.... why is it only performers who receive applause? Last night I saw 'Total Football' at the Barbican and loved it. But at the end when everyone was clapping and the actors bowing, it dawned on me how much more motivating it would be for the general workforce if we all received a round of applause at the end of our shifts. I realise this additional burden on our hands could have health and safety implications and there may be some increased cost for the employer in terms of hand cream, but I think the benefits outweigh the deficits. How exhilarating would it be for the shop assistant who had spent all day standing in the luggage section of a department store if, on clocking off, his colleagues praised his enthusiasm for a five-piece Carlton luggage set by noisily pressing hand to hand? Or, perhaps the middle manager in an office supply firm, who is lauded at clocking off time for his attention to detail with that day's staple order. You may snigger, but don't imagine that the world of office supply is without that frisson that has us all reaching for the air conditioning controls to cool down. I, myself, am currently enthused by the search for a slimline pedestal, both lockable and sleek. The Rolls Royce of storage; its mere picture in the catalogue causing me to rev up the cool air dial on the atmospheric control panel.
Thinking through the logistics of my plan, there is a danger that it may delay the workforce leaving the building after their shift, if we all have to wait in line for our accolade. So, how about an automated round of applause that we activate ourselves on leaving? Or an automated message of some sort? Automated announcements litter our lives daily and are virtually part of the family. For many of us, they fill the major part of our conversational day. Who, after their shift, wouldn't want to shut down their PC, grab their coat and head for the tour to be greeted by the trusty announcement "unexpected item in bagging area"? I know I would. Perhaps we could have a series of options on the control panel. After a good day, we could select "Notes are dispensed below the counter" to give us a little encouragement. If the employee is a little overweight, they could leave to the sound of "Your mailbox is over its limit". Subliminal messages for a healthier workforce. The applications are endless. Thank you for reading this blog. Applause please!
Sunday 22 May 2011
Sunday 15 May 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I left the cinema today after watching the film 'Jig' with a realisation that I had let down the Irish nation. This documentary about the Irish dancing world took me right back to the one and only lesson I myself had attended. I was 10 years old and I guess my Irish parents decided it was time. Off we went to the local church hall and opened the door on a moment that many years later would torture me whenever Riverdance was on TV.
I suspect my mum had high hopes of polishing trophies and bulk buying sequins, while I clippety clopped round the world bringing back the brass. I stood in one corner of the long rectangular church hall, conscious of a nation's expectations bearing down on me as I was instructed to 'GO'. This was my cue to 'Irish dance' diagonally across the length of the room. Irish mothers looked on, clutching their little Siobhans, Marys and Eileens as they watched this little Junebug cross the room like a pony thumbing a lift to the slaughterhouse. St Patrick was surely turning in his grave, but we couldn't hear him over the cries of 'Bejesus' echoing round the hall. I was never going to bring Michael Flatley home for tea. He and I would never cross ankles together. My dancing career died that night.
We never spoke of the class again and the following week, mum took me to the local Brownies instead. We went from a world of green to a world of brown. I won't go into details, but I only every attended one Brownie class. And there you have it, a pattern emerged that continued into adult life. I started many an endeavour, but never ventured beyond one attempt.
I've decided to lay the Irish dancing ghost to rest and redeem myself in the eyes of the Irish nation. I'm currently googling the words to 'Danny Boy', ordering a six-pack of Guinness and checking out recipes for potatoes. Bejesus!
I suspect my mum had high hopes of polishing trophies and bulk buying sequins, while I clippety clopped round the world bringing back the brass. I stood in one corner of the long rectangular church hall, conscious of a nation's expectations bearing down on me as I was instructed to 'GO'. This was my cue to 'Irish dance' diagonally across the length of the room. Irish mothers looked on, clutching their little Siobhans, Marys and Eileens as they watched this little Junebug cross the room like a pony thumbing a lift to the slaughterhouse. St Patrick was surely turning in his grave, but we couldn't hear him over the cries of 'Bejesus' echoing round the hall. I was never going to bring Michael Flatley home for tea. He and I would never cross ankles together. My dancing career died that night.
We never spoke of the class again and the following week, mum took me to the local Brownies instead. We went from a world of green to a world of brown. I won't go into details, but I only every attended one Brownie class. And there you have it, a pattern emerged that continued into adult life. I started many an endeavour, but never ventured beyond one attempt.
I've decided to lay the Irish dancing ghost to rest and redeem myself in the eyes of the Irish nation. I'm currently googling the words to 'Danny Boy', ordering a six-pack of Guinness and checking out recipes for potatoes. Bejesus!
Sunday 8 May 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... for many months now I've found exiting a tube station almost akin to battle. I've personally never been in battle, but I have watched 'Predator' more than once (willingly) and I think there were enough tips in that to get me from Walthamstow to Warren Street without being killed by an alien. However, the escalator is something else altogether. I don't mind entering the tube station, travelling on the train, getting off the train, but when it comes to heading for the escalator, then my commando training (a la Arnold Schwarzenegger) just isn't enough. It never used to be like this, but in recent years a new breed of commuter has evolved. A commuter who sees the escalator and whose brain says 'me want escalator, me want escalator NOW'.
I disembark every weekday at Warren Street. I sit myself in the carriage that stops directly at the 'Way Out' sign. Doors open and I head straight for the right-hand side of the escalator to signify I'm relaxed and happy to let the moving stairway do the job it was built for. But, to the 'me want escalator now' brigade, this renders me invisible. As I go to step on to the escalator, the mob bear down on me and their leader walks right across me without a single acknowledgement that I'm there. In these moments, all life beyond Warren Street ceases to exist for me and I become Arnold. Sadly, the Arnold from Kindergarten Cop, which is why I reach the top of the escalator feeling inadequate, unloved and very very dissed. Inside I'm channelling Kindergarten Cop with Terminator and getting Nanny McPhee, and this manifests itself in a couple of 'tuts' - a coward's cry of disapproval. What would Arnold do in these circumstances? He'd travel back in time and make that mother****** regret the morning they ever disembarked at Warren Street. Sadly, until there's a breakthrough in science, all that's left to me is the hope that their oyster card stalls at the ticket barrier. When this does, I tut, the commuters behind me tut; a symphony of tuts in fact. Music to my ears.
In the winter, I use my long umbrella as a weapon to bar the mob and only an Olympic hurdler would be able to get in front of me (note to self: revise this strategy during London 2012). But in summer, what am I to do to defend myself? What can I carry with me that is normal for summer and could do the job just as well? Perhaps a garden hoe, but I don't want people to think I'm off to the allotment and ask me for some rhubarb. Or for anyone to say 'have you seen Junebug and her hoe?'. This isn't the image I want to cultivate. I think the only thing available to me is to wear a sign around my neck that says: "Beware, mother******, this commuter is channelling the Terminator". I'm packing my dark shades, my leather gloves (don't have a jacket) and losing the ability to enunciate ready for tomorrow's battle.
I disembark every weekday at Warren Street. I sit myself in the carriage that stops directly at the 'Way Out' sign. Doors open and I head straight for the right-hand side of the escalator to signify I'm relaxed and happy to let the moving stairway do the job it was built for. But, to the 'me want escalator now' brigade, this renders me invisible. As I go to step on to the escalator, the mob bear down on me and their leader walks right across me without a single acknowledgement that I'm there. In these moments, all life beyond Warren Street ceases to exist for me and I become Arnold. Sadly, the Arnold from Kindergarten Cop, which is why I reach the top of the escalator feeling inadequate, unloved and very very dissed. Inside I'm channelling Kindergarten Cop with Terminator and getting Nanny McPhee, and this manifests itself in a couple of 'tuts' - a coward's cry of disapproval. What would Arnold do in these circumstances? He'd travel back in time and make that mother****** regret the morning they ever disembarked at Warren Street. Sadly, until there's a breakthrough in science, all that's left to me is the hope that their oyster card stalls at the ticket barrier. When this does, I tut, the commuters behind me tut; a symphony of tuts in fact. Music to my ears.
In the winter, I use my long umbrella as a weapon to bar the mob and only an Olympic hurdler would be able to get in front of me (note to self: revise this strategy during London 2012). But in summer, what am I to do to defend myself? What can I carry with me that is normal for summer and could do the job just as well? Perhaps a garden hoe, but I don't want people to think I'm off to the allotment and ask me for some rhubarb. Or for anyone to say 'have you seen Junebug and her hoe?'. This isn't the image I want to cultivate. I think the only thing available to me is to wear a sign around my neck that says: "Beware, mother******, this commuter is channelling the Terminator". I'm packing my dark shades, my leather gloves (don't have a jacket) and losing the ability to enunciate ready for tomorrow's battle.
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