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I admit, it’s been a while since I was last in a public library.
The advent of eBay and Amazon meant the last time I was in a library looking for a non textbook to borrow Kurt Cobain was still alive; Nelson Mandella has just been elected and OJ had been accused of killing his wife.
However, faced with a need to know more about a country I’m due to land in tomorrow, I found myself scanning the travel section of my local library recently.
Staring at a complete hotpotch of travel guide titles (the Australian guides had been sanctioned to their own shelf, around the corner from the main stack, in possibly a sardonic comment on history) I noted that the titles were neither alphabetically arranged, nor arranged in any kind of pro-Dewey system.
I may not personally be a librarian, but I know people who are and I know that Dewey is their leader.
As I inquired politely of the librarian what system the Brits use for their travel guides, the knowledgeable chap explained travel guides are arranged geographically. “Always have been, always will be,” he said triumphantly, laughing at my suggestion of the universally acknowledged Dewey system.
The geographic organisation, he explained, used a system of continents and geographic boundaries. And so to find my guide, I needed to know about not only my destination but also countries on the border of my destination.
It was like pub trivia meets Indiana Jones! I’d need to know not only information about my destination but I’d also need to know countries on its border, countries in its time zone and countries with a sympathetic cultural history.
Quite frankly if I knew all that I wouldn’t need the guide.
Don’t get me wrong; I’ve done massive cram sessions on topics before interviewing people so I could ask relatively informed questions and not appear like a complete dunce, but I’ve never thought to bone up on my geography before going to my local library in anticipation of a pop quiz on the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire.
I recently visited Oxford University with an antipodean librarian mate. As we went through Oxford’s Bodleian library we chuckled to ourselves at a question asked by a tourist from across the pond. Did the Brits use what Americans called the Dewey system, he asked. Our tour guide assured us all that the Dewey system was an international system and well and truly entrenched. Just goes to show how out of touch ivory towered educators are with the social order of today.
From inside the Bodleian Library - Britain's oldest library.
I eventually found my guide; shelved with other Eurasian titles, making me realise that not only do I need to buy a world map but I need to learn a whole new lexicon for continents, regions, systems of economic advantage and all that other stuff that had I done geography at school/university I would probably understand. On the other hand, ask me about the contrapuntal technique typified by the Baroque period.
High on my success of finding my travel guide, I briefly considered borrowing a work of fiction. Fearful that I'd be asked to deconstruct a semiotic analysis of the issue of heroines in the 19th novel to qualify for borrowing anything else, I conceded a trip to WH Smith was probably in order.
So, now all I need to do is pack. And find my passport.
A circus clown gave up his seat for me on the tube this afternoon.
courtesy of http://www.magicalenterprises.com/images/200508020225500.TOBY-CIRCUS-BALLANTINE.jpg
Sadly this is not a euphemism, but a genuine record of the fact that a bloke who makes balloon animals, wears a rainbow wig and has as a life goal an intention to cram all of his mates into a mini took one look at me and felt enough pity to give me his seat.
Under normal circumstances someone handing over their seat is like passing the Olympic torch, ie infrequent and shared amongst only a select few. But when a circus clown, complete with full circus attire and make-up, gives up their seat the experience is immediately propelled into the basket of full moon white noise.
Allow me to explain. I attract white noise. Like metal fillings to magnetic north, lunatics love me and are inexplicably drawn to me. And during the full moon, when the tide and werewolves should be the only thing effected, you can be guaranteed that I will have a story to add to a mounting collection of insanity.
Two full moons ago, a posh sounding gentleman called me at work to ask if my organisation would be interested in sponsoring his idea to build an airport in Scotland, which was just part of his plans for economic re-growth in the UK. The other part included building a rail line to Scotland.
Having lived in Scotland as a child, I recall details of modern transportation infrastructure already in existence, which I relayed to my gentleman caller.
Not to be put off, he asked if I knew anyone else who might be interested in funding his not particularly New Deal, as clearly I knew people with cash to burn, and a “desire to travel”.
The month before that, I had a gentleman email me a photo of a “large bivalve” he had discovered in rocks near the coast line of his home, which he could not identify and so was asking if I could help. Bivalve is also not a euphemism. If I were a geologist or metamorphic expert this question may have not been out of place. However I work in PR!
And I once had my front lawn stolen during a new moon cycle. Yep, stolen. Dug up and moved somewhere else.
I know – it’s absurd. None of this can be true, right?
Well, it’s only 25 days to the next new moon, so let’s see what the clowns send in next month.
So, have spent all of today at complete and utter pointless wank fest of training day for "communications professionals". The name alone should have been a heads up to having to spend the day with complete cocks who were going to talk in bellicose metaphors about taking charge of organisational culture and working together to create a better world.
However, because I'm clearly not that bright, and the day meant I didn't have to commute to the suburban hell of my office somewhere slightly south of the hebrides, I signed up. And turned up.
Admittedly I turned up in jeans, tunic and docs, no makeup and wet hair - at least it was obvious that i'd showered, but the rest of the participants were wearing business suits and looking like this was another day in the office. Cultural life lesson #2875. The Brits take their training seriously.
My experience of training days has previously been the former boss teletubby organising full days of bonding, where human knots, bouncing balls, i-messaging and sharing our success all featured heavily. I was chastised for not leading by example during one "lesson in negotiation" where I gave my counter part all my jelly beans. The exercise was vaguely that I had to negotiate all his green jelly beans away from him in exchange for all my red ones. I don't like jelly beans. So I gave them all to him. Win win. Surely this is the point of negotiations? Both parties walking away from the negotiations feeling that nothing was lost and all was gained. But no, the point of negotiations if you're working for an idiot is all about candy.
However, I digress - back to today. So I turn up, collect my name tag, promptly put it in a place where someone has to either pervily stare at my crotch to read it or ask me my name verbally, and note that one of the participants is the guy who was doing the job I'm currently in. Former guy who left me with the phone list and a print out of his calendar as his hand over notes about what he'd learned/put in place/achieved during his years with the organisation. Over the last 6 months I have slowly but surely come to the conclusion that should I ever meet former guy that one of us would end up in tears, and I don't think it will be me.
I actually clap out loud at the realisation of meeting former guy. The guy at the registration table mistakes this as enthusiasm for me attending the training. Whatever...
So, I send text to a guy I work with, who seems to have a fairly healthy disdain for former guy, advising him of my luck and ask for vague description so that I can hunt former guy down.
We settle on insipid, pasty chinless guy with the look of "lives with mum" about him and a cheesy nervous smile. I scan the room (approx 100 people in attendance) and sadly 60% of them fit the bill. Seriously! Every single guy in the room looks like Mr Garrison. This could be harder than I think...
I settle in to not listen to the first speaker, scanning the room for the guy who most looks like Mr Garrison. I decide on a guy sitting on the opposite side of the room to me who also looks like a rat. I plan to sidle up to rat man at the break, check out his name tag and if former guy will spark up a conversation. I can be personable and unless he pervily checks out my crotch, he won't know who I am. So I have first move advantage.
First session ends and we have to move into "energy clusters" (that can't be good) for the next session. This requires me to pick up my bag/book/phone and move. Already I dislike the presenters for making me do this. One is a short baldy bloke, with a noticeably absent chin and thin lips, the other had clearly seen Paul McKenna and liked what he saw - so he was the 'animated pacing the room, punching the air presenter', who talking about energising our reputations with market research.
Enormously bored with the second session, baldy bloke lost my interest within seconds, I decide to have some fun and stare at baldy bloke... as I was sitting in the front row (so literally 2 metres from his microphone) he seemed to get nervous by this. (This was a technique I perfected during chemistry in high school - if you stare slightly into the middle distance you can stare without blinking for about 2.5 minutes, which disconcerts people...) About half way through baldy bloke's monotone polemic, I noticed their logo on the powerpoint. Badly bloke and Paul McKenna wanna be were from the same company as former guy. Baldy bloke and Paul McKenna wanna be are his bosses, it would seem.
I pay attention now. I am curious to know what kind of people would want to employ former guy, as clearly former guy is an idiot. And then my question is answered.
Paul McKenna wanna be drops into his presentation that there is no obvious panacea to the myriad communciations issues presented across my sector. Indeed, and I quote:
"You can't just sprinkle fairy dust around and expect things to change."
No shit, Sherlock.
But there you have it - in case you're a communications professional looking to find an easy answer to cultural change or change management, maybe avoid fairy dust. Or at least avoid sprinkling it.
Wanker.
Ok, again apologies for never bothering to update this thing. If any of you have stuck around, good work! I have no defence; I just never bother to think of it.
So, am back in the land of chicken and beer (ok, I may have some defence, I did relocate again
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Email. My first love, and quite possibly the best invention ever, inclusive of when Mr Hershey figured out how to put peanut butter and chocolate together.
Email really kicked off when I first started working, and even though the software we were equipped with was clumsy and unsophisticated, I knew I found my communication tool of choice
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The on-going saga of the Corby family never fails to provide good copy, and the current legal stoush between former friends Mercedes Corby and Jodie Power is certainly providing similar voyeuristic reading.
I admit it. I had a view about Schappelle before her guilty verdict was handed down, although it mostly had to do with wanting her to stop plucking her eye brows. I know she's short of things to do, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Schappelle - take up Sudoku! The constantly startled expression on her face, as a result of her eyebrows being plucked approximately 5 centimetres too high should be, quite frankly, warning enough to foolhardy drug traffickers. Possibly with a strap line saying "know what you're getting yourself in for
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A 62 year old man from northern NSW was recently arrested for growing a cannabis crop with an estimated street value of $3 million.
It is not the growing of cannabis in this story which caught my eye, but more that our friendly stoner is old enough to be my Dad
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I work for idiots. I may not have mentioned this, what with not having bothered to update this blog for months.
It’s not that I’ve been without content, but more that every time I sit down to write something the only thing that pours from my fingertips is “I work for idiots, trabajo para idiotas, je travaille pour les idiots, lavoro per gli idioti
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September 11th 2007 02:12
I know, it's been weeks since I've dropped by and so in my defense I am very lazy.
I've also relocated back home to sunny Sydney; am still being stalked by the mentalist I kicked around with briefly in London; and started work the day after I flew back (jet lag is for the weak) so I've kind of been busy catching up with friends I've not seen for 18 months and doing all that revisiting of old haunts etc
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Comment by JaneD
on Organisational communication training: wanker alert
Yellow Brick Road
WTF is a "blues skies idea shower". It sounds like some kind of specialist porn channel that Paris Hilton would star in.