Why am I such an idiot?

It doesn't take a genius to know the answer.

I'm a bit of a late starter. At 38 years old I'm only just beginning to realise what I'm good at and what I'm never going to master.

From the age of 21 I've been striving to work out what was going to set me apart from everyone else. And while I thought about it everyone else seemed to be getting on with it.

Friends became successful traders in the London Stock Exchange. Others became wealthy sales people. Others opted for motherhood with such a clear view of their future.

I dawdled. I wandered along. Chip firmly wedged on my shoulder.

I still get frustrated seeing people of no age at all reach great success quickly and wonder how the hell they have the confidence and clarity of thought to do it.

But I also take comfort from some little known facts about the most famous genius of all time - Albert Einstein.

It turns out he didn't speak a word until he was four year old and wasn't fluent until he was nine. One of his maths teachers thought he was a lazy dog. Yet he went on to discover e = mc2. And that apples fall on your head if you spend too much time in orchards. Or was that Isaac Newton? Anyway I digress.

I've eventually realised that what makes me different, note not better, is how I think.

I come up with ideas. I solve problems. I've actually known this for years. In fact I was first made aware of it on a management training course 13 years ago when I worked at Green Flag.

But my creativity of thought was never harnessed. So it is only relatively recently that I've been able to find a role at work where what I'm good at is celebrated rather than merely seen as disruptive.

Having spent years trying to work out what strategy was all about, I can't help now but think strategically.

I simplify solutions and get frustrated that other people keep making things complicated all the time. But I also know my limitations.

Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius — and a lot of courage — to move in the opposite direction.

Not my words those. That's what Albert once said.

He also said the secret of creativity is knowing how to hide your sources. Duly noted.

And that if we knew what it was we were doing, it wouldn't be called research, would it?

Genius.

He was a smart old chap Einstein wasn't he? Wish I'd listened to him a bit earlier.

So much for blogging every day

The story of this blog is the story of my life. An initial burst of enthusiasm, which then slowly peters out.

Far from blogging every day I haven't blogged for nearly three weeks.

Granted in those three weeks I've travelled to and from America with all the jet lag that entails. And my four year old has decided to have one of those periods that children have where she insists on waking up every night. It is then a battle of wills as to who gives in first. She is strong willed I'll give her that. The result is I haven't had seven hours consecutive sleep in months.

The last time this happened was when we only had one child. Our first born didn't sleep through the night more than two nights running in her first two and a half years on this here earth.

This period coincided with my least productive two years in my job. I was angry and frustrated with my lot. And couldn't understand why no-one else could see what I could see.

Well guess what? That's how I feel again. Are the two related? Or is it merely coincidental?

I'm more mature now and can at least recognise my emotions before letting fly with a snotty email.

Reading 'How to win friends and influence people' has certainly played a positive part. It reminds me to find the positive before jumping to the negative.

I'm not right all of the time. An obvious thing to say. But we're all laden down with our own self importance. 

On Friday I also re-learned an important lesson. Someone once said do something every day that scares you. Like my blogging I tend to be less frequent than that. Anyway I took the plunge and presented the Drive programme on BCB. So rather than merely sitting in the studio while someone else does all the hard work, I was in charge of the knobs and faders.

Having avoided doing it for 18 months I'm now frustrated with myself for not having the balls to do it earlier. I had to be more or less forced to do it as my co-presenter was away and I was the next most experienced option. 

Reminded me of playing football for the cub scouts all those years ago. My dad more or less dragging me along. Then I was hooked for the next ten years going on to captain my local team.

So what great wisdom do I derive from this sorry tale?

Sleep is good. I'm a coward. And I'll write blogs when I bloody well want to.

I feel better already. By the way the car has no relevance to this post other than to say I'd like to drive one of these one day.

What's in a name

I have terrible trouble remembering people's names.

Even people I've known for some time and whom I've had long and interesting conversations.

My mind goes blank when we meet, and even if I recall their name in time to use it I panic that it is wrong and often bottle out. I worry I'll look a fool if I call them something else.

I think back to bumping into someone in Asda when Becky was with me, it was even more excruciating as I knew if I introduced her I'd have to introduce my 'friend' too.

On the odd occasion I've bluffed it and laughed and said why don't you two introduce yourselves.

At a friend's daughter's fifth birthday party the other weekend the children's entertainer prided himself on being able to remember every child and adult's name. No mean feat.

In under two hours he was able to recall every name in the room. And have linked children to parents. It's a wonder to behold.

So what is worse? Calling someone by the wrong name or not at all.

If I'm honest there is no real excuse for either.

While I can carry on claiming not to have a natural ability to recall names, deep down I know with a little more effort I could remember far more. And I know how important that can be when taking to people I know.

So that's what I'm going to do.

Starting off with everyone who works on the same floor as me at work.

I want to see if I can get to know every face I recognise and what's more I'm going to try and learn something about them. By finding out about what their partner does or their favourite past time hopefully their name will stick.

And when we meet I can impress them by asking about something other than the weather.

Mark my words my friends. I'm putting my name on it.

Put a smile upon your face

We have a saying in our house:

Put a smile upon your face and make the world a better place.

My kids are four and six. It doesn't take much for the tears to flow or the frown to suddenly appear.

But it's amazing how many times their little faces can light up again with a tickle under the arms or by starting off this little phrase and letting them finish it off with a smile.

This morning I asked them both to show me their best smiles. Both were pretty good to be fair. Then we ran up stairs to find some smiley clothes.

Before I knew it we were hatching a secret plan to go to the soft play centre as soon as mummy had left for work, together with secret maps and clues and everything. 

Turns out the play centre is shut until midday. Cue instant frowns all round. Quick smile check, then off to the nearest cafe.

It got me thinking how often I smile at people at work and the positive impact it has.

Where I work is generally a pretty bubbly kind of a place. We take our work seriously but not ourselves is how my old boss put it.

But by choosing (and it is a choice) to smile at people as they catch your eye it's amazing how infectious it is and how good their smile back makes you feel. Try it.

Anyway it's the book I'm reading that got me thinking about all this. There's a lovely ancient Chinese proverb quoted:

'A man without a smiling face must not open a shop. '

It's as true today as it was back then. Made me smile.

Three things I found out today

The Google offices aren't easy to find. Which is a tad ironic. They don't even have a big sign post on the front door.

There's a search engine called Duck Duck Go which as far as I can tell prides itself on not being Google.

And if you search for 'Dom Burch' via Duck Duck Go it returns something rather intriguing. On 13 July 1633 there was a battle between three Dutch Ships (the Texel, Arnemusde and the Domburch) and some Chinese Junks. The battle was called The Blockade of Amoy.

So my former self was a Dutch war ship. How thoroughly delightful. Or should I say lekker?

And to think I once lived in Holland and never knew until today. Puh. Google is so off the pace. Duck Duck Go all the way.

How to win friends and influence people

I've just started reading Dale Carnegie's classic How to win friends and influence people.

I'm only 16 pages in and it is already one of my favourite books of all time. It strikes a chord with me, but more than that I've been staggered how relevant it is in 2013 despite being first published in 1937.

Anyway you've probably seen this letter before on Facebook but it is still worth a read. It's called Father Forgets by W. Livingston Larned.

Dale Carnegie writes: 'Often parents are tempted to criticise their children. You would expect me to say 'don't'. But I will not. I am merely going to say,  'Before you criticise them, read one of the classics of American journalism.'

Here it is:

Listen, son; I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road, I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before you boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. 'What is it you want?' I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to your for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you alugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: 'He is nothing but a boy - a little boy!'

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.

---------------

Makes you think eh?

Food glorious food

It's not often Becky and I go in for fine dining. Most of our meals out are fairly straightforward affairs. The odd fillet steak here and there. Or perhaps a nice piece of fish.

But every now and then we treat ourselves to some posh nosh. And yesterday was one of those days.

First stop was The Traddock at Austwick. Becky opted for dressed crab (pictured). I went for a gammon sandwich (granted doesn't sound very fancy but the home made bread and chutney made the difference). Then we shared a delicious rhubarb crumble.

Then onto Hipping Hall for a two night stay without the kids.

Hipping Hall is a delightful little boutique hotel just off the A65 near Kirkby Lonsdale. We first stayed here about five years ago. The attention to detail is first class. Far from being stuffy, the service is relaxed but attentive. The bedrooms are cosy with thick faux fur drapes and comfortable beds.

When you arrive you are invited into the lounge for tea and cake. Teas are complimentary throughout your stay. A nice little touch.

Anyway dinner is the main event. Aperitifs in the lounge and an amuse bouche, one of which was an onion macaroon. Then into the dining room with a roaring fire and a smokey aroma. A pre starter courtesy of the chef - a shot glass of lobster and avocado (a posh prawn cocktail).

For the real starters I had belly pork and Becky went for a turbot terrine with a tempura oyster on the side.

Then for our mains I opted for guinea foul, a first for me. It was like the best chicken I'd ever had. Moist and full of flavour.

Becky chose hogget. Sounds like pork doesn't it? Must be. Looks very meaty though for pork. Maybe it's the breed. One bit is quite tough to cut through though. Maybe it's beef after all. Damn I like beef.

No you idiots. Hogget is a one year old sheep. Not lamb. Not mutton. Hogget. I told you we don't do fine dining very often. Heathens that we are. Reminded me of years ago when we ate at a posh place in Edinburgh calked The Witchery and had to ask how to eat oysters. I'm glad we did though as we'd always assumed you chuck them down your throat. Not at all. Chew slowly like a muscle. No tobasco masking the flavour. Just a squeeze of lemon.

Anyway then Becky had cheese and I had an amazing apple tart / jelly / struddle thing. Gorgeous.

Then the evening was all wrapped up with a single shot of espresso together with petit fours and a rather large cognac.

Good night.