Broke 'n Britain

The rapper Plan B’s debut film, ‘ill Manors’, paints a worryingly convincing picture of under-privileged London.  From childhood neglect to drug culture, the story’s protagonist is described as a “posterboy for David Cameron’s broken Britain.” 

“There's no such thing as broken Britain we're just bloody broke in Britain  

What needs fixing is the system, not shop windows down in Brixton.” 

Anti-capitalist sentiment is gaining momentum as our financial institutions, corporations, and politicians are perceived to be failing to meet a minimum social standard.  But the protestors, and the media largely backing them, are barking up the wrong tree.   

Matthew’s simple contention that the rich are bad and the poor are good, “it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God”, has lost its relevance in today’s society.  A genuine desire to improve social welfare crosses class lines and requires growing levels of capital investment.  Generalisations focus on the worst that society has to offer, rich and poor, and inevitably result in growing despair. 

But, as David Brindle, the Guardian’s public services editor, optimistically states, “the age of austerity may yet produce a change for the better.”  

Indeed, a powerful new capitalism is emerging.  Most visible in my area is the award-winning Clapham One project.  A PPP deal which has guaranteed Lambeth a brand new library and  leisure centre funded entirely from the sale of the private sector element of the  development. 

Driving social benefit while making a profit.  Sustainable success to be proud of. 

Sounds like a pretty good plan - how do I get involved?

We're in this together

With a number trending in excess of 130 women committing suicide in London each year, and 180 poor souls in the South East, suicide is by no means the exclusive preserve of men. Especially since these numbers are on the rise. But, that said, women do account for a significantly lower proportion. In 2010, 500 men over the age of 15 and living in the South East took their lives.

Looking at the macabre news history for the popular city drinking hole and former-Conran restaurant, Coq D'Argent, the statistics appear to be borne out. Four recorded deaths in 5 years. 3 men. 1 woman. All city workers. The most recent, Nico Lambrechts, 46, an Investment Analyst, married father of 3.

Indeed, suicide is, nationally, the biggest killer of young men (15-44) - well ahead of better-publicised knife crime or smoking-related disease. On a national scale the statistics again trend - of the 5,608 people who took their own life in this country, 75% were, again, male.

Jane Powell, the founder of the much-needed and well-subscribed suicide prevention charity, CALM - Campaign Against Living Miserably - says, "men aren't supposed to talk about stuff, so it can be hard for them to know where or who to go to for help when life gets on top of them". And in the context of today's announcement that UBS  will cut 10,000 jobs as they restructure their business, life is not going to get any easier for our male-dominated city workforce. Academic studies on suicide behaviour certainly demonstrate clear evidence between suicide rates and economic recession.

It leads you to consider whether a new inequality is emerging. High expectations, lack of support.  As professional women have been developing ever-greater life choice, supported often first and foremost by their partners, but also by growing empathy and structural reform in the workplace, the law and the media, are men's requirements failing to be met?  

Look into popular culture at this year's chart topping album, Lana Del Rey's appropriately titled 'Born to Die', and the message is clear. In fact, it's really the only theme running through an otherwise narrative-free album. Despite everything we have achieved, women still want men to be winners and to be strong. "Money is the anthem..of success, so before we go out, what's your address? God, you're so handsome, take me to the hamptons, money is the anthem of success." I pick this light-hearted example but the options were endless.

Duh! Equality applies to all. If we are opening every possible opportunity for women to fulfil their professional ambitions, then we also need to ensure that men have the opportunity to fulfil their own, whatever they may be. That means their partners supporting them in their life goals, potentially at the expense of the house in The Hamptons, and employers, the law, and the media extending the same courtesy of empathy and structural reform across the board.

We are starting to see a structural shift with the advent of government initiatives such as paternity leave, where men are now entitled to up to 6 months un-paid parental leave, but take up is ludicrously low. As pointed out, "most men wouldn't do it for fear of repercussions to their career". 

As they say, 'depression is not a sign of weakness. It's a sign that someone has been trying to be too strong for too long.'  Until we figure out how to ensure that men, as well as women, feel comfortable and supported to define and deliver their personal life ambitions, these terrible tragedies will continue to plague the city.

4 in a van

Sweetbreads to you, Pig. We win.

We knew that 9 days with two children under 3 in a VW camper in Cornwall would be a challenge, so, before it all kicked off, we treated ourselves to a weekend of luxury at the Pig hotel in the New Forest. A huge extravagance - a 2 bedroom 2 bathroom family suite.

It would be wonderful; good old-fashioned family fun during the day in the New Forest, a babysitter and romantic night in the renowned restaurant - "we pride ourselves on foraged foods and mismatched cutlery" - congratulating ourselves on our effortless parenting, and topping up the feel-good family time with a happy roam of the breakfast bar the next day. JC would love to select his own pastries, baby Meg would love to suck the pastries, we would love to watch our darlings eat the pastries.

It didn't really go how we imagined. That said, we still won: 9 gives to 8 takes.

The thing is, luxury hotels are not designed for people with children, with them. Are they designed for any basic human needs? Miniature marble sinks are not designed to wash baby bottles.  Retro alarm clocks are not designed to be left in a child's bedroom, to go off one hour after children fall asleep, for them to never sleep that night again. Hotel mini-bars are not designed to hold baby food, and left over quiche, and yogurts. Children are not designed to roam freely on breakfast buffet bars - they don't chose wisely. Cutlery is not designed to be mismatched - it's silly.  I am not designed to deal with tantrums, 4 hours sleep and the world's worst latte.

But we still won. We worked it out. The tantrums, and the sleepless nights, and the alarm clocks and the tantrums only counted to 8 takes. The two kids washed and beautiful sitting together on the King size bed watching telly and laughing together, Jack's delight at walking in a kitchen garden where he could pick and eat anything he wanted to - basil, strawberries, mud; the whole family on the giant swing. All the gives counted to 9.

Ha! Got to do better than that Pig. We win.

Ground Zero

The kids could not have been more perfect on the 4 hour drive to Cornwall for the start of our camping adventure. Despite several illegal trips into the back to make sandwiches, and shake rattles at 85mph, we arrived safely to a beautiful sunny evening in Perranporth. Ah, Perranporth.  For many a deeply unfashionable, deep-fried British seaside resort. For us, destination young love kite-surfing 2006 pre-children. We thought it would be best to come somewhere that we knew.

Cruelly ejected from our 'tents only' field of old, we pitched next to the other vans - cool Vintage VW's alongside white beasts complete with sun deck, satellite dish and outdoor toilet tent. We knew which side of the portable privet we belonged to.

Camp building. Everything had to come out of the van in order to put everything back in the van, but in a slightly different order.  The trouble was that it was 4pm,  JC desperately wanted entertainment, Meg deliberately filled her nappy, twice, and we were against the clock before the 'run-in'. 'Run in'... Dinner, bath, bed.  

Dinner, which we had no accessible facilities to make; bath, which there was none; bed which had yet to be built. And that's just us, we had the kids to worry about too.

A word on the layout: Meg in a stretcher bed running across the front two seats, JC in the den (essentially the boot), us in the pop top roof.  The boot needs to be empty to be a den.  The van needs to be stationary to pop the roof.  The seats need to be facing forwards to drive, obviously, inwards to eat dinner and forwards to carry the stretcher. 

It's sunny, way too sunny.  Meg is burning. And too windy. The gazebo that we are trying to put up is blowing away and the wind seems to be driving JC a bit mad - it does do that to dogs in windy places, I have heard.  We decided on a corner pitch with a stunning view over the sand-dunes.  Matt notices a crows nest - he looks at it nervously, clearly thinking, 'they are just crows, should I listen to the voice telling me to pitch again elsewhere?'

We finish pitching. Matt takes JC to the on-site animal farm that we certainly never noticed back in 2006.   I'm left to make dinner with Meg - easy. Another nappy change - come on!  Chicken pesto pasta. Easy. I put the pasta on in the van. Meg is in the van. It feels dangerous having Meg and pasta cooking in the van at the same time. Not that I was actually cooking Meg, but I feared I may do, inadvertently.  I build the buggy. Pasta cooking in the van, Meg in the buggy. What about the chicken? Do I cook in the van? Feels dangerous cooking chicken in the van. I get the portable stove out. Pasta in the van, Meg in the buggy, chicken outside. It's a kitchen planner's horrendous triangular nightmare. Boiling, screaming, spitting, and that was just me.

I get it back under control, the boys return and it looks as if I have been twiddling my thumbs. 

Next, bath. I take both kids as we have decided to move the van, away from the wind and sun and crows. One in arms one on shoulders across the mud. Toddler in arms, baby on shoulders pulling my hair out. Looking back I see Matt starting on Bed out, Chairs round, Roof down, again. 

Kids are angels in the camping bathroom. JC in the chilly shower, Meg in a little provided baby bath. I had forgotten the soap and washed them in moisturiser. I had forgotten the towel and used my jumper. I had forgotten a hair brush, they didn't seem to mind.

Then, the first moment of joy; watching JC skipping across the field in his camping jumper, holding his toothbrush, elated at the change to his routine.  Meg happily drinks her milk and slips off to sleep on her stretcher bed in her mini sleeping bag. JC the same in the boot, sorry, den (it's empty now). 

We are shell-shocked. That was tough. Really tough. Tougher than anything we have attempted with the kids. We manage to wash ourselves, feed ourselves, and rearrange our camp, almost in silence. The scale of challenge hits. 9 days of this holiday.  It's phenomenally hard, for someone who has had so much, and so much order, to suddenly manage in a tiny space with none of the usual aids and props. Pathetic really.  But we can't help it. Wondering, are we being unfair putting the kids through this, for what? Our own vanity? Self assurance that we are still young and capable? 

We are terrified of going to bed. Of a Pig-like sleepless night again, in such a small space. The morons in the tent next to us keep us awake, I would have preferred the crows. We are up half the night, disturbed, worrying. Meanwhile the kids sleep. 12 solid hours.

That would be a tent. This is a van


We wake to the gurglings of Meg on her stretcher-bed below.  Peeping over the edge of the pop-top mattress, down into the van, we are greeted with a stunning smile and enthusiastic leg kick. "Can I get up now?" pipes up from 2 metres away,  accompanied by another head poking out of the boot. It's 7.15am. "Yes!" We love you more when you sleep. Fact.

So, Meg in cockpit, Matt in pop top, JC in boot. How to make a bottle for Meg, now crying rather than gurgling? The gas needs to be switched on. The gas is  under JC's bed. It's way too cold to go outside. JC can't be in the 'kitchen' with the gas on. Commence the 2 hour wake-up to-breakfast to-getting dressed run out. You don't think about it at home. The 'run out' is easy, it's the 'run in' that kills.  But, when your toddler is on top of the tap that begins the whole process, he's effectively sitting on your microwave saying.."oh no Mum, you can do nothing for Her until I have finished with you."

So, JC up into the pop-top with Matt to read stories. I'm so impressed with Matt for this as it's pretty claustrophobic up there at the best of times, let alone when JC is bed-mining with him. 

Toddler out of boot, gas on, kettle on gas, make bottle, feed Meg. Now what? Where do I put Meg while cooking breakfast? In boot? No, she doesn't seem to see the same excitement in that. Not back in her bed- the stretcher has now been removed to turn the chairs for breakfast. OK, Meg up into the pop top too. That's 3 of them up there. 

The next part takes an hour. Matt is definitely a genius, or mad.  How does he hack it up there? It sounds horrendous. They are crawling all over him and putting things in his ears and licking him. Meg is eating his hair. He says he likes it.

I have the easy job. I clear up the night detritus - sleeping bags, pillows, thermal window pads, our dinner stuff which we need for our breakfast stuff, old bottles, new bottles. High chairs in, porridge on, coffee on. Porridge is critical to give us the energy that we need to get us through until lunchtime. This is an endurance holiday, we need slow release.

And relax. For about one minute. But it's a really great minute. Really better than any breakfast minutes at home, "can I watch cartoons?" Delicious Colonna and Small's coffee through the aero-press. Meg kept quiet with a Ryvita - unbreakable by baby gums. We use the time to capture scenic photos of the kids seen through steam on the cold morning.

This has taken about an hour and a half. I'm running on pure adrenaline. No time to stop though, we need to be out in time for Meg's sleep, before she starts screaming again and can't sleep in her bed because it has been dismantled and is now a breakfast chair, but which needs to be a driving chair again.

It's ok though because, when camping, the simple things are so much more fun. I do the washing up in the communal washing up block and chat to the other campers - old and young. It's not as lonely as these jobs at home and they aren't never-ending. Walking back to the van with the bowl of clean dishes you feel a sense of accomplishment and enjoy the beautiful view.

We pack up the house and we are out again. In so many ways a tent would be easier to manage. But that would be a tent. This is a van. 

We manage to leave everything that we need for the beach at the campsite. We did just pop out for groceries after all, but ended up having a day in a stunning cove, rock pooling. We saw a clingfish and a star fish and a baby crab, which some professional rock poolers had found and kindly offered to show us. I dropped the crab and his arm fell off. "You aren't very good at holding crabs Mum." It was really embarrassing handing the deformed crab back to the rock-pooling children.

Back to camp. Back to the 'run in'. Easier today. We were less shell-shocked after the kids went to bed. We managed to talk a bit and eat delicious BBQ mackerel bought from the farmer's market, landed yesterday. 

Can't remember any takes today. Can't be bothered to count the gives. I'm too bloody tired.

The rain is coming


Sunday. Rain predicted and rain rained. Matt had been building it up for days, rocking gently on the spot and mumbling to himself: the rain is coming.

I was up half the night again as the whole family slept, worrying about the upcoming precipitation.  How would we manage? Would we survive? I'm a terrible mother! We had given up on the dream of owning a camper van one day. But, pressure off, I still couldn't sleep for thinking of potential things that could be worth worrying about. 

An important lesson: never underestimate the positive power of negative thinking.

After a challenging start, it turned out to be one of those days. One of those really great days.

One of those days where the museum was genuinely engaging, where the restaurant opposite the museum happened to belong to Rick Stein, where the beach we stop for a walk at is hosting the World 10th Annual Belly Boarding Championship, and where Matt gets the van stuck on a muddy hilly field, burns out the clutch and is advised by the old lad running the car park to "ease off...let the wheel's grip themselves."

One of those days. Really. The best.


I'm not the father I thought I was


So AL had done the first three nights bathtime for the kids.  She had done so with enormous grace and a smile on her face, helped admittedly by the fantastic campsite facilities.  She had had the luxury of a family bathroom equipped with everything you need to bathe simultaneously a 7 month old and a 3 year old.  The list of equipment included:

Shower

Baby bath

Child height sink

Baby changing table

Toilet

Step

We arrive at a new "family friendly" campsite and muggins here is nominated to take the two monkeys for a wash.  Honestly I tried my hardest to just put it down to inexperience but really I was managing with poor equipment.  The list of equipment I had was:

A bath

A (dirty) concrete floor

Not a fair contest.  I can't be funny about it.  There was nothing funny about it. Where the f@£k was I supposed to put Meg whilst I got JC out of the bath, dry and dressed?  

If anyone sees my sense of humour please let me know, I am pretty sure it is blowing in the wind in Cornwall.  As for JC, when I "asked" him to stop shouting, his response to me was priceless..."well, I just wont talk at all then."  Sorry chap xx


The upside


At some point you just have to accept the fact that it might, just, be working. Your plan may, against all odds, and in line with your greatest hopes, actually come off.

Five nights in. Five nights of zero-nonsense bedtime. Five nights of the toddler sleeping 12 hours. Five nights of the baby doing significantly better than she does at home. It genuinely seems to be the case that they don't seem to notice that they are sleeping in a boot and on a stretcher respectively. Or they don't care.

That said, last night was a tough one. Strong winds were causing the whole van to shake. M and I were woken by it before the kids were, so it was no surprise when they finally demanded some attention.  M went outside in the wind in his underpants (always a highlight for me), to bring in the awning. JC, Meg and I turned the torches on and had a bit of a drink of milk together. It was rather nice actually. None of this sush sush shushing, 'you are feeling really sleepy', no eye contact...Instead it was, 'oh how funny, Dad's outside in his underpants and we are all drinking milk together.' Fifteen minutes later we were all back to sleep. Not saying I would like that scenario on a work day but it certainly beat swearing at them both for disturbing my five star sleep in the hotel, then hating myself for it.

There are other reasons why we are starting to allow ourselves to believe that this might be working out.

My sister came to visit, camping a few pitches away from the mad house.  It was superb. What a treat for the kids to have Aunty Lucy rock up at breakfast time, knock on the window and start playing hide and seek. What a treat for us to have someone watch the kids while we went for a run, to bring us copious quantities of local beers and enjoy our first serious cooking - a dozen scallops on the BBQ. 

I began to notice that there were loads of extended families on the campsite - kids in school uniforms visiting their nomad Grandparents, girls meeting her future in-laws on a camping weekend. It's a leveller, really, camping, so it provides wonderful neutral ground for family get-togethers.

The location here in Gwithian is simply unbelievable. The beach is probably the best I have seen in the world, and we spent hours today looking through rock pools warmed by the sun, watching the distant surfers and puddle-jumping the remnants of high tide.

And then there is the van. It's far from perfect. We spend hours getting ready and unpacked and packed and unpacked and repacked depending on its purpose at that moment.  The campsites can be snooty or grotty or intolerant.  But all that is reduced to an irrelevance the moment you pull up outside a superbly cool beach cafe, pop your baby in the back to sleep for a couple of hours while you enjoy a leisurely lunch.


So, where does this leave us?

We feel pride for the van as we do a best friend, after only 6 days.

Like any great conversationalist, she has taken us away from our day-to-day humdrum and reminded us of the very finest things in life: gymnastics moves in pyjamas before bedtime (just Matt), family breakfasts, chatting with strangers.

We like to photograph her in every possible light, every scenario. In a car park. In the camp site. With a wetsuit on the bonnet. With Meg in her bed. With Jack hanging from the pop-top. With Matt sitting on the step drinking a beer in the evening sun. 

In the evening, when the kids have gone to bed, we find ourselves having a drink and gazing at the final rays glinting off her bonnet, rather than at the sunset itself.   It's a bit strange, though I have noticed we are not alone. Many seem to position their deck-chairs for the greatest possible view of their van.

And no wonder. She is such a mighty beast, so capable of so much.  She parks, and sleeps, and cooks, and stores, and offers seats, she plays music and provides lights and has a fridge which is permanently on and permanently offering chilled lager, or crabs, or scallops or baby food, or super-pudding. She is roomy and comfy and has a heater and her top pops up so fast, offering a second bedroom, along with the den, the kitchen-diner-breakfast bar-cocktail-lounge and stretcher-bearing cockpit. 

But she is a fickle friend. 

In the wind she wobbles and wakes us and the children. When the baby wakes, crying, it is loud, really loud, like someone has woken you from heaven's slumber with a megaphone. And you are powerless. You can't 'control cry' here. There is nothing to do but a bizarre swing from the top bunk down to the stretcher, dummy, into the den, hug, back into the top bunk, torch, back to the stretcher again, nappy, like a caged and slightly demented monkey hunting for a hidden banana. I am energised but I look horrendous.

She drinks diesel, and is long and won't fit under some Waitrose carpark barriers, as if to say, 'you are not welcome here, this was your old life.' 

So, should we blow our hard fought savings on our very own beautiful beast?

I asked JC whether he preferred the black car or the camper van. Resolute response. The Camper Van! Hooray! Why?

"The camper van has wheels". 

No closer to deciding then.


Final morning, final thoughts

We wake early to a beautiful sunrise. 

Truthfully, we wake early to Meg's crying, and then happen to notice the beautiful sunrise.

It's packing-up day. We did everything we could last night to be as prepared as possible, to be best able to gather 4 people's belongings in a tidy order, leave no mark of our presence and get on the road before Meg needed to sleep again at precisely 9.15.  We drank local ale out of a small keg to save rubbish. We ate nothing but blocks of cheese and ripped bread dipped in homemade chutney, to save on washing up. It was tough going.

I took JC off on an early morning walk to the beach to watch the sun coming up, and leave Matt free to tidy camp away, with just little Meg to watch.  Camping jumpers over pyjamas, coffee in flask, biscuits in pocket.  

JC walked confidently through the sand dunes, clearly excited about the adventure, fascinated by the footprints he was leaving in the dew on the grass.  No moaning or 'can I go on your shoulders'-ing. He stopped to have a chat with a chap getting his paddle-board ready. He ran away from a few dogs.  

We decided to go down to the beach, to eat the biscuits. Tide was on its way out, perfect. The freshly washed beach was tainted only by a few sets of footprints. The waves were populated only by a couple of paddle-boarders.  JC would have sat on a rubbish tip if it had meant he could eat a biscuit, but it was a really special morning together, all the same, a memory I shall treasure. The pyjamas and footprints and paddle-boarders and waves and biscuits, all before 7.30 am. If we had rented a cottage, maybe we would have done the same, but it's unlikely. Much more likely would be that we would have put JC in front of the TV to watch cartoons so we could pack up without bother.

Let me not paint too romantic a picture. This is a new type of holiday, but it is still reality.  JC needed the promise of a biscuit to get him out of bed and into his camping jumper. He needed another biscuit promise to get him off the beach and back to the campsite. The sea was cold, I cut my toe on the rocks. I carried him on my shoulders the whole way back. On arrival Matt was distressed. Turns out Meg needed a bit more looking after than I had imagined. The camp packing was no further along.  Matt had just missed out on the dew, and the dunes and the biscuits.

That's the thing about this holiday. The most special moments with the children that we have ever had. The children happier than we have ever seen them, but the moments are interspersed with a decent slug of hard graft.

Perhaps a better idea would be to rent a holiday cottage and take the van mentality to it...but then I'm almost entirely sure we would have slept through the sunrise, and the promise of a biscuit on a cold beach would not have held such wonderful appeal.

Choose choice

Watching Plan B's Ill Manors the other night I was disturbed by the depth of desperate depravity on our council estates. 

Pity the Plight of Young Fellows

The blanket of stars above their heads in the sky feels like a ceiling 

Slowly crushing down on them as the terror starts progressing

Impressional young children that never had a chance

Growing up in these manors most are doomed from the start

Because the minds of their peers are as ill as their hearts.

Choice came to mind. Or the lack of it. No choice. No real choice. No sensible array of options for analysis, optimisation, selection. Not really. 

We often talk about having too much choice.  It causes confusion, anguish, regret that we have perhaps selected the marginally sub-optimal route. It creates a cognitive burden on our weary minds. 

Watch Ill Manors and you may, like I, feel disgusted with yourself, loathe yourself, embarrassed at the gross extent of your privileged naivety.

Choice - the undervalued gift. A dream for the millions in this country standing with their backs against the wall, forced to select between bad and worse.

Barry Schwartz, in his book The Paradox of Choice, refers to two groups: the satisficers and the maximisers.  Satisficing refers to a known decision-making strategy, where the aim is to meet an acceptable threshold, rather than an aspired optimum. Maximisers make exhaustive efforts to drive the greatest positive result, anything short is mediocrity. 

When we feel pressured by the decisions that we need to make day to day, or when we perhaps feel dissatisfied with our selection, it's not a question of too much choice. It's more a question of constraining our satisfaction with unrealistic and impossible goals.

So many of us are maximisers, we want perfection, we want to make sure we have squeezed every ounce of value out of the choice available to us.

But, take the cost of maximisation into account; the time, the effort, the stress, the opportunity loss. Take instead the array of choice as the item to be maximised. Then you may see your success at meeting your life aspirations a little differently. 

The Common Wealth of Nakedness

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge tonight leave the Solomon Islands for the next leg of their Diamond Jubilee Tour - the aim of which is to visit each of the Realms of the Commonwealth to celebrate the  jubilee of the current Head of State, Queen Elizabeth II.

It is a largely vainglorious mission, not least because the role of Head of State will likely not pass to the Queen’s successor.  The role is largely ornamental. That said, it’s important to our current monarch and I respect that and, as she is not able to attend all 54 member nations, the Queen has sent different members of her family on the tour to represent her.

I respect that a little less.

In any case, I am sure that, as her equerry arrived on the sinking land of the Solomon region, to be greeted by Melanesian tribe-folk in traditional dress, Her Majesty would her preferred that the world was not making comparisons to the topless pictures of her new daughter-in-law on her hols in France.

Because bizarre back-drop it certainly did provide.

What was more strange? The giggling of the Duchess as the bare-topped tribal women placed traditional wreaths around her neck, at exactly the moment she and her husband were suing for ‘grotesque’ invasion of privacy and seeking criminal charges against the photographer?

Or, the image of a sedated Duchess in high-necked, long-armed formal attire as she was carried on a throne by naked Melanesians, in such contrast to the bare-breasted bikini-bottomed girl rubbing sun-cream into her new husband’s back?

 

In parts of the Melanesian region, men went naked except for a penis sheath made from the gourd of a vine and greeted eachother by rubbing each other's groin region. Now the laplap, wrapped around the waist or the armpits to cover the body is generally worn. In certain areas, women still prefer not to wear any covering on their upper body, as we saw in many pictures this week.

They prefer to not wear any covering. And so they don’t. Not even when, the chances are, they will be on the front pages of national papers around the world. The Duchess had much to discuss with these ladies.

So, how wonderful this tour could have been, given the Duchess relatively relaxed attitude to clothing and body, surely the most relaxed of any so close in line to the throne. What if the Duke and Duchess had taken the opportunity to step off that plane wearing nothing more than a penis sheath, and a folded laplap? To have performed a brief ceremonial groin rub and shown true respect for the indiginous culture of one of the members of our former empire!

Instead, the tour lacked authenticity, even more than it did at the start.

Go to work, voluntarily

The voluntary sector is back in the press following the mouth-watering value delivered by the London 2012 Games Makers on the world’s largest stage. For free.

Politicians are jumping up and down, slathering a bit. Ha! Proof! Our Big Society concept was absodooperly spot on! The Games Makers loved it too! This is how we get our stagflative economy out of the doldrums – volunteerism! Let’s bottle it! It’s our nation’s newest greatest asset, and it’s freeee, we can afford it! 

Listening to many of the Games Makers, willing to work so hard, expecting so little, and yet receiving so much, it’s hard to disagree.  Many said that the experience was the best thing they had ever done.

It gets even harder to argue the power of volunteerism when you read the latest white paper from the global consulting firm, Hay Group, optimistically entitled ‘Depressed Employee Engagement stunts global business performance’. The paper claims that more than a third of employees across the world are unwilling to go the extra mile for their organization.

So two groups in the press offering their services: one unwilling, one willing. One remunerated in cash, the other remunerated…how?

In their testimony (The Guardian’s open thread on the topic), the Games Makers describe a passion for sport, pride in their product, tremendous collegiality and a sense of driving real value to the bigger whole. 

Passion, pride, collegiality, value.  Sentiments lacking from many a disengaged employee’s day to day.

We certainly can learn a great deal from the joyful success of volunteerism this summer. We can learn to be more ‘willing’, to find a job which delivers passion, pride, collegiality and value. We can remember that remuneration comes in many forms, cash being just one. There is a chance that if we all set out to add value, we may actually do so, and the economy may improve after all.

Because of your difference

"Show the world that, regardless of differences between individuals, there is something that everyone is good at".  

The instantly recognisable synthesised voice of Professor Stephen Hawking, so charismatic in Pink Floyd's "Keep Talking", and the driving force of the Paralympic Opening Ceremony. 

If I were feeling really brave, I would suggest to the Professor that he replace 'regardless' with 'because'. "Because of the differences between individuals, there is something that everyone is good at."

So many Paralympians have found their difference, and consequently, their strength, through tragedy.  Others have endured so very many years of challenge, to eventually find acceptance in sport.

You may be entirely able in body, and mind, or maybe not, but have you found your difference? That quirk, that foible, that idiosyncrasy which differentiates you from your colleagues, from other parents, from friends? Is your difference so well admired by those close to you, or by society, as the ability to swim faster or shoot straighter than anyone in your class?

Admired or not, it is your distinguishing characteristic, work with it.

If other parents think your approach strange, prove through your children that your distinct formula works.

If your employer can't see it, or can't put a value to it, or doesn't like it; leave. You won't reach your  potential there.

You have been blessed. You have your difference, without suffering true challenge or tragedy. Don't wait for disaster to discover it.

Down with casual dress! Up with fancy dress!

The grumpy foraging for jazzy socks and work-appropriate chinos, often left in a wine-splattered ball since last Friday, marks the beginning of the run-in to the weekend.

There is a lot to be said about dressing down at work on a Friday at otherwise suited and booted city firms. It helps to create a convivial atmosphere in the office. What's more, comfortable trousers - the jegging a notable example, better facilitate the consumption of doughnuts.

But there is so much further that we can go with it.

We could be dressing up! Not down!

This could be a valuable opportunity to express what we are really like, not the chino-clad image of what we think we should be like.

But what type of fancy dresser are you and what does this choice say about you?

The aspirational superhero
Fake muscles aplenty.  You are ambitious. You know the superhero that you could be, if only you had the time. You stand for courage, leadership and for the greater good. Your heart is most definitely in the right place.  Your ego is perfectly formed, even in the absence of any great musculature.

Alas, your fears of living up to your own ideal can make you prone to bouts of self-doubt, "am I the superhuman leader that I am portraying myself to be, or am I one big polyester fake?"

The idealist
You choose a noted character that you resemble in some way - physically or ideologically; Churchill, Austin Powers or the 118 118 man. You align yourself to their beliefs and you are well-researched to 'live' your character. You take your role as ambassador for this ideal seriously. 

Your loyalty knows no bounds, but your natural inclination to follow perhaps betrays a lack of self-confidence, "people would never see me as a Buzz Lightyear kind of person, but I do have a similar moustache to Biggles."

The Comedian
You dress as a banana, or an egg, or a TellyTubby.  Your role is to improve the day of others around you, irrespective of your own personal discomfort. A smile is easily worth a bucket of sweat to you.

But why do you do it?  Like many comedians, you may conceal the sadness of the real you behind a physical or metaphorical mask and be prone to bouts of self-loathing, "how stupid do I look? I'm dressed as a giant breast and therefore can't work, or eat."

The Promoter
You choose a costume which promotes an area of your physique which has driven results for you in the past - sexy firewoman, morphsuit, mankini. You recognise the impact that your body has on others and you enjoy the attention.

Like many exhibitionists, you occasionally worry about trading on this asset, and hate yourself for it, but not too much. As Kelly Brook very sensibly said in today's edition of The Times, "If people are interested in my body, then OK, that's it. I'm not going to fight against it..."

The Don't Dress Up-er
Lack of commitment to your work. This is your shop window, and you didn't want to dress it. That, or you don't have a sense of humour. Or you don't fancy revealing the character trait behind your character selection, thus inadvertently revealing a different trait in the process. We are getting into modern game theory here.

Scrap the whole stupid idea. Especially since, for women, there is really only one option according to the online fancy dress outlets, and that is to dress as a stripper (albeit a stripper dressed as a firewoman, nurse, schoolgirl, superhero...) Even the fried egg is sold with stockings. This may suit many of Promoter inclination and/or fine physical form, but without offering the opportunity to distinguish you from other fancy dressers, it is no better than a chino.

Equality for all!

My early impressions of golf clubs were formed at Wentworth, where friend's fathers went to hide, or to conduct their extra-marital affairs.  Friends snuck in at night-time to drink cider and play spin the bottle in the bunkers.

Reading the front page news that this week two, yes two all in one go, women have been accepted to the Augusta National golf course, home of the Master's championship, unsettled me. I hadn't known that women were banned, and I couldn't decide whether I cared.

I watched the Wentworth promotional video to help form a view. I should never have done it. I'll never feel the same again.

"Wentworth...where history is made...legends are born"...rousing violin, cymbal crash, melancholy bassoon. God, I love a montage. "Luxury" - sticky buns, plumped pillows, valets, lush green grass, the 'ting' of ball on driver, ducks. "Celebration" - Aston Martin, bubbly bath, rose petals, champagne, creamy choux buns.  "Relaxation" - sensuous massage, official handshakes, more silky grass, insanely fluffy white towels. "Celebration" - ice sculptures, pecan pie, cosmopolitans, petits fours, venison, parasols. "Business" - men posing for a photo, nodding vigorously whilst drinking a Montrachet Premier Cru, shaking hands on their deal.

I want to join, and I don't even golf. If I were a woman in Augusta I'd have been fuming too.

I called the membership line. I spoke to a charming Irish chap. Apparently it is really incredibly accessible. It's his job, he says, to find a proposer and seconder to help us enter the club. He does it all the time, no worries.  There is currently space, no worries.  He asked which line of business my husband was in. I said that he looked after the children (just to see what it sounded like). He didn't miss a beat. He said he thought he knew someone he could connect us to, no worries. Done!

If I had decided on golf as my hobby, over children as my hobby, I could be there, no worries.  The annual fees are almost exactly equal to my annual childcare bill.  I could be revelling in the power network, slathering myself in machismo, hoovering up choux buns and Chardonnay, hooning up the drive in my Aston Martin, rolling around on the lush green grass, 'ting, ting, ting', "shot!", drinking cosmopolitans out of lewdly shaped ice sculptures whilst broking my next mega-deal. I'd be rich. Rich!

No going back now though. Instead I'm going to start a campaign for greater equality.

Equality for those of us who have finite resource and decide to breed. We are being excluded! Unfairly! Due to the fact that we can't afford to be members. The non-breeding middle-class are getting the better networking opportunities, using their free time to nod vigorously and shake hands, rather than shake heads vigorously and nod off. We deserve some positive discrimination. After all, its not just about us, we may be creating the "legends" of the future, and I really feel like I deserve a choux bun.

But would it hold the same appeal with no children to get away from, or to track down in flagrante? Would it hold the same appeal for husbands knowing that their wives will also likely be there?

Yes, in this instance, I really do think that the grass at the golf club is always greener.

Facebook friends don't un-me me

Unfriend, unfollow - relatively discreet.  Unbaby - the latest application of the prolific prefix of reversal - harder to explain.

Unbaby.me is a new browser extension which removes photos of babies from your Facebook feed and replaces them with pictures of anything else you fancy...cats, seals, bacon. In its first week the app had 30,000 downloads.

With this I hear the rasped breath of the social networking revolution, in death throes, having fallen on a pair of pruning shears.

It was inevitable.

Unfriending, unfollowing, trolling, flaming..we have been gradually killing off nodes in our networks with increasing fervour, because we have grown apart, or because we got bored, or by deliberately insulting eachother. With the use of preferences, likes, recommendations, pseudonyms and now content filters, we have created a world more parochial than it ever was off-line. A network of infinite possibility has been poorly nurtured and naively pruned.

Like the hop plant.

At its very best, the hop adds perfect balance to a delicious social beverage. At its worst it stings and suffocates.  Suspected of creating melancholy in the time of Henry VI, growing this 'wicked and pernicious weed' was forbidden. 

Gradually, 16th century British society came round to the value of the hop, a hardy perennial and social climber. Hop growers have perfected the art of cultivating this fickle friend. Deep, rich, soil, plenty of space, expect little early, plenty of manure. Each year the vines are 'dressed', that is, all the old ends are cut off, preserving the core. Aphis, red spider, fungus, are delicately wiped away with soap solution by hand.

To nurture our social network, we need to foster not stunt growth. We need to trim the lose ends, preserve the core. We need to invest, we need to give space, we need to wipe away the aphis.

We don't need to replace pictures of our friend's babies with pictures of bacon. 

What we should do is create the long-needed distinction between ‘followers’ and 'friends’. When posting on a social network, tag your post to one of the components of your life - family, work, sport. Your 'followers' can chose which part to follow.  Your 'friends' take the lot.

Cut away at the core, and your hop plant will die.

(Thanks to Botanical.com)

Sir Barlow I salute you

As a contrary 13 year old I resolved to hate Take That. I resolutely kept it up for 20 years. I didn't falter - not with Robbie, nor without Robbie, not with him again, not in clown outfits, not in bearskin.  That was until they strolled into the Olympic stadium and saved the London 2012 Closing Ceremony from the brink of complete disaster.

We had been subjected to the bizarre, the bad and the out of tune. We had listened to the most unmoving of key-note speeches. Jacques Rogge, the current President of the IOC had 4 years to prepare for the speech of his career.  He had time to write a poem, learn a dance, complete his own inspirational montage, yet he read from a sheet, no trace of emotion,  "we will never forget the smiles." Followed by Huw Edwards skin-itching tragi-speak "the cauldron...soon to be extinguished...gently...gradually..." until we are all dead.

Arrive Gary Barlow and his man-band.  A man grieving from the loss of his baby girl, tragically still born only one week ago.  With his opening line he instantly renewed our wonder in London 2012 and evoked such unimaginable pathos that I am reduced to wracking sobs even as I write, "You light the skies up above me, A star so bright you blind me, Don’t close your eyes, Don’t fade away, don’t fade away." Followed by elation. Elation at hearing the little one's voice supporting Gary - Mark, and marvelling at their smart Continental soldier jackets, and that we do have someone who can sing in tune, that the black paddles did have a purpose and that 204 nations are standing on a majestic Union Jack, waving their arms and singing "We Can Rule The World" with marmalade and jam. Tell me the coverage stopped right there, please.

I go promptly to the DirectGov website to nominate Gary Barlow for a Knighthood. He restored a nation's credibility, at the most difficult time in his own life. That is selflessness. That is inspiration. Turns out he already received an OBE in the Queen's Jubilee Honours list. Officer. Not enough. He needs a Knighthood and to be a Sir. I demand it. I'll fill out the forms right now.

These forms are remarkably straight forward. Anyone can be nominated. I wonder. Let's look at some of the awards, what were these people doing when they were 33?  Maybe we are all on track for a Knighthood?

Dame Zaha Hadid, made DBE in June 2012, aged 62. Iraqi-British architect responsible for the London 2012 Aquatics Centre design. Degree in Mathematics from the American University of Beirut. Partner at the Office for Metropolitan Architecture by the age of 27. Established her own Architecture practice in London at the age of 30.  She goes a bit quiet then, teaching at prestigious institutions around the world, until she is made the first female and first Muslim recipient of the Protzker Architecture Prize (comparable to the Nobel prize) at the age of 54.

Bit of a high achiever from a very early age. What about this one...

Dame Lucy Neville-Rolfe, corporate and legal affairs director at Tesco, made DBE in June 2012 at the age of 59. She has a BA and MA in Politics and Philosophy from Oxford. At 33 she was working in the European Community policy unit on Sheepmeat and Milk. She has 4 children. She wasn't headhunted from the Cabinet Office to Tesco by Sir Terry Leahy until she was 44. She didn't get her first accolade - CMG - to recognise overseas contributions until the age of 52.

Hoorah! Hope! From Sheepmeat and Milk policy to Damehood in 20 years, fitting in 4 children along the way.

Think we should all target Damehood by 60.

In the meanwhile, Sir Barlow, I salute you.

Target Practice

Success is the achievement of something desired, planned or attempted and London 2012 has offered wonderful examples of athletes tasting success or falling dramatically short, irrespective of the final medal.

British athlete Tom Daley's bronze medal in the individual 10m platform dive gave the BBC3 a record 6.6 million viewers on Saturday night.  He made front page of The Sunday Times Olympic section, relegating Luke Campbell, the Gold medal winning boxer, to Page 6. The Guardian ran the headline -  'Tom Daley makes diving bronze seem like gold'. Tom Daley knew that, given the strength of the field and his own capabilities on that day, bronze was the greatest he could achieve.

Stark contrast to the reception for Rebecca Adlington's two bronze medals in the swimming pool, 'Rebecca Adlington beaten into bronze' - Guardian 3rd August, which has left her considering her swimming future. Rebecca was disappointed with her time having swum slower in her 800m final than she did in the British Olympic qualifiers.

We can learn a great deal from our athletes in terms of the value of setting realistic targets and judging our success against them.

How to determine your target? How do we know the extent of your potential?

Turn Up - To even begin to understand your true potential you need to turn up. Our athletes were not selected by luck.  They joined swimming clubs and cycling clubs, they worked hard,  tried a few different sports and eventually they settled on one that suited them.  Play around with the components of your life that you spend your time on. If you don't feel that you can meet your idea of high performance in your life as you currently lead it, think about trying something different that does play to your strengths.

Baseline - Understand your strengths and weaknesses across each of the components of your life. Which components do you naturally excel at? Which do you enjoy most? Which are just fixed time requirements and you need to simply minimise the downside?

Target - Set yourself an achievable goal. Go after it. Smash it. Chose another one. Keep pushing out your targets. You may come to the ceiling of one or many. Decide what to do about that.

Call for help - Identify the support that you need to reach your target.  If you are unable to get the support, reassess the feasibility of the target. The best coaches, partners and employers will provide this support seamlessly to maximise your potential.

Time horizon - Schedule your goals. You can achieve anything that you set your mind to, but not all at once. Consider your constraints and plan your aspirations around them and around the aspirations of those that you are close to.

Recognise Success -  If you reach your target, recognise it.

All too often we berate ourselves for underachievement of what was always an unrealistic target. Even more frequently we don't celebrate the successful attainment of a target which we might consider to be mediocre in comparison to others.

When you reach the target that you have set for yourself, think of Tom Daley. Celebrate, as if it were Olympic gold, then start training for Rio.

Montage Yourself

John Wilson, the BBC Radio 4 Arts reporter recently presented a show called "Pump Up The Volume" investigating why many people call music sport's "legal drug". In some research studies, music has been shown to increase physical performance by 20 per cent, while reducing an athlete's perception of effort by 10 per cent.

Music doesn't just impact sporting performance though, and it's not just for athletes. We can employ music to drive performance across all components of our life.
Music blocks out the inhibitors to our success; the sound of your heart pumping over-time, the sound of the washing machine going, the soundtrack to your day to day which keeps you firmly rooted in the 'now'. It opens the door to a place in your mind where you are no longer constrained. You are your own definition of greatness for that moment. You can run faster. You have a great idea. You feel 21 again.

Music provides a soundtrack to our thoughts to create a mini-montage of our life in our minds, driving a shot of adrenaline through the body to fuel a burst of inspiration.

Use music when you are working on your aspiration.

Your mind will think you are capable of more. Now just the rest of you needs to catch up.

Empire State of Mensch

Following my earlier blog - 'If you can't join them, beat them', my attempt at recording an opinion on the facts.

Louise Mensch, the Conservative MP who beat expectations in 2010 by doubling the long-hoped-for swing of the 13 year Labour seat of Corby and East Hants, has this week resigned from her post, following a long-time struggle to find the “best outcome” for her family.

Mensch, a graduate of Oxford University joined the Young Conservatives at the age of 14 and was selected as Parliamentary candidate for Corby in 2006. She was cited in the Insight Public Affairs ‘The Next Generation: Parliamentary Candidates to Watch’ in 2009, which celebrated the 2 million copies of her 12 novels, written since her first publishing contract at the age of 22.

Praised for her comment, “women can have it all, if they want it all”, Louise has found her life balance increasingly difficult to optimise since her divorce from her first husband in 2009, with whom she has 3 children now 4, 7, and 8, and marriage to new love Manhattanite and manager of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Peter Mensch.
This year she aims to publish her 13^th novel, under her married name, “I was longing to brand myself with his name for a very long time. He's a living legend, and to be his wife is the greatest honour.”

Successful in anything she puts her mind to, Mensch certainly challenges any suggestion of politics being a Calling. When news of alleged youthful drug-taking broke in 2011 she assumed it would all be over, “There goes my career. I was like - oh well, easy come, easy go, political career.”

As well as the beloved new husband, three children, millions in the bank from her immensely popular novels and Parliamentary career, she has also recently launched a new social networking site - Menshn, which, rather foolishly, she claims is not inspired by her own name. A “niche complement to twitter”, the site fixes three of twitter’s well publicised problems: poor topic structure, follower reach, and offensive use.

She swung the Corby electorate, twitter’s loyal followers should be a walk in the park.

I think I might sign up.

(Thanks to GQ.Com for quotes)

If you cant join them, beat them

Louise Mensch, Conservative MP for Corby resigns from her job for the sake of her family life.

It’s exhausting.

Another day, another story of a woman who has given up her ‘high profile’ career.

Exhausting is the effort needed to unpick these stories, to scrape off the media slap and consider the bare face of the facts. Why bother?  Well, we can understand deep-rooted perception by how people are portrayed in the media, and also we may just learn something about a better balanced life.

And my goodness you have to watch the journalists, because they care about this story only insofar as it fits around a point that they got up this morning already wanting to make. The available data is moulded around the journalist’s hypothesis with unwanted extras left lying on the cutting room floor.

The Telegraph Political bloggers have been vocal on this topic so I looked at their three posts.

Iain Martin, in his blog ‘The Louise Mensch Show was always going to end in tears’  tells the tale of the failure of a self-obsessed allrounder, a ‘blow up’ which he predicted coming. He sagely warns the PM to be more careful who he backs next time.  He employs buzz words to create drama – ‘careerism’ (twice), ‘Chick-Lit’,  along with nonsensical statements "Some seem to have been given the impression that politics would work around their needs .. with no need for any of that awkward business of mastering the Commons or honing a worldview.” 

Lord Norman Tebbitt’s blog, ‘The case of Louise Mensch is a good example of why the Tory grassroots have lost confidence in the national Party' questions today's relaxed approach to the office of MP, “It is the apparently casual attitude of Mrs Mensch towards the obligations she had undertaken which concerns me: it is as if these days being a Member of Parliament is no more than a job”.

Damian Thompson, Telegraph Blogs Editor, 'Louise Mensch quits. So why did she bother becoming an MP in the first place?' aims to incite anger against Mensch, “Louise is going to have to come up with something pretty convincing if she isn't going to leave people thinking: she got elected, got bored and flounced out” and employs mild threat to underline his point, “Corby Conservatives..may have a few messages to tweet back at her”.

For what it is worth, here is my take:

Empire State of Mensch

Louise Mensch, the Conservative MP who beat expectations in 2010 by doubling the long-hoped-for swing of the 13 year Labour seat of Corby and East Hants, has this week resigned from her post, following a long-time struggle to find the “best outcome” for her family.

Mensch, a graduate of Oxford University joined the Young Conservatives at the age of 14 and was selected as Parliamentary candidate for Corby in 2006. She was cited in the Insight Public Affairs ‘The Next Generation: Parliamentary Candidates to Watch’ in 2009, which celebrated the 2 million copies of her 12 novels, written since her first publishing contract at the age of 22.

Praised for her comment, “women can have it all, if they want it all”, Louise has found her life balance increasingly difficult to optimise since her divorce from her first husband in 2009, with whom she has 3 children now 4, 7, and 8, and marriage to new love Manhattanite and manager of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Peter Mensch.

This year she aims to publish her 13^th novel, under her married name, “I was longing to brand myself with his name for a very long time. He's a living legend, and to be his wife is the greatest honour.”

Successful in anything she puts her mind to, Mensch certainly challenges any suggestion of politics being a Calling. When news of alleged youthful drug-taking broke in 2011 she assumed it would all be over, “There goes my career. I was like - oh well, easy come, easy go, political career.”

As well as the beloved new husband, three children, millions in the bank from her immensely popular novels and Parliamentary career, she has also recently launched a new social networking site - Menshn, which, rather foolishly, she claims is not inspired by her own name.  A “niche complement to twitter”, the site fixes three of twitter’s well publicised problems:  poor topic structure, follower reach, and offensive use.

She swung the Corby electorate, twitter’s loyal followers should be a walk in the park.

I think I might sign up.

(Thanks to GQ.Com for reporting)

____________________

When you look at the news of Mensch’s resignation objectively, you see a highly intelligent, hugely successful individual who is understandably not happy with the sub-optimal situation of throwing herself across three different locations: her constituency, London and New York, and who has every possible opportunity to make a small change to fix it.

The fact is that anyone with options, determination and self-belief will simply step over obstacles in the way of optimal life satisfaction. The trick for employers is to make their offering the most attractive, with the least number of obstacles.

Lord Tebbitt. Being MP of Corby probably was ‘just a job’ and one that she was very good at when she brought her party to victory. A life in Politics does not have the appeal it once did, ambivalence is rife as a result of what has gone before.

As for loyalty, Iain, Mensch loyally called out that Cameron had done everything in his power as an employer to help her. As a 'Leading Political Commentator', why don’t you call upon Cameron to focus on the power of his own leadership to drive greater passion and numbers to his party to solve such retention and succession issues.

And Damian, Louise doesn’t have to convince anyone of anything. The facts are there. She didn’t ‘flounce’ out. She gathered her kids, got on a First Class flight to New York to live with the manager of the world’s coolest band where, undoubtedly, she will knock her latest endeavour out of the park.

Jealousy is a terrible thing and all three Telegraph blogs smack of ‘if you can’t join them, beat them.’

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