feedback that I have had has all been very positive - he was delighted with what I had done. However, the political machinations of the last twenty one days have not put me in a good place so I decided to be honest, for once, and tell him both what I felt and what I wanted. I explained that I didn't want to work on this particular project any more as I didn't feel that I could add value in the current climate and that it didn't fit with either my values or the way that I like to work. The result? Ten seconds of surprise from the client, then acceptance, a genuine expression that he understood and respected my position, followed by the offer of further work on other projects

The lesson I've learnt is simple - you can't please everyone, especially if it feels "wrong wrong wrong", and, if you tell the truth as you see it, you get respect.

Running

I have been moaning for some time about how much additional weight I have been accumulating. This is mostly down to the fact that I consume more calories than I use. My weight is not hormonal problem, it is not any one else's fault. It all down to to me - I eat too much and I don't move around enough.

To combat this I purchased a pair of running shoes about three weeks ago. Lurking at the back of my mind was the dark thought that I would actually have to use them if they were going to help me with my weight loss and that the simple act of purchasing was probably not going to magically make forty pounds of fat fall away from my body. As I left the shop I had to resist the frantic urge to run back and beg them to give me my money back as I had made some terrible mistake.

I am delighted to report that I have proved my doubters (me) wrong by actually using them for a proper run this evening, I am doing a very easy programme to build up my strength and stamina. It was the first time I have done street running in ten years and I really enjoyed it. It was a beautiful evening in London and I was so enjoying running along the Embankment and over the bridges that the thirty minutes flew by. I am hot and sweaty but my muscles don't hurt or ache which is a bonus. I am also sneakily proud that the voice of doubt and endless procrastination in my head was wrong.

I know it is just the start but, bloody hell, I actually did it.