Friday, March 31, 2006
Good, Bad, Love, Hate
1) There are things you’re very good at that you love
2) There are things you’re very good at that you hate
3) There are things you’re awful at that you love
4) There are things you’re awful at that you hate
It sounds simple, but most people I’ve talked to have a little light go on in their eyes when you discuss it. Clearly you should actively avoid number 4. You can let yourself enjoy number 3, but don’t take it seriously as people will take the piss. Try to avoid number 2, but expect bits like that to get thrown your way. Actively seek out number 1.
I consider myself blessed in that, for the most part, I’ve had a string of jobs I enjoy and am good at (fair warning here to the Brits, my modesty mode is going to be momentarily turned off. One day I’ll turn back to talk about British culture, but not today. For the curious, read this book, one of the funniest and most illuminating I’ve read in a long time. It taught me a phrase I now oft repeat, that the British are the only race that will happily form an orderly queue of one. BTW I’m Canadian, tho have lived over here for far far too long).
I’m a general manager, its what I do. Doesn’t quite matter what I manage, though I tend toward the technical or more operational (ie technically based) parts of the business world. I’ve got a mind that can keep multiple strands of activity running in my mind. Recently, after a conversation with one of my sisters that got me thinking, I wrote down all of the things I was tracking. I stopped writing when I’d filled three pages with a brief description, who was doing it (if it wasn’t me), what I had to emphasise about it, and when I next needed to check. People like working for me, I’m easy going, but set hard tasks. In the modern parlance I encourage and coach. I don’t break balls for failure, it really is an opportunity to learn, but I will bounce off the walls if people make the same mistake twice. And I like doing it. Seeing someone walk up to a task they were scared of, or unsure of, and succeed is like sweet honey in my mouth. Seeing a team form under my guidance and get something done is as good as good sex. Having a meeting finish in half an hour and tick off some tasks and clearly set out a few more is like scoring a goal (and I hate meetings I don’t chair that drone on and on and on).
However, there are parts of my job that I am also very good at that I don’t like at all. I have a reputation for fixing organisations. Taking a bunch of broken bits and reforming it into a slick operation. The reason I moved offices was to do this yet again. Oddly I’ve moved from managing about 500 to less than 100 (though I retain nominal authority for the last department). Problem is it’s a critical component of our current strategy, and it just ain’t working at the moment.
So in sweeps the nice guy with an axe. I love it when I’ve got out the other side and have a group of motivated challenged people. Getting them there is a hard slog. I don’t hate all of it, but inevitably the irrefutable logic of organisation means that their employment is no longer required, that they are redundant. I hate that term, back in Canada we called it “layed off”. Though I don’t normally approve of PC language, telling someone they are redundant is unnecessarily cruel.
Over the years I have made many many people redundant. Its not a statistic I am at all proud of, so I can’t give you an exact figure, but its certainly over 500. I don’t remember names, but I remember each meeting. Some are jubilant, most curiously are professionally accepting, a few are sad, and then there’s the angry bunch. Very few of the last actually, but enough.
Its all in how you do it. I use my four criteria. You definitely keep the one’s who are good at it and love what they do. By good I don’t just look for the stars, but those that are just competent also. You can mix in a few good at it but hate it, so long as you see a way to migrate them into good at it and love it. Never, ever keep any bad at it and hate it.
Quite curiously I tend to find a lot of those in a failing organisation. When things start to go bad, you tend to loose the really good performers first, and the bad performers last. Usually people know when they’re fucking up, and get scared. Even if they hate the job, they think its better to stay then go out into the big bad scary world. I think its better the devil you know doing its work.
So, after a long torturous preamble, I mention it because I’m now digging into the organisation I’ve inherited. Its frankly, a mess. Bits of pieces of functions buried all over the company. I’m going to have to feret it all out, and merge it into one. That will mean re-organisation, which means people loosing their jobs. I can’t wait until we get to the good bits, when I get to mould a working happy team, but oh the path it takes to get there.
I’ve already identified a few that likely won’t survive. One in particular. He’s a really bright guy, and in many ways passionate about what he’s doing. Two strong plus points, problem is he’s a bit of an example of the Peter Principle in action, and is floundering. He’s become aggressively defensive, is blocking change, and winding up everyone around him. I have to give him a chance, see if he can change, but I fear I’m not wrong.
Its part of the job I’m good at, but hate.
Late Night Musing
A soft silent breathing is my response. She's still deep asleep.
Now, LL has often told me, and I have often taken advantage of, an open offer to wake her up if I'm... in need. But I know she's very tired. She's had a hard week at work, and last night Princess has us up again and again with a hacking cough (poor thing).
I'm still tempted, but there's just enough light for me to make out her face. Ten years on and she's still so beautiful to me. We're both again. Her face is taking on that elegant edge some older women wear into, not gauntnesss, but a sharpness of line that shows a life well lived. Don't get me wrong, she doesn't look old, but neither is there the youthful plushness.
So I gaze at her face in the dim dark light, feeling my love for her, and fall back asleep.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
I first heard of the Peter Principle when I was a teen (a mate’s dad had done the illustrations for the book). It struck me then as farcical, a good laugh. Surely the world was more logical and orderly than that?
Time is the great educator, and over the years I have seen the truth of the farce repeated over and over again. I’m sure anyone who’s had to spend time to earn their bread will immediately recognise the truth of the words.
“In a Hierarchy Every Employee Tends to Rise to His Level of Incompetance."
I’m currently having to deal with one of the finest examples of the truth I’ve met. Its sad really, she’s lovely. Bright, articulate, a good laugh. Thing is, six months ago she got a big promotion into a job she has absolutely no background or capability in. I knew it before she got the promotion, and had quietly cautioned against it, but she was a favourite of another director who brushed away any hint of incorrectness. He assured the board she was the perfect choice. The rumour that the two of them were an item when both worked at another firm I’m sure had nothing to do with it.
As an aside, why is it always women who are whispered about having slept their way to the top? A bad bit of gender politics that. Also very unfair. I would have quite fancied shagging my way through a few promotions. Sounds like a lot more fun that 60 hour weeks and constantly being on call.
Back to my Peter proof. Last night was a stonker. Its 8:30, I’ve had one of those days. Not bad, but a constant stream of people popping their head round the door intermixed with meeting after meeting. I hadn’t even had lunch (Oh, for the day X, my PA moves over to this office). Part of the problem is its budget time, and everyone is tense as we go through the annual dance of “how much did you get”.
I get a call, its M, my Peter Proof.
“Now I understand what we need to do for the online user registration project, and I’ve put in what you proposed.” M is responsible for the euphemistically named ‘Customer and Brand Protection Department” which really means she’s responsible for the company’s customer data. I know, go figure, but her staff (amongst other things) are supposed to be the central repository for all we know about our customers so we can sell them lots more! I do all the dirty work and make everything supposedly functions smoothly, for her and a host of other teams.
“But I’ve also got this line item for Digital CRM.”
“Yes… interesting.” She obviously heard those buzz words somewhere or someone told her it would be a good idea.
“How should we describe that to management?” Note the change from ‘I’ to ‘We’
“Tell me what you mean by Digital CRM. It’s a fairly loose term that could describe anything from the online user project we just talked about to digital analytic systems to the underlying basis of eCommerce…” There’s a pause, I think I just lost her.
“How would you describe it?” There’s the rub. Its late, I’m tired, and my lecture mode is currently in the off position.
“How about I find you first thing and we talk it though. I’ll help you compose something.” Frankly, what I’m sure she wants is the online user piece, but in the game of budget bingo it never hurts to have your options covered in more than one place…
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
We, the male half of humanity, do solemnly declare to emancipate the female menstrual cycle in thought, word and deed. We shall no more declare it unclean and cursed, but find in that time of the month the opportunity to prove we are not the squeamish uncaring beasts the females of our species are convinced we are.
We promise to chivalrously and unselfishly offer ourselves, our bodies. We promise to not balk or squeek or shiver at the mention of that time. We promise to rise up and perform with no thought of our own need. We will no more mutter “Oh well dear, how about a blow job then,” or sneak off to the loo for a quick wank. We will dive to action with finger, tongue and prick, and merely keep a pack of wet wipes handy by the bed for afters. We promise to be the men they always hoped we would be!
Brothers think not of you but of the fairer half of the race. In her time of consternation provide her distraction and relaxation. In her time of pain offer her relief and pleasure. You do it not for yourselves but for them!
Think not of blood and gore, but put on your rose tinted spectacles and roll out the protective coverings. You will not hurt them, her plumbing will not be damaged. Indeed you are proving yourself compassionate and worthy of their love and friendship.
So rise up Brothers, rise up! Go forth and offer yourself to your (friend, lover, wife, long term partner, casual sexual acquaintance, etc etc etc) in her time of need. Think not of yourself but of the greater good of humanity. The world will be a happier place, your relationships will be happier places, and you can stand proud and walk tall at your selfless devotion (with benefits)!Print this off, Sign it and hand it over boys. You will not regret it.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Like most men I'd had a mixed relationship with my father. Its a right of passage to look at how your father lived his life, and how you where raised and find fault. In our youth we are invincibly convinced we will live life better. With age comes the realisation that better actually means different, and we hopefully find the things of strength and promise in our fathers to emulate.
Well, I did anyway. After the years of teenage agnst, and 20's wildness I came to value my father more and more. The relationship morphed and though the parental bond never truly breaks, we became friends as well.
I miss him.
It hits me at the oddest times. Yesterday I was walking along the South Bank, looking over at the Gurkin and thought about how I wanted to show it with him and discuss its merits and faults. We both have a love of architecture, and its a building I know he'd value. With the thought of walking along and talking with him, it hit with an ice cold jab that I'd never be able to do that again. I had a sudden urge to drop to my knees and cry.
Since the funeral, life has gone back to normal. I have my own children to raise, my own wife to love, my own job to consume me. Yet I so miss those long rambling email conversations, the phone calls and the ever precious visits. Intellectually I know time cools grief, and that I have the compensations of home, family and friends to fall back on. Yet right now, as I write this a tear is rolling down my cheek.
What do you say? If she was nearby I would have rushed over. She said she couldn't cope with talking to anyone as if she cried any more her eyes wouldn't open from being too puffy. From a distance all you can do is make some inane comments.
Poor woman has had a rough few years. On her honeymoon she caught hepatitis and spent a year recovering. Then she has her first child and it had an undetacable form of Down's syndrome. Still, her daughter was lovely, but they decided to move back to the States to be near family (both where American). It all looks up, they have a second child, completely healthy, he gets a great job, they find the perfect house.
I know its treatable, but how does a young mother cope? She was still breast feeding her baby boy! So on top of all the hormonal challenges, and lack of sleep, and a daughter who still needs lots of special care, and and and... Now she has to deal with a life threatening desease where all the treatments are horrific and life changing in their own right.
I've had elderly relatives die of cancer, but somehow when someone has had a full life it is somewhat less awfull. This is the first friend, and she's a close friend, to get caught by our modern plague.
Life's a bitch sometimes.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Control (Part 1)
Poor guy shows up at the main gate, and on mentioning my name gets the complete run around because I "don't work there". He calls me on the mobile and I get to my feet to walk down and greet him (normally my PA's job, but she's not here yet, pity she'd likely have handled it better). I get there, put on my best smile certain that this will be sorted out without much problem.
Now I get the run around. Despite the fact that I had come from inside the facility, because I wasn't in the system, had the wrong security card, etc etc etc I was clearly a fraudster and we must be terrorists out to blow everything up. I keep the smile on my face, despite the momentary urge to say "Do you know who I am". I long ago promised myself to never ever utter those words. I suggest he call's up the CEO's PA to sort it out, but he refuses claiming it would be a waste of her time (true, but not for the reasons he thinks, she is ruthlessly efficient, protective of "her" executives, and would likely have given him a tongue lashing he wouldn't have fogotten).
Turning to my now laughing contact I shrug my shoulders and offer to take him out for a coffee. As we walk away I hear the security guard mutter "Wanker" under his breath, and double up my inner mantra of "He's only doing his job, he's only doing his job, he's only doing his job..."
Sigh, my humble pie for the week... Almost certainly does my inflated ego some good. Mind you, the coffee was a damn site better than I'd have got from the tea lady...
Control (Part 2)
I close the door to our bedroom and gently lock it. The key stays in the door, of course. Its to keep small kiddies out, not her in. A few quiet steps, a softly open drawer, and I take out a few small things. Turning to the door, I see her. She’s standing in front of the mirror, towel round her body. Her hands have another towel tangled up in her hair.
I walk up quietly, then reach for a wrist, and gently pull it down behind her back. As I bend over her and gently nibble her neck, my hands wrap a soft leather cuff around one wrist.
“Mmm, are we going to play?” Saying nothing I take her other hand and cuff it as well, then slip a set of eye blinds over her head. It focuses the other senses to loose one of them. Not being able to see is that double up of heightening sensuality, while at the same time putting her in an even more subservient position.
For a moment I just kiss her neck, nibble her ears. Her breathing deepens appropriately. With a yank then I pull off her towel and reach around to cup her breasts, roughly rolling her nipples between my fingers. After a moment I slide a hand down her body and press on her belly. She loves that, somehow the preasure of a hand holding her back against me is a turn on. It also presses her against my clothed body, highlighting the difference in our state of dress. For the moment she’s mine, vulnerable and helpless.
I pull away, and watch her head turn, blindly trying to find me. Taking a shoulder I guide her into out room and put hands to shoulders to drop her to her knees in our silk rug. Now, LL isn’t keen on felatio. Not that she’s unwilling, there’s very little she won’t do, just that its not her favourite thing. However, put her in this situation, give her no choice, demand it with no chance of denial, and she’s a different woman. She goes from “Is that OK dear, what next…” to a hungry she beast.
On her knees she immediately starts nuzzling my crotch as I unzip and pull myself out. Her lips immediately wrap around my shaft, her tongue darts against my balls. I run my fingers through her hair, tangle them in her straight dark locks. With enough force to tingle, but not enough to hurt I pull her head back, point myself at her open lips and slide in.
I love gliding against the inside of her cheek, her tongue putting preasure on the underside of my shaft. With my foreskin pulled back its almost a painfully intense pleasure, and makes my eyelids flutter. I can go like that for a long, long time.
But I want more, that’s not the end game. Pulling out I lift her up and drop her onto her knees on the bed, sideways to me. Quickly feeding my cock back into her hungry mouth I grab a small vibrator and with fingers and cold metal seek out her other lips. I tease her, give her a little, pull away, a little more, pull away. There’s no entry, not yet, I want her to beg. I don’t mean pretend, “Oh yes please, do me, do me…” I want her almost incoherent with need.
It doesn’t take long.
We’re both ready now, so I flip her on her back, lift her feet to my chest, and with a quick aim plunge in. God she’s wet, I have to lift her up, hands on her ass to change the angle. Her head is thrashing around, her body heaving with each hard thrust. There’s no room for stamina or holding out now, I ride her hard and fast, feeling it build up inside me until I explode and hear that almost painful laugh or her own orgasm wrack her lungs.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
The joys of Fatherhood
"I've had a poo!" It is hard to convey the cuteness of her voice, especially at this stage when they have no shyness or inhibitions.
"That's wonderful darling, well done!" We're two months into potty training. There is a pause here as I think though the last minute and realise I didn't hear either her steps on the stairs or the downstairs toilet flush. "Did you go to the toilet poppet?"
Deep steadying breath, "Where did you have this poo?"
"In my pants!" Said with great pride and pleasure.
"Why didn't you go to the toilet or come and get mommy or daddy?"
"Didn't want to."
Deep sigh, the twos are a wonderful time. Its normally a real joy to see an independent personality emerge. Sometimes though...
"Shall we go upstairs and clean you up?"
"No. Don't want to." She pauses, her face showing the mental calculations currently going on. "Will you read me a story?"
"Well... Little girls who poo in their pants don't normally get stories. Little girls who sit on the toilet get read to."
"Owww! Wanna story!"
"Listen, lets go upstairs and clean you up. If you're a good girl and don't complain and help daddy out, we'll come down and read a story afterwards."
She pauses, processing the costs and benefits of this little transaction. "OK."
I'll delete the next bit, needless to say you need to really, really love someone to wipe their dirty bottom and clean out a "messy" pair of pants. Good thing she's so cute.
We come downstairs and read "Incy Wincy Spider" before I go back to the washing up. Ten minutes pass.
"I've had a poo!"
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The red flag is flying
On exiting the shower, “I can’t believe you haven’t called them yet, its been months!”
“I’m sorry?” Damn, a post shower tackle, time for a quick internal calculation. Ah, time to batten down the hatches matie, there be a storm brewin. The red flag be hoisted, it looks like a gooden.
“For fucks sake, the window people! Why haven’t you called them?”
Over the past years we’ve been replacing our quaint 1930’s steel framed and single paned leaded windows with equally attractive, yet ultra modern dual paned, argon filled, leaded windows. One got a crack on the inside when a small child threw something he shouldn’t. It took ages to get the window company to come and measure the window (to get the leading right), further ages to get them to make the new pane, and decades more to get it fitted. The fitter cleverly managed to crack the exterior pane this time on putting it in.
Quite disgusted with the whole process my subconscious had been shifting it down my internal to do list so I wouldn’t have to bother. I mean, I hadn’t paid them, you think they’d be keen to get it fixed so they’d their cash for the work. I was guilty as charged.
“You always do this. Why can’t you just deal with a simple issue and get it sorted? What’s with these people, don’t they want to get paid? Bloody hell.” She stomps off to her chest of drawers. This whole episode has occured as I dry myself off, and she's still clad in just a towel.
I grit my teeth, its not a day to argue, it never is this time of month. This hip check is coming from the love of my life (hereafter LL) a woman who is succeeding in a very traditionally agressive career in financial trading. A woman who sits at a trading desk that would put the bridge of the Starship Enterprise to shame. A woman who has minions around the world who would literally run a marathon to collect a tidbit of information at her request. But its builders, so it’s the man’s job. “Yes dear.”
First note to self, must call the window people.
Second note to self, must give her a good seeing to tonight. It would do us both good.
So dear ladies, we poor men, who do abuse you in completely different ways, do try to understand the monthly cycle. Well, we think we do, or at least we know when to duck, and when to tell you how beautiful you look (and perhaps duck again). In theory we understand its chemical insanity, and not in your control, but please please please, can you try to direct the agro away from the ones who love you?
A joy to be alive
It was marvelous. The weather cleared, so though there was a cold wind, the sky was gorgeous. The countryside couldn't have been better, and with the cold there was a distinct lack of other walkers out. I thought I knew out neck of the woods pretty well, but with wee kiddies, we don't get out rambling as much as we'd like. I saw parts of Surrey I'd never glimpsed before. Just perfect view after perfect view.
The company was good too, we were all in a good mood, and as with any good walk, we changed partners every so often so the conversation ebbed and drifted the way it should. A couple (well, maybe even a few) stops at your typical country pubs to nosh our sarnies and have a pint didn't hurt too.
I am firmly of the opinion that the vast majority of mankind is good. With the papers filled with the usual horror stories of relationships gone bad, child abuse and other monstrosities its a real pleasure to just talk to moral humans. Doing their best to raise their kids and love their wives, it did my soul good.
There was a party that night, with the women cracking the required jokes about frail men as all of us where creaking and groaning as we moved by that point. The food was good and the packs of kids of various ages roamed about the house around us. It was just a fine fine day.
Sunday broke with more clear blue skies and after the requisite taxi servicing to swimming lessons, birthday parties and visits to friends, we had the kids back home early afternoon. It was such a nice day we got out into the garden and bashed at the veg patch to plant the early onion and garlic sets, and get the broad beans out. Then the kids jumped on their bikes with the neighbours and dashed up and down the drive.
I was standing there at one point, watching the little Princess laughingly try to keep up with her brothers on her little stabalised bike. The sun was shining, the breeze light, and I was just content with the world. Truely happy.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Too tired tonight?
"Darling, are you awake?"
This is one of the signals, a hint, gently dropped so if you have put your head to the pillow and fallen asleep, you can sleep. Its a small phrase, and lets both sides a way in or out without offence, without harm. The answer tonight?
I roll towards her under the heavy duvet. Its cold tonight, the heating's been off for a while and our old gorgeous home is cold. Under that duvet though, its warm, comfortable, home. I slip one arm under her neck, let her use my shoulder as a pillow as my other arm wraps around her back and pulls her close. Even now nothing may happen, we have fallen asleep like this, body to body, soul to soul.
My finger and thumb search out her upper back, find the knots in her shoulder. She purrs against my chest, a gentle kiss dusting my skin. That back, the bain of her existance. Her job could fill her mind, lock her for hours as she watched the feeds, played the numbers, placed bets worth millions of other people's money. Often she'd come home stiff and sore. My fingers knew that back intimately. I could see the lumps and bumps with my fingers better than my eyes in daylight.
She let me, for a while, then a soft kiss on my chest again, her fingers trailing up my side under she cupped my chin. I tilted my head down to let our lips meet. For a while, that's all we did, let our fingers explore each other's familiar bodies, our lips meet and depart, softly, slowly. The joy of knowing someone so well, is knowing what they like. How my hand, gripping her hip just so, pulling her up hard against me, then drifting away could elicit a small gasp. How letting fingers drift up between us to cup a small breast, still pert after three children, then slowly twirl a nipple gently between thumn and forefinger could gaurentee a hard kiss in return.
Ah, but the thing she liked most, the thing that would always make her growl, make her instantly wet was when she finally let her hand drift down my body. Its when her hand found me hard that was a shot of pure adrenalin into her arousal. I have no doubt she loved my cock, and finding it hard, knowing she was what made it hard, that always did it.
Sometimes that was but a landing stage, where we would play with each other more first. Sometimes that was it, the bullet to the heart that meant more, now. Tonight it was the latter.
"I want you inside me, now." Tonight, in the cold, that meant a comic interlude. Oh for the days when man wore fur and nothing else. When sex could be immediate, instant. Not tonight, it was cold, cold. We had layers to uncover first, fumblings that made us giggle. That's another thing time allows a couple, humour as a part of sex. When young a laugh can be fatal, can kill arousal instantly. Yet when you've been through life with each other, have fought off the demons, rescued young infants from a million perils, have made a home and life together, laughter is your tonic. It can be part of sex and make it love.
So we fumble, undo knots, pull down fleace and silk, roll back together true skin to skin. I find myself pushed onto my back, but don't complain. I'm feeling lazy tonight, and besides, this is perhaps our favourite position. The angles work for us, giving each other just the right level of tension and friction. The physics of sex work when The Boy is below.
She slips on top of me, the sweet friction of her skin gliding along mine. I am grasped, lifted and those slick sweet slips brush against me, open around me, slide down me. I hear her slow intake of breath, know she finds it good. For a moment she lays there, curled above me, denying herself, denying me, any more that just the sweet feel of cock deep in cunt.
Her head lowers, her hungry lips find mine. No more the sweet almost chaste kisses of before, her lips open now her tongue probing and clashing with mine. Slowly, so slowly, her lips lift, then sink. I know tonight will be slow, sweet.
And so we move, the harmony of motion bringing sensation to both of us. She comes once, fast and light, then starts moving again. Twice I pull her down against me, needing those moments to slow it down, let myself recover and not come too soon. Yet all good things come to an end. I know she's building up, know the way her body shifts and slides says she's close. Its not the speed, we're still fucking with glacier slowness, its the knowledge grown of many couplings. There's a deep core of shared knowledge between us that makes the same act, done again and again, deeply good.
Yes, sometimes I wistfully think that freshness would be good, that a nubile tight body would be a welcome change of diet. Yet, yet... the act of love, of two souls sharing sex with a knowldge of what works, what highlights, makes the familiar transendant.
I feel my own orgasm grow, I'm close, so close, and tell her. She loves hearing that, its the final sharp spice which can send her over the edge. When my body convulses, when I loose control and crush her body down to mine, hands on hips that have been known to leave bruises, she cried out. Her orgasms are laughter, almost sad laughter if you didn't know the cause. My love doesn't scream, doesn't shout, she laughs and we both come cunvulsively against each other.
Then its done, and in someways its the best part. When she relaxes down on top of me, when as much skin as we have is pressed against each other and we murmur sweet endearments to each other, that's when we're closest.
If I'm brutally honest, what was the net value of the outcome of the meeting? I'll be generous and say it contributed nothing. Certainly nothing negative resulted, but no decisions of import where made. There was some exchange of information, and some of the less keyed up on the topic of the moment learned a few things, but generally it did little for the physical moving forward of the company.
We talked, frankly we verbally groomed each other. I don't discount the importance of such meetings, they do serve a real purpose. The reason in this electronic age we still have face to face meetings is that being with each other is important. We are a social animal, we need to sit with our tribe, grunt at each other as we pick at the lice in our fur, touch and stroke each other for re-assurance, and generally be ready to run or defend each other if someone spots a lion.
It is important, we need to be with each other, to build those relationships. The grooming is no longer physical (nor is the dust em up fights), its verbal, but it is no less important. Research has shown time and time again that effective organisations have staff that see and interact with each other.
Problem is, so do ineffective organisations. Where did this meeting stand? ... it was bloody boring.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Millions and Millions and Millions of Blogs
1) Male - Well that gets me down to half the population
2) Married - OK, narrows it down a bit, but not much
3) Still in love with my wife - Better, but still not unique
4) A loving parent - The world is filled with those
5) Mad passionate cook - Only interesting if I cook for you
6) Filthy Mind - Join the club
7) Company Director - Might be interesting, but dig the dirt
8) Digital and Data Guru - In real life you might even have heard of me
9) Travelled the world - Only matters if the stories are good
All in all, just another human, but maybe enough there to be interesting. Let's begin...