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Letting Go

Saturday morning. “Keira, you need to do your homework”. “Awww, not now, I’m watching a new episode of Wizards of Waverley Place”. We could have nagged Keira to do the work, and we didn’t. And she (and I) forgot…

Monday night. An hour after going to bed we’ve begun to relax into a quiet evening then the next thing, Keira is back downstairs dissolving in tears. She has remembered that the homework has not been done and is terrified at the thought of her name going on the board tomorrow (for someone who enjoys trying hard and keeping on the right side of the school tracks this is a biiiig deal). And from where I’m sitting, the Wizards of Waverley Place ain’t gonna be much help now. I knew that damn time freeze spell was duff.

I asked Keira to have a seat so we could chat about the problem. And as we talked – it turned out she could see the problem wasn’t so big after all. Keira reckoned:

  • She could probably get an extra day to complete her homework
  • There is a good chance that teacher can be persuaded not to write Keira’s name on the board
  • Next time the wizards may just have to wait a while.

And so to bed. Calmer now, and a lesson thought through and realised by Keira.

As a parent it is difficult not to intervene, to steer and direct the course. And I’m learning to let go, sometimes.

As an HR and communications consultant and practitioner I often see people in the workplace being nagged about stuff, and being subjected to the humiliation of “I told you so”. Maybe we should try and stop “telling you so”. The chances are we already know so, and though we may not show it in the same way Keira did, we’re feeling bad enough already without further reminder. It’s not exactly a motivating way to deal with a problem is it? The next time you see someone fluff their lines, miss a deadline, or drop a clanger, why not offer them a seat and just talk it through. They might just appreciate the chance to talk.

I’m worried

I’m involved in a really interesting project that combines HR, engagement and communication for a customer. We’re all learning loads from it, we’re loving it and together we’re helping to make work better. And I’m worried.

Increasingly people are saying to me things like “if anyone can fix this, you can” or “you can sort this, you’ve got clout around here”. I leave here soon, and an over reliance on me could mean that the good work everyone has sponsored and been involved with goes to waste if people wrongly associate my departure with the end of this stuff. If the customer believes that staff engagement and employee communication are worthwhile I think it’s important that they act to formalise and resource this position quickly, and ideally before I go so that I might share my knowledge and findings with whoever wants to pick up the baton.

Perhaps the most difficult thing to sustain will be the sense of independence the board has lent me and the sense of ignorance I’ve brought with me. I’ve used these, and my natural curiosity to ask “dumb questions”, the kind of questions people forget to ask, or even worse, assume someone else is dealing with.

Becoming reliant on people like me sucks. I love putting myself out of one piece of work and on to the next one and I hate the dependency model many consultancy firms (particularly the larger ones in my experience), peddle. What do you think? How can companies benefit from the ignorance and independence of consultants and not become reliant on them? Or am I worrying about nothing?

Bolney Pram Race 2011

I’m 45, not very fit, and quite stupid. I must be otherwise why would I have volunteered to take part in the annual Bolney Pram Race? Again. This is attempt number three and having been a pirate (yarrr) and a vampire, this year I’m joining the medical profession. My mate Curly is my partner in crime. He is the patient and chief engineer. Previous evenings have been spent welding stuff onto the pram chassis to make it look vaguely like a hospital gurney. A dash of paint on the Monday morning and we’re raring to go.

How does it work?

The race starts at the Eight Bells pub. In previous years there’s been a mass start preceded by a compulsory beer. This year there are so many entries that we take part in a random draw for a grid placing. We draw 23rd place out of 34. Not great, not terrible either. This year there are red and green start lights just like at a Formula One race. There the similarity ends.

There are a series of stops on the 2.5km course around the village where pusher and passenger swap places, have a compulsory beer and grab a ticket as proof of your stop.

The atmosphere on the grid is tense, everyone is sizing each other up, checking out the competition. All the other racers look a lot younger, a lot fitter than we are. We’ve done this before we know it’s gonna hurt.

The start

All the lights are set to red, then with a blast on the horn, they turn to green and we’re off. It’s carnage at the start as a couple of prams collapse almost immediately. The Pope in a boat is causing chaos with some extra wide stabilisers and it turns out the first pit stop has been placed too near to the start. I keep a cool doctor’s head and navigate the mess as carefully as I can and we’re out on the open road.

The race

A couple of the quick prams speed past and I knuckle down for the long haul up to pit stop two. By the time we arrive we’ve picked off a couple of competitors and my lungs are hanging out. This is hard work. We glug a beer, grab our card and swap places for the short spring to pitstop three. The next few stages pass in a blur of alcohol and pain. No one overtakes us and we rocket past a couple more prams including a bath on wheels and some kind of weird lifeguard pram, both of which clearly went off too fast.

Final stages

The last two stages are downhill and the challenge shifts from exerting and pushing uphill to retaining control on the fast slopes. Curly manages the penultimate stage very well and we pick up another place. Our last pit stop is perfectly executed. We take our final beer (number seven) and we’re off to the finish. We’re in no man’s land. There’s no way I’m going to let anyone else pass us now, and the road ahead is clear. Folks are cheering us on to the finish and we’re hamming it up shouting “medical emergency coming through” and “someone get me a doctor” for all we’re worth. The finish line is ahead and I can see loads of prams already finished. Then it’s over. We’ve finished, and we’re finished – absolutely knackered. We’re pretty chuffed with our 11th place, not bad for a couple of geezers eh?