Thanks chook

So much tragedy and hurt in the world.

Since we last communed the ‘crossbow cannibal’ has crowed over his atrocities, the Gaza situation has been argued like the chilling but puerile playground spat that it is, a pissed-off taxi driver has stolen 13 lives in Cumbria (and marred dozens more) and a wacked out cage fighter has ripped out his sparring partner’s heart. To name but a few ‘newsworthy’ items. Any chance we can pile some love into the other pan of the scales to try and balance the negativity? It’s got to be worth a try.

I’m going to start by offering thanks to a dear friend of my little piranha fish and - by (very willing) proxy – myself. She is a Kay person and lives in New Zealand. Of the many hats she wears, one that fits her like a glove is that of poet. Now, those of the faithful who knew me as a tadpole will recall my attitude to poetry whilst tumbling through my formative years; to call me a poemophobe would be akin to referring to Pol Pot as a naughty man. I utterly believe that English literature lessons induced in me a form of synaesthesia in which the sound of spoken Byron or Bysshe-bosh Shelley actually translated through my muddled synapses as pen and wash images of a Lotus-Cortina or sometimes glossy photographs of unfeasibly large breasts.

But, just as detergent disperses oil into the water with which it will never truly mix, time has ameliorated the effects of poetry on my shredded neural network. And whilst Chronos is generally regarded at Watson Towers as a bit of an unwelcome bastard who can stick his hourglass up his ass sideways, in this instance he’s played a blinder. Whereas once upon a time I was an active learner, I am now more reflective (as, regrettably dear reader, is my balding pate) and this new trait in me has allowed a new paradigm for poetry.

Not all poetry of course. Some efforts appear to me as the spasms of inchoate thought manifested via keyboard to print. Some is so sugary that my teeth begin to drop out just with one verse. Some smacks of smug manipulation of verbiage and causes a red mist of hate, while yet more promotes a mental shrug of indifference akin to eating a potato. Kay’s poems though (check some out on her excellent blog http://andbottlewasher.blogspot.com/) can infiltrate the canyons of my mind, seeking out hidden memories and allowing them to escape from the darkness. Many social constructs are underpinned by music, and 10cc are not the only band to whisper that ‘big boys don’t cry’ and - unreconstructed as I am - I don’t do tears. That said, some leakage has been experienced when reading Kay’s words. There, I’ve said it.

Only now I am beginning to allow different channels of access to a heart that has previously served merely as a pump (yes, yes, I know that it is merely a pump, but it’s a handy short-hand for the emotional centre of being, you pedants). I don’t learn the words to these poems, I don’t revisit them in a wistful attempt to recreate spent emotions; for me some poems just flick a switch. This is a rather dystopian view of poetry, allowing it only to exist as a cipher, but it’s what works for me now. In my future, who knows? I may start to quote Yeats and wear a frilly collar, perhaps even reject the Subaru as a sublime lifeform. Heaven forfend, I might even recant vodka as the one true religion.

For now though, what I have is sufficient unto the day, and I am grateful for the chance meeting that allowed colour to bleed into a monochromatic view of poetry. That is my small addition to the scalepan of love needed to outweigh the bad stuff - love and gratitude for the help from a friend who is distant yet only a few keystrokes away, a ‘second hand’ friend, an true artist.

Thanks Kay

Yours aye, Anne

IT'S BEEN A WHILE ...

… since I last blogged; it seems as if a lot has happened which is relevant to me in the last fortnight. The Coblin (see the amygdala chapter) party has started to throw some shapes, and the losers are jockeying for the position of prime loser in waiting. Le soleil brille for a while, which not only coaxed the Watson limbs into the light but also lifted my darkened soul into the brilliance with a cry of ‘Hakuna Matata!’ I have had love showered upon me from many directions, had hopes raised and dashed, have travelled in space and time, have gazed in wonder at the modest beauty of English flora and marveled at the snootfuls of scent that wafted unbidden into the holes in my face making me smile and say ‘Wow’ like some aging hippy.

Of course the term ’a lot’ is relative to your system of measurement and the norms your mind in programmed with. For me, this 2 weeks = 67 units of alcohol = 14 days = 224 waking hours = approx 13440 conscious minutes = 1,209,600 heartbeats. If every heartbeat were as precious as it ought to be – as it was when I first fell in love, or when my children were born, and as I’m sure it will be on my deathbed – then over 1.2 million heartbeats would seem like an enormous opportunity. What has seemed like a busy fortnight for me might appear to be trance-like in comparison to the sensations I could cram in.

If the heartbeat is your chosen unit of measure, then a way to stretch time could be to increase the number of heartbeats in a given time, increasing the intensity of experience using adrenaline promoting activities and exercise. Or you could just take a good look at the frightful mess of petty bureaucracy running amok in these sceptred isles. I was talking to a friend recently who is a saffer (South African) living in London; he posed the question ‘why is Health and Safety such a big thing in England – doesn’t anyone have common sense any more?’ A good question Doug, and one to which my immediate answer only promoted me to reflect more deeply on. More of that in the next exciting episode mes braves for now I must make like a chicken and cluck off to justify my existence … but after one last nugget, one little truffle-ette to flavour your lives.

Did you know that sunshine (well, actually all natural light, but the appropriate wavelengths are more intense in strong sunlight) stimulates serotonin production and it is this molecule that is important in regulating mood, appetite and sleep. The science of serotonin production is fascinating; the positive aspects of serotonin crossing the blood-brain barrier include mood enhancement, stimulated by strong sunlight as well as ecstasy, mescaline, anti-depressants and also - bizarrely – bananas. In areas of our body other than the brain however, serotonin is responsible for diarrhoea, vomiting and the pain we feel when bitten or stung by an insect. Crazy!

How awesome is our body? And what do most of us use it for most of the time? I rest my case!

Have a great Bank Holiday weekend followers, and remember what Joni Mitchell sang
‘ … You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone…’.

Anne

AMYGDALA

Amygdala

Wow! I am very excited by the current political situation in downtown UK, with our coalition government espousing a tribalist mentality for a pluralist philosophy. Granted it’s not a voluntary amalgamation and the compromise will be seen by some party activists as diablerie. I believe though that we must all put aside our fears and old allegiances and see how these two well educated men and their experienced teams go about coblin’ (it’s an anagram of Con / Lib) a solution together for our economic woes. So, a good result … unless you are a labourist or a latterday Celt.

Speaking of fears, I have recently been privileged to hear Anette Prehn dipping into the neuroscience toolbox to give some fantastic insights into ways that we lead teams, or indeed work in general; please indulge me whilst I bore you with an exerpt. The limbic system is a group of subcortical structures (the hypothalamus, the hippocampus, and the amygdala) in our 1.4 kilos of brain that are concerned especially with emotion and motivation. In particular, the amygdala is an area which triggers the sequence of events that lead to the fight or flight response and which destroys concentration, problem solving rationality and productivity along the way. Understanding the amygdala response allows us to use this knowledge to change habits, reflect on ones own (and others’) behaviours, and mitigate gnarly situations.

Overlaid on this brief description we have to know that

(i) we all have different triggers and levels of reaction for the amygdala threat response (although there is some commonality eg fear of spiders, fear of public speaking etc.) and

(ii) 20% of the population have an oversensitive amygdala

Right, for those of you still with me rather than reaching for the Mandies (oops, showing my age!) you can perhaps see where I’m going (or rather where Anette was going when she shone a torch into the dusty corners of my mind).

Concrete examples of the amygdala hijacking analytical thinking and impairing problem solving and creative insight are when you dry up (public speaking), fail to answer questions fully (job interview), babble incoherently (appraisals), face change in the workplace or your mind goes blank in exams. The important overriding principle is that these responses to perceived threat are autonomic (not under your conscious control) chemical responses designed through millennia of evolution to suppress everything but your ability to flee or fight. You really don’t need to rationalise with a charging mastodon nor to put a lucid case for a pay rise to the towering tsunami – just make like a sheep and get the flock out of there!

There are apparently only two ways to minimize dribbling your way through the scary parts of your life

(i) the limbic system learns by practice and repetition, so reduce the amygdala response by exposing yourself (steady tiger, I haven’t finished yet!) to those situations and practicing a more reasoned response, and ...

(ii) work for a nice boss who understands that conflictual situations destroy concentration and productivity.

If you are a boss - so that’s all the women in the Western world and the proportion of blokes who have ‘Manager’ (anagram Rageman often is a more apt descriptor) as their job title - you have to understand that the level of cortisol rises when you offer ad hoc ‘one-off’ feedback, send out those negative non-verbal communications (a fair proportion of the 2-4000 per day I suspect) or set overwhelming targets. If you bark orders rather than engaging someone with the necessary task, and conversationally compare people unfavourably with others, is it any wonder that they will not only consciously spend time having imaginary conversations with you using words you might not like, but also that they may be physically incapable of performing their job due to the amygdala response?

Phew, lesson over. But this is a topic which I recommend you involve yourself with if you are a manager (especially a HR manager) or indeed a harassed worker with a boss deficient in emotional or social intelligence. Google Anette’s web site ( www.where2next.dk ) or amygdala, hippocampus, limbic system; read it and just put it all into your work context – I guarantee that there will be mileage in it for you.

Now, where did I put those Mandies …?

Anne

CLEAR AS MUD

What a muddle! I need surety, a bedrock, a knowledge that I am (although not necessarily captaining the Good Ship Watson) heading in the right direction. Dealing with ambiguity is an occupational hazard as a manager, a father, a husband and as a citizen, but some kind of contextual surety is demanded to assure sanity.

Regarding the election, I needed someone clever, trustworthy and neutral to help me order my thoughts and make the right choice – not just for me, not just for my neighbours and for my ‘manor’ but for the greater good of my proud island race - including that lot at the top and the left of Great Britain. No such mentees were forthcoming, so I voted with my head, my heart, and my gut; the result has left me and my childers a financial headache for decades to come (to be fair, whatever colour takes the reins we must all quaff deeply from the poisoned chalice), the heartache of wondering whether my actions have dealt fairly with wimmin, gays and the (somewhat less vocal) majority of society who don’t care about ones sex or sexuality, and a sea of diarrhoea to swim through before a less smelly horizon hoves into view.

So, now the posturing and preening, the cajoling and romancing, the spinning and the flesh-pressing is over, what have we got?

Well, I now know what I know I don’t know, and the following is part of that cannon (WTF is he talking about? Ed.)

I am as vague about the election results as Bertram Wooster, but without the calming Jeeves to save me from disaster. How can the blue chappies have gained so many seats, hold more seats than the red wallahs and not have won (a dubious term in the UK’s parlous state) the right to govern? The election process we have at the moment (which I have not seriously queried in my 34 years as a voter, thus proving me to be a bear of very little brain) has the legitimacy of a game of P**h Sticks.

What is first past the post? What is proportional representation? Why are we one of the few European nations who cannot trust their elected representatives to deal with each other in the electorates interests in a collaborative, mature and non-tribal manner? How can the electorate not be allowed to vote because the rules say that the doors close at 22:00? Crikey, in Athens the presiding officers and their clerks would have been barbequed if they’d tried that! And what were all those queuing people doing for the other 14 hours of their day? I suspect that this is a reflection of the mobile phone, unlimited TV channel, ‘Googling is better than visiting a library’, just in time mindset which infiltrates all of our lives now – but hey, that’s another rant altogether.

I get why the global economy is so interested, and I suppose a run on the pound will stimulate the economy from an exporter’s perspective, though it will limit the amount of sangria I can afford … assuming I can fight my way through the ash cloud. At the risk of sounding like Edward (I hesitate to call him P**h Bear in case some fascist filters might stop my followers logging on via their work servers - I hear you my disciples, I hear you) we cannot carry on humming a happy tune and hoping the bees don’t sting us whilst we dip our paws into the hive for more honey. Then again, there is no sense in being alarmist and shouting ‘We’re all going to die’ as we rush to tell the King about the sky falling on our head.

The tale of Chicken Likken and Henny Penny, Cocky Locky, Goosey Loosey and Foxey Loxy (everyone’s favourite flea-ridden and urine-drenched cunning hero) has interesting parallels with my world, bearing in mind that my particular zone is a curious space with unique wants and needs which do not include a bigger, thinner TV or a chosen football team to dissipate my emotions. Although the fable has a common premise, the telling of it can focus on different subtexts depending on your chosen paradigm. Is it about stupidity and egocentricity, about not believing everything you are told, about the ability of Foxy to use the mass hysteria to his own ends? (Hmmm, I have a mental picture of cunning bankers licking their lips). And the ending is just as malleable, with some characters playing different roles and some happy endings focussing on escape, some on revenge.

Like I said – clear as mud. I know I can’t live in an Enid Blyton world, but surely I deserve some rational linkage between the levers pulled and the outcome? Isn’t that what we all want? Even if we see the world through a heroin haze we should be accorded the respect to know what the best gear is before we stick ourselves.

Keep warm, people, I’ll talk at you again soon..

Anne

... and now for something completely different!

I’m not a big fan of schadenfreude; bitter is something I prefer in a pint glass or (if at the golf club) in a pink gin. Today however, ‘Bigotgate’ has led to much mirth and hilarity in my cell and I cannot wait for the election debate tonight. Brown has a perfect opportunity to cover himself in even more sh*t and I want to watch. To amuse myself until the next political cage fight, I have reproduced the New Labour Party dictionary definition of bigoted below.

Bigot, n. one who asks awkward questions, a proletariat with incisive inquisitorial skills, an honest citizen who voices the question on 80% of the country’s lips, a semi sentient impediment to trite PR answers with ‘a zero factuality content’ (q.v. ‘American Political Language In The Nixon Years’). - adj. bigoted, having the qualities of a bigot. – n. bigotry, blind or excessive zeal in matters of truth which concern society as a whole.

Bring it on!

Anne

Never mind golden, silence is priceless!

As I stood staring disconsolately at my weeping flange (it is an elegant tap, but simple, single taps are so much easier to maintain) my world went quiet and was quite suddenly a very different place. I know you will recognise that disconcerting feeling you get when something is different - not necessarily wrong but definitely changed? (we chaps have a strategy - check for new hair do s, outfits, perfume, accessories that require positive comment). But you can’t quite crystallise that knowledge, and you know that the uneasy feeling won’t go away until you have solved the puzzle.

As the pool of water around the tap base grew larger, so my realisation grew that there was no sound infiltrating my head. The boiler was not firing, the central heating was not pumping, the fridge had achieved its pre-programmed froidure and even the birds in the garden were silent. The toddler next door was not chattering, the wind-borne noise from road and rail was being blown elsewhere and no dogs barked nor burglar alarms wailed. Even the scrap-mans trumpet and the call of ‘Any old iron?’ was conspicuous by its absence.

Watson Towers was silent.

And I suppose I had a glimpse of what a sensory deprivation tank might sound like, and how meditation could allow stillness and peace.

The beauty and profound appreciation of the lack of noise was over in an instant, but the appreciation of the freedom that the absence of distraction offered, of the clarity of my thoughts during the quiet (I won’t reveal them lest you recognise the shallow nature of my existence), the appreciation of the simplicity that mono-focus allows has endured. I realised that this short space in my life merely emphasises the nature of our multitasking lives.

At the risk of sounding neo-Luddite, I am not impressed that the i-phone can help me do yet more with the fag ends of my life; as I am on hold enduring Vivaldi excerpts again I may book dinner, have a game of snooker and check my walls for vertical variance. Fan-freaking-tastic! What’s wrong with one thought at a time, with a single strong strand of logic and clarity, with a story that has a beginning, a middle and an end without a having an obscure back-story and more twists and turns than your colon? I’m all for simple, for quiet exactitude, for clean and uncluttered, for Bauhaus rather than Baroque.

I have survived thus far in a world where complication increases exponentially with time passed, and I will continue to, but there is a sadness; now I cannot mend my car, cannot understand the person talking to me about my insurance claim, cannot understand 80% of the functionality of my mobile phone. For every multiplication of the convenience factor, effective and efficient seem to diminish. And it’s not just me; the evil of advertising persuades us we all need HDTV, but apparently 80% of HDTV owners do not have the required signal, or are still using RF connections and therefore actually getting reduced picture quality!

I’m going to make a space each day to calm down, slow down, turn off my e-mail auto alerts, put my mobile on silent, slip on the noise cancelling headphones, enjoy nothingness, listen to my thoughts, think about what they mean, regain my sanity.

With or without a bar of Galaxy.

Peace and love followers.

Anne

Critical analysis or just plain cynicism?

Happy St Georges Day followers! What does it all mean? How do we define our Englishness? Why is it special? Is it special? (of course it is peeps, before you all send me hate mail). Should nationalist pride be avoided in our aspirationally multicultural, multiracial society? How risk averse must mainstream sentiment be so as to avoid to unsettling the ethnic minorities who co-inhabit these islands? (I refer of course to the banning of St Georges day parades by Sandwell Council and some schools actively not celebrating our patron saint for reasons of political correctness etc. etc.).

I am surprised to see the lack of coverage of this great national day of celebration in the red tops, and can only assume that the lack of column inches (I make no apology for harbouring a love of imperial measure) was due to the fabulous opportunity to feast on headline grabbing news about the beasting of Nick Clagg, Jordan and Pete’s PR affairs and the ‘gobfather’s’ burial in Highgate cemetery.

The real facts about our patron saint make thought provoking reading; there is uncertainty about St George’s nationality (and indeed whether he visited these shores at all); he ‘put it about a bit’ in so far as he is celebrated in many countries; his dragon slaying persona is it seems, a myth added to spice up his image - although he is popular with the girls for saving damsels in distress (I’m more of a ‘fallen woman’ man myself, but I’m sure the gratitude of a scared maiden has it’s benefits).

So, this paragon of virtue whose name is attached to the best (naval ensign) and worst (BNP supporters) of British-ness was a Johnny foreigner, with no particular love of the English race and a big spear air-brushed into his likeness to impress the gullible. Now, you can take this as a metaphor for lots of aspects of the human condition as expressed in contemporary life, perhaps drawing parallels with Nick Clagg’s parentage, his Brussels based political apprenticeship and his bad-boy enhancing (alleged) torching of the greenhouse full of cacti.

No, that’s too easy. I prefer to use St George to observe the intricacies of communication. How do you give context to situations, paint a compelling picture for change, engage your stakeholders and yet still ensure that the truth is told and understood? Often there is just too much information to understand, the concepts are too complex and the need for supporting information too vital for full cognition of all the nuances and ramifications of a course of action. So we précis (btw how come the acute accent appears in précis but the circumflex is woefully absent in raison d’etre?) the information for the sake of brevity, we offer similes and metaphor to colour the context, we simplify the irrevocably complex to give access to a broader audience.

When the moment of truth arrives, whether we believe what we hear or read depends on the trust we have in the speaker or author. For a relatively small audience, trust is won directly, by the observation of actions which underpin integrity; for a wider audience though, that trust must be nurtured and fed in order to grow. You might apply fertiliser to a plant to accelerate it’s rate of growth and that fertiliser could be inorganic or organic, a product of scientific manufacture or a lot of bullshit. Both science and bullshit can help grow trust, and although one may be deemed more efficient and than the other it is arguable which is the healthier.

Churchill’s inspirational leadership in WWII garnered the nation’s trust and allowed us to keep ‘buggering on’ (you in the back row... yes you, STOP SNIGGERING!); this trust was based on Winnie’s character and statesmanship but was significantly enhanced by liberal amounts of BS in the form of propaganda.

And that is what we have in St. George’s day; propaganda, a need to believe in legend, in a communication process started long ago and unquestioningly accepted by a large proportion of the globe. That is what we have in the election debate – opinion and propaganda (and stage management). That is what we have in our work environment. What is a burning priority for your boss may seem like just another KPI to you, or an opinion to a co-worker, perhaps a mysterious irrelevance to another colleague, and management spin-doctoring to the guy in the post room, whilst the cleaner doesn’t even register it as background noise.

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Have a great weekend, look after your skin.

Anne