The Cricket on the Hearth

Today at work I have been working of my self assessment. Over the past year the competency in which I have made most progress is relationship building for influence. This progress can be best demonstrated by my ability to complete forms such as this one.

I have demonstrated awareness of the strategic importance of effective relationship management in increasing influence/reputation, improving business delivery and in managing risk by telling people what they want to hear.

I have used a planned approach and knowledge sharing tools (my phone and my mouth) to build positive, reciprocal relationships. I have also taken a number of steps to persuade (taking in cakes).

After the self assessment I need to complete the upward feedback form and create a job plan. Then it will be time for my job review. If I hurry I might have time to squeeze some work in this month.

There is a compelling case on Normblog by Jon Quong for boycotting the Olympics.

He says that “we are under a duty not to benefit from or participate in practices or activities that violate the rights of others”…”is it too much to expect the athletes to forego participation in order to fulfil the duty? My own view is that it clearly is not.”

He imagine a dialogue between a spokesperson for Chinese dissidents and a potential athlete in which the spokesman says:

“You cannot participate in the games. You have a duty of justice to avoid participating in activities or practices that violate the rights of others and this particular Olympic games involves the widespread violation of human rights. The Chinese government is systematically rounding up dissidents, imprisoning them for years, sometimes in forced labour camps, and even killing some dissidents, all to ensure that when the athletes and media arrive, they will see no protests.”

I suppose what it comes down to is whether or not the Olympics will have a positive or negative effects on human rights in China. If the words of Quong’s imaginary spokesman are accurate then it would seem the effect is a negative one. The belief many have in a positive effect is probably a consequence of the Korean Games in 1988 and the move towards democracy at the time.

Unfortunately it may be that China is much too big and powerful to care about the wishes of the international community. Attending or boycotting the games may have no effect either way. But it is up to athletes and the public themselves whether they want to be complicit.

There is an astonishing article on the food crisis by George Monbiot in todays’s Guardian:

http://www.monbiot.com/archives/2008/04/15/the-pleasures-of-the-flesh/

Once in a while an article like this comes along which makes me think again about the way I live my life.

For a while after University I was a vegetarian. The reasons for this were mostly a combination of interest in radical causes, interest in vegetarian girls and fasion statement. I had a vague idea that this was a good thing ethically and in my defence I did stick it out for about 2 years.

The argument Monbiot puts forward is that cattle require a large amount of land and eat a large amount of food which could be used to feed far more people than their meat does. Combine this with the government’s insane encouragement of biofuels and it is a recipe (no pun intended) for disaster.

On the biofuel issue the World Bank points out that “the grain required to fill the tank of a sports utility vehicle with ethanol … could feed one person for a year”. And the British government is making biofuels compulsory!

I think the case for becoming a vegetarian is strong and I will certainly be making an effort to at least reduce my meat consumption.

The new edition of Granta (101) was waiting behind the door when I got in yesterday and I have to say it’s a beautiful book. I generally don’t care about books as objects. I’m far more interested in their contents. But this book really is lovely.

They have a new editor and a new design. The cover is simpler and whiter with a photo of a drawn stage curtain. There is no longer a theme for every issue. This edition has writing from the likes of Douglas Coupland, Hilary Mantel, Andrew Hussey, Joshua Ferris and Annie Proulx. There is also photo essays and poetry.

Douglas Coupland’s piece is a really interesting one on Visual Thinking. I had never really thought about the topic before but it’s about how words and books can be art objects themselves independent of their meaning.

In fact this is precisely how I felt about Granta itself and it has made me think again about my love of books. When I first got into reading a child it was the touch and smell of a new book which I enjoyed as much as the stories themselves. I had forgotten this for a long time but now I realise that it’s still true.

If only Jason had a time machine he would have done so many things differently. He would have studied harder at University and got a better degree. Then he might have got a decent job instead of bumming around for two years.

If only he had a time machine he wouldn’t have run up that huge credit card bill and ended up in the dinghy damp flat in the rough part of town, paying off his bills for years.

If only Jason had a time machine he would have studied something more vocational than the Medieval History of Latvia. Perhaps Law or Medicine. If Jason had a time machine he would have had to go back to high school and chosen some science subjects, otherwise he’d have no chance getting into medical school. ‘A’ levels in History, Classics and English Literature wouldn’t go down well with the interview panel.

If only he had a time machine Jason would have asked out that girl in Sixth Form he had always liked. He was sure she had liked him too but he had been too embarrassed and scared of rejection to try. Looking back now it seemed silly.

Jason’s time machine could take him back to junior school were he could practice his football skills and by now he’d be a star like David Beckham, then again maybe not, maybe like David James but less accident prone. Then again he could have taken up a musical instrument. But no, by now he’d be an aging rock star trudging out tired old hits and dressing like he was still in his twenties.

Today Jason and his wife Carol went for their 20 week scan. The baby looked so clear, they both cried, it was a little girl. They were going to have a little girl, her name would be Libby. Jason loved Carol, he loved Libby.

If Jason had a time machine he would change nothing.

Boycott the Olympics! That was the cry in 1980, as the US along with 23 other countries refused to attend the Moscow Olympics in protest at the 1979 Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. You might be able to criticise Western countries for many things but never let it be said that they would take part in a sporting event that legitimised a corrupt nation with an appalling human rights record that violently occupied a Central Asian country. Sport just isn’t that important.

In response the Soviet Union boycotted the 1984 Los Angeles games, the first Olympic games I was ever really aware of and the last which I could be bothered to take any interest in. Every morning we would wake up to learn how many medals Britain hadn’t won the night before. One of the best opportunities for victory came in the women’s 3000 metres when Zola Budd bumped into Mary Decker, if she’d knocked over 6 more we’d have taken gold but never mind.

Seb Coe won a couple of medals, Steve Cram picked up a silver, we did well in the judo and also got a bronze in the Men’s Flying Dutchman (don’t ask me, you’ll have to Google it).

I don’t remember much else. It was on in the middle of the night for us, so I would get up each morning to see parades of Americans collecting their gold medals. Personally I find gold a little ostentatious, us Brits suit silver much better.

In 1988 the Olympics moved on to South Korea. Their President had submitted the bid in 1981 hoping that the Olympics would legitimize his authoritarian regime amidst increasing political pressure for democratization, provide protection from increasing threats from North Korea, and showcase the Korean economic miracle to the world community. The games proved a major catalyst for a move towards democratisation and free election in 1987. But by then I was far more interested in girls and alchohol.

Every summer the fair would come to town. It took place on the fields behind our house and for several days anticipation would build as they pieced together the rusty old Waltzer and set up the stalls.

1986 was special though. This year there was a new ride. The Tornado. The Tornado was a kind of little Big Wheel, composed of eggs which rolled according to the will of their occupants and contained no visible means of support. Interest in the new ride was intense at school and as the opening night drew near everyone wanted to be first on the Tornado. Personally I wasn’t that bothered.

My brother and I had identical red tracksuits. Unfortunately the trousers on mine had developed a few holes, so I tended to just wear the top with some jeans. On the night of the fair my brother’s tracksuit top was in the wash and he just wore the trousers with a T-shirt. Heading over the fields it didn’t occur to either of us that we looked peculiar. The local scallies, however, were much amused. They enquired whether we were so poor that we had to share a tracksuit, though in slightly more colourful language and employing various hand gestures (in common use among the more vulgar element since the Napoleaonic Wars).

A queue was already forming at the Tornado so we headed for the Waltzer. Teenage boys sat precariously on the barrier around the edge shouting abuse. Teenage girls were chatted up by middle aged men who spun their carriages until the girls turned green. The hi-fi blasted out the sound of Roland Gibb’s Fine Young Cannibals “Johnny… were sorry. Won’t you come on ho-ome..”

I perched on the edge along with some friends (or more accurately associates) from school and everything was fine until a fight broke out. I don’t remember what the fight was about, more than likely someone had looked at someone else (in those days the only way to avoid a fight was to walk around with your eyes closed). Much pushing and shoving was going on and before I knew what was happening I was toppling over backwards to certain death 15 feet below. Luckily the boy next to me acted quickly and managed to grab my ankles at the last moment and a group pulled me up to safety.

In the immense relief we decided to celebrate by joining the queue for the Tornado. I can’t adequately explain why I did this. I have never enjoyed fairground rides and the last thing I would normally do was climb into a spinning egg with a group of excitable teenagers rowdy with cheap cider.

My brother had disappeared by the time we reached the front of the queue. We climbed aboard and set off amidst much cheering and rocking by my companions. The ground spun towards our heads and seconds later we were peering into the sky. My guts lept into my mouth. “Please stop” I moaned. Distantly I recognised the figure of my brother below waving. He was shouting “Your tea’s ready!” Enough is enough decided my stomach and vomit rained from the night sky onto those down below. The cheering had stopped and the wheels ground to a halt.

Climbing onto the ground with unsure legs I made sure I didn’t look at anyone. My brother had disappeared again, presumably in shame. I glanced around and when I thought noone was looking I crept into the night.

It used to take me ages to get to sleep as a child. I would lie in bed for hours, imagination running riot. The nonsense that emerged from my brain was like a William Burroughs nightmare on an evening when he had a particularly cheesey welsh rarebit before popping off to bed.

To make things worse every single night at about 10:30 a light would pass across the top of my window. There are many possible explanations of such a light and of course the first which springs to mind is aliens. I was an alien child who had been left in this obscure town for safety and every evening my alien protectors would return to check that I was ok.

Then after months of wondering I made a decision. I would look out of the window.

The night I resolved to look I lay in bed tense with fear, apprehension and excitement. Tonight I would see. Tonight all would be clear. Would my brothers from space welcome me? Would they look human? What if it wasn’t aliens? Would you be able to get Fry’s Chocolate Creams? What if it were a ghost wandering the night searching for children who were not tucked up in bed. Nosy children peering through their windows when they should be asleep.

As the time grew nearer I sat on the edge of my bed. The curtains an arms reach away. I couldn’t open them until the light came because then it might not happen. It was dark. Downstairs the sounds of the TV, the music of News at Ten as it finished for the night, the dog barking as dad grabbed his lead for the final walk of the day. The front door slammed shut. Silence.

Then the light! My hand reaching out. The curtains parting. Bright light filling the room. Moving across the wall. I screwed up my eyes and looked. A hill at the back of our yard. At the top some newer posher houses, semi-detached, with garages and cars. A car pulling out of a garage, it’s headlights sweeping across the top of my window as it reversed out of the drive. A neighbour going out for the night shift.

At least I still had chocolate creams.