What motivates us?

I came across an interesting discussion about motivation. Daniel Pink suggests that people who are intrinsically motivated are more productive than those who are extrinsically motivated. He argues that "Carrots and sticks work, but only in a surprisingly narrow band of circumstances. For enduring motivation and high performance, autonomy, mastery, and purpose are much better."

Naturally I pondered this - being a self-congratulatory intrinsically motivated person. And then, because intrinsically I desire to mull over and ponder interesting questions for their own sake, I decided to write a post for my official Followers, my Commenters and my faceless non-official Followers to muse over.

I preface my reflections with an admission that I have only a brief acquaintance with the thesis of Mr Pink and nothing that follows should be construed as derisory of his viewpoint. I also admit freely that I may not yet fully comprehend his arguments or his terminology. I also concede that his expertise may pertain to the world of work and not the real world as it were. Oh, sorry - I think I might have that back to front. I am getting muddled now about intrinsic and extrinsic and which world I am in, virtual, real, work, home... Don't we all say our world is the real world, by definition?

Anyway, before I plummet over what I sense is a looming precipice and crash resoundingly on the rocks of failed-blog-bitter-and-twisted-couldn't-quite-cut-it-in-the-real-world-despite-academic-success lurking terrifyingly below said precipice, I want to thank him and his followers for prompting me to contemplate this question: what drives us?

I can only speak for myself really. Though I will, I know, end up speaking for many people, because that is what I do. I make sweeping statements couched in big words, phrased ever more verbosely, so as to trick you into thinking there is a fresh perspective or even a kernel of wisdom within my generalisations and long winded diatribe.

First, I think we need to break the topic down a bit - as debaters do.

Drive = motivation = that which gets me to do the things I do.
Me = just me, subjectively.

Mmmm. Where to begin?

I didn't want to harp on about Mr Pink, but I find I cannot go anywhere unless I address his opening gambit head on - carrots and sticks work, but only in a surprisingly narrow set of circumstances.

As we are only discussing me, subjectively, then I can accept that I may be the narrow set of circumstances he was catering for when he made that remark. Perhaps I should drop him a line and ask him.

Even so, the bit of me that likes to think I am a girl of the people - well some people, if you know what I mean -wonders whether there might be others out there who think that carrots and sticks are not rarely, not even occasionally, but indeed quite often, very effective motivators. This is not to say that that is an ideal state of affairs. Goodness no. I am very much in favour of the idea that we ought to find intrinsic motivators. I am absolutely supportive of this as a means of achieving greater happiness and better managing our expectations. Much of my book is about just that - as well as the value of a positive mindset and getting out of one's own way. And I do a fair bit of bellyaching about this and that too. In fact, you could do worse than buy a copy and suggest it to you book club...

So, where was I? Yes, that's right, despite all of that, in my world, carrots and sticks work fabulously too. Intrinsic motivators are indeed prolific; but there is also a healthy quantity of guilt, manipulation, charm and fear, not to mention a little chunk of passive aggression. In fact, I would have to say that the whole intrinsic v extrinsic paradigm is not grounded in my reality.

If I turn first to my intrinsic motivators, then I can say that I have had loads of them throughout my life. Keeping fit, for example. That's easy; that's all about the higher purpose of staying healthy and active, of being fit for its own sake and so as to keep up with and set a wonderful example for the off-Spring. It is such a bonus that I fit into my clothes and look fairly slim, because all the magazines tell me to love my body whatever shape I am, and it is easier to love a toned body than a flabby one when all the "best dressed" and even "worst dressed" pictures feature size zero 45 year old actresses telling us how Peelahhhtays saved their asses after the token bubba.

And then at work - I was such a dedicated employee in those heady days of employeedom/hood/ness(?), before I branched into the brave new world of self employed blogging writer and coach. I would get out of bed, nay spring out of bed, some days with an intrinsic fire in my belly (third trimester heartburn), such was my longing to reach my desk and finish that letter of advice so that I could Google boys' names (only when pregnant) and villas in Tuscany. And office drinks? Always happy to attend and share a round with my tireless (tiresome) and dedicated colleagues. I was not there, missing the off-Spring's bedtime or the West Wing, for the sour wine or the fattening beer nuts. No, it was the pure joy of feeling part of the team that lured me to those dank, smoky dens of gossip and sucking up to the partner who had asked his secretary to organise the evening. Thai dinner after - who could refuse? The poor dahling we toiled for insisted on paying for us; we had to go.

Parenting is yet another realm in which the intrinsic desire to be part of a wonderful, enriching and unifying human experience prevails. The added bonus is that one is never alone, one is finally the boss and when one basks in the glow of vicarious achievement it is through the successes of one's flesh and blood, rather than a team or a firm. For me it is central to my life. Do I parent in a mindful and articulate way that instils intrinsic motivators in the off-Spring? You can be damn sure that I do! 

"Well done - you should be proud of yourself. Now, eat your dinner or there is no dessert."

"Let's read. Reading is such a source of pleasure all through your life. You will never be lonely as long as you have a good book. It's like getting along with your brothers. Never lonely. Now play nicely, read your books to each other, let me finish this email and we might go out for dinner." 

And now, running a business, publishing and marketing a book. I am, if nothing else, motivated. And I can honestly say, hand on heart that there is no reward or carrot (apart from the heady rush of hearing someone say they loved the book) and no stick (or it is shtick) at play here, at all.  As to blogging - I would be the first person to say that I blog for the joy of blogging (I actually do, in spite of myself). Indeed blogging is now a motivator to doing things I might otherwise avoid, like commuting on the Underground.

So where does this discussion take us? I am conscious that I have not yet elaborated on the intrinsic and extrinsic importance of guilt, manipulation, charm, fear and passive aggression in this subjective reality.

Indeed, I have not addressed another fundamental point that underpins the whole debate. I know some of you have been waiting for me to get to this. I know, I know. I can delay no longer. The underlying premise of the intrinsic v extrinsic motivator debate is that the motivators have to endure and generate high performance.

Is my house of cards about to tumble?

Enduring motivation - how long does that need to be? Does 20 years brutal gym attendance suffice? Are eight years of bed time stories enough? How many balanced home cooked meals must I prepare? Is there a magic number of books that I must write, print and donate to Oxfam in order to prove I am motivated?

And performance? Is high performance measured intrinsically (subjectively) or extrinsically (objectively)? At the risk of sounding arrogant (don't kid yourself Spinggirl) I think I am a high achiever by my own standards.

In the final analysis then, what drives me is not what drives you, or you, or you. Some days the key motivation is reaching 7.30pm. Other days, knowing my warrior 2 pose will trump the blond chicks's downward dog is enough. And on yet others, a pat on the head from a fully functioning grown up is like manna from Heaven.

It could be that I need to re-enter the world of employed work in order to comment on this debate.

Or perhaps just read the book - I mean Mr Pink's book - not mine.

Folk are funny - sponsored by Vilebrequin

Folk are funny.


You only have to spend a couple of hours at the pool to realise just how funny.


There are many different ways in which people can enjoy a pool. Obviously those who swim lengths have there own special purposes - fitness, preparation for racing, improvement of style, meeting buff chicks and so on. But the really interesting swimmers are those in the "family lanes" at the public facility. I cannot comment about squad swimmers, lap dancers - I mean swimmers - or the participants in the "age-well" (aqua aerobics) class (used to be one of them til I realised the class had that name and I was lowering the average age by 20 years and possibly splashing too much for some of the hair dos) as I do not frequent the public pool other than on weekends when I take the Off-Spring for a well-needed cooling-off-and-wear-them-out session. Rather, I will confine my remarks to the  weekend family swimmers at the local public pool.


But first, an observation about public pools nomenclature. As a rule, the grottier the facilities the greater the chance that the pool is called a "leisure" or "recreation" centre. If there is a squash court or free weights room it will masquerade as a "sports" centre.


That's fine. As long as we all know what we are dealing with. In other countries a pool is a pool, or maybe an aquatic centre or even a public bath - which, as you will see as you read on, is perhaps the most apt description.


Anyway, the wordy pedant wanted to make that point. False advertising is one of her pet peeves.


So - I was going to tell you how funny folk can be. It now seems overly critical to comment on the pre-adolescent but deceptively chubby twin boys who circled me like sharks for most of one session, staring underwater at my belly and legs. I did not at first realise they were twins. I was starting to feel paranoid under the scrutiny of one rotund chap and said to him "whatcha lookin at, sonny?" in what I hoped was a Clint Eastwood tone of voice. He stared me down like an agent of the Stasi (his mother nearby may well have been one) and turned away in the manner of a seal falling off rocks. Then lo and behold I saw him with an identical fellow and had a moment's guilt - how precious must I look confronting him when it was probably his brother who had been gawking at me all morning? I should not have worried though, as soon both of them were back in close proximity, duck diving around me. Perhaps my swimsuit was the attraction. Being black, low legged and high cut at the neck, it it something of an oddity...


Or perhaps the fact that I was moving at all had piqued their curiosity. It has to be said that my self styled aqua routine of crunches, star jumps, frog kicks, high kicks and arm swings is not standard at most pools. Indeed most of the ladies on this occasion were semi reclined over the lane barriers chatting to each other. The poor life guard could barely watch the children as he tried to catch the attention of said ladies and persuade them to get off the barriers and stop impeding the lane swimmers next door. Which brings me to another way in which folk are funny - they come to the pool and loll about in all that urine and dead skin cells and spit. At least when one is moving - face firmly above the water with spectacles on and dry - one can feel that the risk to health is somehow lessened. At least one burns some calories in any event.  But floating in it?


Last but by no one least is the "Daddy's morning" phenomenon. Sunday is clearly the day that Daddy is on duty because the place is swarming with fathers and their treasures. Not a woman in sight, apart from me, until well past noon. The Dads are a motley crew to be sure. Yes, there is Designer Dad with his Vilebrequin ensemble matching his young son's (over a swimming nappy I hope at that price). Anyone who can afford those swimmers should at least be at the Berkely Hotel pool, if not Cap Ferrat, is my view.


Designer Dad has a tendency to lose his son in the shallows and often Life Guard number 1 is earning his money watching the little tyke.


Meanwhile, High Blood Pressure Harry is yelling at young Victoria as she front crawls her way up the length. What Harry lacks in sartorial elegance, tan and tact, he more than makes up for in his fervent desire to see her improve her time. Victoria, much to my delight, stops midway and says over her shoulder across two lanes of splashing youngsters (quite audibly) "I thawt I was doing rawther well, actually." 


Then there is Pepe with his little princesses abandoned in the rampy bit while he chats up Life Guard number 2. 


There is usually a thrower among the fathers. A thrower likes to display his strength, manliness and ability to rough-house his kids as only the best dads can, and pitches his kids out of his arms towards the wall at speed. I am not sure what wives of throwers would say if they knew, but I guess the lie-in is worth the risk that the little pets come home concussed.


Most weeks we encounter Dry Dad who brings his news paper and coffee and lets the little darling/s get on with it. Can't fault him for making the best of his time with the kids. 


Finally, there are always one or two "You can do it Buddy" types who think that if they speak loudly and clearly enough, their two year olds will become Olympic standard athletes after they win academic and sporting scholarships to UCLA. Self consciously aware of themselves and their parenting skills, "You can do it Buddy" dads (UCDIB) are my favourites. They are earnest and sincere and hopeful. This time is precious and valuable and must be utilised and maximised. Wives of  UCDIB guys emerge from the gym part way through the session to check on the guys and see if Buddy is swimming underwater yet. She brings enthusiasm and perkiness and the promise of clover filled sunny days all season. I get quite misty eyed as I bundle the Off-Spring away to the germ-fest in the showers...


Indeed, the public pool is a wonderful place. Where else do human beings voluntarily get as naked and close to complete strangers? Not even in hospitals does this occur - where there is an element of compulsion, not pleasure or I dare I say "recreation". At the beach? Yes; especially in some parts of Southern Europe where less is more when it comes to apparel, and bobbing about in tepid, flat, effluent can be regarded as glamorous. But the tobacco induced highs typical of such settings may explain the abandonment the beach goers feel as they baste themselves in their three square feet of butt covered sand (cigarettes, that it).


No - I can think of no where else, apart from a public park in central London at the height of summer or at the Hill at the Sydney Cricket Ground during a one-day match, where one knowingly and happily gets one's kit off in order to get really close to fleshy, panting people one does not know.


That said, the humanity of the experience is humbling. There we all are united in a quest. A quest for exercise, tone or weightlessness. For freedom of some sort: from the kids perhaps - splashing in the shallow end -just close enough to rescue should one try to submerge another, but far enough away to allow one to pretend not to be connected with them. Or freedom from thought - staring at the wobbly arms of former communist bloc ageing "beauty" queens can distract one from one's banal thoughts. Freedom from the darned phone and email - so far no genius has invented a water proof iPhone. Have they? Well - I said it first!


We are perhaps united in a quest for community - a transient sense that we belong to a unit greater than our own family or circle of friends. Perhaps we are trying to convince ourselves as we bravely wade into the murky shallows that there is a lovely democracy to leisure centre group exercise. We are not too proud or posh. We mix it with real people. We want our children to feel part of a dynamic, multi-faceted society in which all can play a part and contribute with vitality and energy.


Or perhaps it's just that we know our off-spring are incapable of sparing us embarrassment or stress in a more exclusive, members only setting for more than 20 minutes.

A toast to ironing ladies and domestic deities

I have been trying to keep up with a number of interesting discussions on the three or four forums (I want to say "forii" but no one does...) that I follow on-line. There is a particularly virulent debate going on in one - over 100 comments have been posted - and I am hooked - waiting to see who says what to whom next. I have a sneaky suspicion that the protagonists are secretly good friends and are feigning this enmity in order to raise their on-line profiles, as I would have thought that the vitriol and fervour of the debate runs counter to the rules of the forum. I mean if you cannot link your own website surely you cannot call someone a d-mba-s! 


But what do I know. I usually take things like rules quite literally - it's probably the lawyer in me. Oh no, it's not - while I spent three years drafting laws, I spent the next eight finding loopholes and ways around them - different ones - I hasten to add; I am not so lacking in imagination as to want to undo my own hard work, even if the money was ok (until I had babies and started from scratch again, more or less). So perhaps it's really my inner adapted child, goody two shoes, or class captain that likes to know and observe the rules. At any rate, when I join a forum I am conscious of the dos and don'ts. Up to a point. I saw the terms of one forum recently that were so poorly expressed and so strict and confining I could not think of a thing I would want to post or share. What would I have to say if I could not express a personal view point? I am learning so much from these dialogues though. One can stay within the letter of the law and not plug one's business, but one can offer a free copy of one's book as a prize for a good suggestion about something completely unrelated. Human ingenuity, eh?


Best of all, I am learning about what makes people tick. On one women's forum I see that food, childcare and family outings rate as high concerns. On another, a semi-rhetorical discussion about the nature of love proves popular. 


I have mulled over the wisdom of posting here my thoughts on a topic that arose on-line recently. I nearly responded to the question posed but given the tenor of the other replies quickly realised that doing so might result in my being blacklisted. Freedom of speech, like fitness and popularity, is a relative thing. I daresay I am desperate to be liked by all those strangers on-line...


So now that I feel safer - this is my space, after all - I might throw the debate open here. I must say at this juncture that I have been delighted to see comments on some earlier posts. You have all been such a quiet and respectful audience I had started to think/fear there was no audience. However, now that I have seen a couple of remarks, my courage is restored - there is even a man who has read these musings! Stand up Mr Man - thanks for your interest. Let me know what you think and do keep following me.


I am ready to vent now. The question posed elsewhere was: "are you a domestic goddess?".


Indeed. You all had to think for a moment, didn't you? Well I did not. I can say quite firmly that I am not and never have been a domestic goddess. 


I am going to restrain the legislative drafter in me from picking the phrase into little bits and analysing all of its elements to leave it meaningless and naked, and just discuss this term in the way it is generally intended to be understood.


Translated it means: are you, like Nigella Lawson, capable of incredible feats of dexterity, panache and presentation in and around your home in all matters pertaining to housekeeping and cooking?


Let me assure you - especially you Mr Man - that I have no issue whatsoever with Nigella or her producer and camera men. The branding and merchandising and buzz surrounding her status as the goddess is fantastic and inspiring.


Rather, I take issue with the question. Sure, it's innocent enough. Just a little chat to break the tedium of taking care of young children and home...


Is it?


Or an insidious and deliberate attempt to perpetuate a myth circulated by post-feminist perfectionists in a desire to compete and out-manoeuvre the sisterhood of women striving to just cope, let alone attain standards of superhuman detail oriented perfection?


I was quite riled up about the question. When that happens my inner coach asks - what is this reaction all about then? Are you protesting too much? Are you a closet wannabe domestic goddess that feels confronted? Are you in fact the competitive and threatened one?


I am not sure now...


Let me make some things clear though:
1. I am not a slob.
2. I bake and cook and do all my own housework.
3. I run a small business and raise my children with less than four hours domestic help (babysitter) a week.
4. I do my own ironing (there is a tendency for housewives to boast that they have no help, but actually have an ironing lady. Ironing ladies and dry-cleaners rise up and be counted - the unsung heroes helping to make domestic bliss a reality across the globe!).
5. My apartment is not pristine (three small boys - are you kidding?), but sufficiently tidy and well-kept as to not be an embarrassment if unexpected guests should come knocking (never happens, dammit).
6. I enjoy hoovering, washing and sorting out clutter.


Yes, I do get a kick out of doing chores myself. Yes, I would rather know that I left several dust bunnies behind the sofa than pay a cleaner to do the same, not tell me and thendiscover them later when the hoover is packed away and I have put my feet up to admire my clean home. 


Indeed, there are few things as satisfying as a sparkling shower door. But showering at the gym beats cleaning it every time.


I love to bake fresh, wholesome organic cakes for my children. But the shop bought ones from the Hummingbird Bakery look and taste better and cost less than most of the competitor items in the market - as my aunt says, they were patty cakes in the old days and no one would serve them for tea!


So - I ask you - am I a domestic goddess?


At the end of the day it comes down to perspective and identity. If we want to be something, or be perceived as something, we can be. If we don't, then we don't.


So where does that leave me in comprehending my anger at this discussion being raised at all?


Well, first, let's pose it on some male forums and see what sort of response we get. Can you imagine a (straight) man being asked this? There are no "super dads" - making good money, supporting their ageing parents, taking their kids to the pool, the parties, the fixtures all weekend - these labels are not used for men. Why not? If they are valid for women, then they must also apply to men.


Oh yes, we all boast that our husbands are "domestic gods", leaving a little question in the minds of the listener as to what that might mean, exactly. Hoping that we can bask in the reflected glory of being one of those amazing couples. In truth, these blokes cook occasionally, wash up when we ask really nicely, take the rubbish out under duress and have no idea how to negotiate a supermarket, an iron or a coffee plunger! They have more facility with a set top box than setting up a flat packed shelf, and bring more panache to peeling off their socks than peeling a potato. (Not you, Mr Springgirl! You went to boarding school and are more domesticated than Alice from the Brady Bunch!)


Second, what sort of expectations underpin these concepts and discussions in the first place? Instead of creating reasonable and attainable (by no means mediocre or low) expectations as to our abilities and priorities, we give credence to the notion that handmade petal icing is important. I hate to burst anyone's bubble but not many of these things really matter; they are just that - icing on the cake of life.


Can't we accept that no one - man or woman - can "have it all"? We can do our best, but usually something has to give, if not now, later. Why do we insist on perpetuating this myth of domestic, professional and career perfection. It is an impossible standard to meet. It sets us up for disappointment. The very idea of a domestic goddess or super mum, super nanny, even the hackneyed old "yummy mummy" that we all spire to, should be challenged. Given what we know about marital disharmony, stress and depression, shouldn't we be helping people let go of these unreasonable pressures and expectations that lead to disappointment and misplaced striving?

And no - I am not suggesting we don't try to do our best, work hard and create lovely homes in which to enjoy the fruits of our labour and the time we have with our loved ones. Not at all. I just wonder if we do enjoy them, that's all.


It occurs to me that perhaps I took the question the wrong way. Maybe the discussion was not about perfection and housework and voluptuousness in the kitchen at all!


Perhaps, instead, it was a reference to the pagan belief in the household deity or spirit that protects the home - the hearth goddess - such as the Greek Hestia or the Norse Frigg.


Of course I am she! I ward away all baddies, bugs, spiders, cold-callers, leaks and uninvited guests with vim and vigour.

Fighting Fit

After many weeks of anxious yet excited waiting, 300 copies of "Spring to Mind" were delivered to my neighbour yesterday.


Sounds like I have a huge fan, eh?


Well, she might yet be, but at the time she was innocently and very kindly taking in 17 boxes to save the delivery man a return trip next week. As I have said in a previous post - and my words inevitably come back to haunt me - one has no control over delivery men; Ocado (Waitrose affiliated delivery company) being a notable exception.


So apart from my sheer delight in having my books in hand, I was very glad to be in peak physical condition to lug those boxes to my shopping trolley (I mean pushchair, crowd rammer and bloated-tummy disguiser) and cart 128 kilos of books down to my apartment.


Now I have the lesser task of selling them. I have found so far that carrying one or two around - something I prepared earlier - and casually throwing it into the conversation, can work. Ok, it's only day one, admittedly...


Nevertheless, I was well aware during that slog to move the stockpile that had I not been in such an amazing state of fitness, this task might have seemed daunting without a large palette, very strong man or complex pulley system to help. Let me just say though, for the avoidance of doubt (drafters of turgid tax legislation love throwing that old phrase in - "for the avoidance of doubt" - which really means - "yes we know this is very unclear and you, dear reader, will be exploiting this loophole forthwith, but just be warned that we know this part of the law, nay, all of it, is a quagmire of confused, antiquated and impenetrable rules, but the Revenue will not be taken for a fool, again"), that I am being facetious. I have come to realise that my fitness is in fact far from at optimum levels.


Tempting as it is to turn this post into a bellyache about ageing - a post scheduled for next month - or the myriad ways in which modern life conspires to make one fat and unfit, I will keep this post upbeat and optimistic. After all we are all people of the world here. We know that skinny muffins are laden in hydrogenated fat and emulsifiers in order to compensate for lack of butter and taste. We know that a regular large glass of wine will add inches to our hips while taking months off our lives, even if red and full of anti-oxidants. We are good friends with all the "hidden" calories in our day; the half masticated bread sticks and rice cakes we have to force down our throats on buses, in church and during class assembly where no imaginative person has yet to install a bin, the crusts off the morning toast, the "it's not hot, try it" testing mouthfuls of lasagne and curry, the here-a-chip-there-a-chip-everywhere-a-chip-chip sides in kid-friendly restaurants, the extra spoonful of sugar in the coffee. We are surrounded by wicked temptations. Who can resist a chip? Who doesn't treat themselves to a nice glass of something chilled come Saturday afternoon? Hell, it's not like we don't deserve it. And protest as we might, kid oriented snack foods are tasty after three loads of washing, an argument with a teacher/postman/checkout operator/child/husband. Just one won't hurt...


But the impact as we age is severe.


And it's no easier in the city where sophisticated cuisine, alcohol and imported chocolate handed out free with morning coffee at the better cafes wreak their own havoc. Perhaps in the fast lane though, the damage can be mitigated. Working all night, running adrenaline fuelled deals and meetings, rushing around town in search of coffee and adversaries' offices, and around one's own ill-designed office in search of relief after too much of that coffee or just too much of life in a fishbowl, can burn off a lot of energy.


So, I know I am preaching to the converted when I say that keeping fit and trim can be a war of attrition. But I have discovered and dare I say, developed, some techniques for winning that battle. It may be only a pyrrhic victory, but the aching hamstrings will be convinced.


So - I give you Springgirl's Non-definitive Guide to Feeling Fit this Spring.


Remember that there are two underlying principles to feeling fit.
First, if you are fitter than the next person you will feel fit.
Second, if its worth doing, its worth pretending you did it.


1.Talk yourself up. No one ever felt fit thinking they were fat and frumpy. You have to believe you can be fit in order to take the steps needed to feel fit. Fitness hates defeatism. Feeling fit is all about ego. You have to be vain and selfish, even if for the sake of your health rather than purely your appearance. You have to want to wear tight white jeans with panache.


2. Start caring. Join a gym - you will care about the money you waste if you never go. Buy a bike or expensive golf equipment - again you will care more if it costs you more.


3. If stress helps you shed weight, increase your stress. Kill two birds with one stone and buy a power plate machine - the expense of this will be such as to guarantee stress induced use. This will also help you tone your muscles in front of the telly and burn off that lager and curry faster. Note: you will need to reinforce your floor, sound proof your exercise area and take out a loan or get a second job - all statistically likely to increase stress.


4. Buy the best gym clothes. You need to look good to feel fit. No one ever felt good in baggy, saggy, dog-hair covered sweat pants - did they? A good looking outfit will pep you up, inspire you and impress and intimidate the other gym users, runners, walkers, shoppers, soccer mums, cyclists, coffee shop queuers... Walking the walk is half the battle.


5. If you are a gym user, always work out in front of the the mirrors. This means you can preen and admire yourself, adjust your blond ponytail often and generally induce hatred and envy in the hearts of the other attendees.  The aim is to intimidate. Since fitness is not an absolute - but a relative thing - if everyone resents or loathes you (and let's face it, no one hates the unco nerd trundling along the treadmill at a snail's pace) you will deservedly feel fit and strong.


6. Attend classes often and suck up to and joke around with the instructor. This has two main benefits. It may put the more competitive punters off their game in the class, thereby making you look and feel better - clearly you are fit if you know the moves, rarely break a sweat and can ask after Camp Cameron's chihuahua. Alternatively it can work to increase the standard in the room as the competitive punters try ever harder to keep pace with you. You in turn will work that bit harder as well.


7. Join a running club. Everyone knows runners are obsessed with their sport. Cyclists are too for that matter, but as they are more cliquey and often ride on scary roads or for long distances it is harder to fake it. If you live and breathe running you can't feel unfit even if you only go to club runs once a month and hold up the bar afterwards. You will have a sense of belonging and community - two keys elements of a happy and engaged life. If you are happy and engaged you will not mind so much that you are not fit. And in truth how could you not join in occasionally - they make it look so easy and effortless...


8. Vary your routine. Remember the old adage about spice? Your fitness will plateau and your workout become stale if you never mix things up. Look for ways to use new muscle groups. For example, if you usually shower, take a bath. If you prefer the bus, try the train for a change (all those steps!). Cross the road to avoid people, rather than stop and chat. Use the self checkouts, sleep on the other side of the bed, eat dinner in a different place, sit on the floor to read the kids their bedtime story (great for the butt as you clamber up afterwards), or just tackle something you have been putting off for a long time - like dusting those high shelves. If you have to pant to get a bit of housework done you will surely feel fitter for the effort!


9. Try yoga but don't buy into all the lingo and concepts like "listen to your body" and "this is not a race". It is essential you treat it as a bitter competition in order to get that warrior pose lower and stronger. Remember, there are no prizes for knowing how to breathe.


10. Finally, just do it.


I am off now to vary my routine. I think I will have peppermint tea instead of regular, brush my teeth left handed, lay out my new designer gym kit for the morning and sleep at the foot of my bed. I am anticipating some aches tomorrow after the hard session at the gym today. I had to work very hard to keep up with that blonde chic channelling Carrie Bradshaw all through Total Body Conditioning. Who knew we had muscles in those places?

The grass is greener....

Over the past few days I have felt a sense of futility.


Futility? Surely not Springgirl! What could bring on such a lamentation?


Well the catalysts were threefold. 


First, over lunch in one of the 7 million eateries in this particular national chain (I shall not name it - let's just call it the "Sandwich Place") that promotes itself on its environmental credentials, I watched spell bound as one of the staff bundled up into one bag all of the carefully separated recyclables with the tea bags, food scraps and other flotsam and jetsam of high street life that tends to find its way into cafe bins (used nappies, tissues, sweet wrappers, cigarette packets, newspapers, love letters, travel cards and so on). I was with the Off-Spring at the time. While they hungrily devoured their lunch, I had been assessing my tray and trying to decide into which bin I ought to dispose of my salad box, coffee cup and cutlery. 


Now, as an aside, let me just explain that I like to follow rules that make sense. Also I am a tad competitive and I long ago imagined that if I were to leave the in-flight meal tray on long-haul flights extremely neat and tidy I would be awarded the prize for Neatest Passenger (Meal-time Category) and earn lifetime complimentary upgrades or perhaps even permanent gold card flight club status on the strength of my superb and thoughtful scrap presentation. Hence, my silent musings as to how to ensure the best outcome from both a neatness and an environmental perspective at the Sandwich Place.


And before you start your silent musings along the lines of "what a loser/control freak with too little on her mind", I should assure you (again dear Followers) that I am not a control freak in all respects at all - come and see the kitchen floor and judge for yourself - only in a couple of small ones. Basically, I have made peace with the fact that there is so little one can control (e.g. children, the economy, relationships, the delivery guy, job interviews, queues in the supermarket, random terminal illnesses, ash spewing volcanoes and muck spewing pigs, to name but a few) and I am happily mindful of that most of the time. But, given that we are mere specks on the face of the earth, have control over so little and will be gone before long anyway, it is imperative that in the ways that one can exert influence, one really needs to do so with conviction and commitment. Hence, my obsessional need to go to the gym, my compulsive fixation on DRY cappuccinos and this aeroplane tray tidiness syndrome. There may be one or two others...


So, there I was mulling over whether to use more paper wiping out said salad box to make it pristinely clean for the recycling bin or to leave it messy, save three napkins and put it in with general trash, when lo and behold the green credentials of the Sandwich Place were tossed into one large black refuse sack with all the other garbage. 


The gullible customer is conned once more. And that's when the sense of futility began to seep into my under-occupied Saturday afternoon mind. I began to think "what else" (a thinking process that I learnt from Lee Child, author of the Jack Reacher thriller series - thanks Lee - whose characters describe applying this thinking in assessing the credibility of clients and witnesses); if there is one lie then what else may be untrue?


Am I really drinking Spring Water, eating free range eggs or hand carved turkey? Is the cheese truly from France? Are the sandwiches actually prepared with love? Today?


I was once again cast adrift in an ocean of confusion. Thankfully the Off-Spring were with me - helping to keep it real... But not for long, alas.


The second catalyst to this sense of doom is a sneaking suspicion that like "Eco-friendly", terms such as "Diversity" and "Corporate Social Responsibility", as ubiquitous as "Green" these days, as catchwords for the Values in Action of many organisations, have become hackneyed and overused, lacking in real meaning.


I can claim to be Green. After all, I am eco-friendly - I don't drive much, I turn off lights and taps and I don't even own a tv. I watch my air miles - the tidy tray thing is not a common occurrence. My carbon footprint is small - apart from my food-miles - as I do love the fair trade pineapple, and Australian Eucalyptus honey sweetened tea. 


I can claim to be socially responsible - I am a mother and charity begins at home. I drop coins into buckets proffered in tube stations. I never leave my towel lying around at the gym or fail to share the gym equipment. I hold doors open for strangers and I even drink responsibly.

And I embrace diversity in many forms. I watch a range of tv shows, buy loads of different cereals from lots of different stores and trump card - I even have friends from different countries.


All of these attributes supposedly distinguish me and myriad companies and organisations and I daresay you. We are all officially excellent and to be congratulated. What else?


Finally, the third event. I have been considering a return to salaried employment as a sideline to my coaching and writing. I envisage a highbrid role up to 25 hours a week (school hours) - business development/coaching/facilitation/practice management. After all so many organisations welcome and support part time workers, offer family friendly packages and even win prizes for their work-life balance strategies. 


But then the rot really set in - I was advised by a recruiter that all such roles on their books are full-time. 


Aaaaagggghhhhhh.


So the upshot? I can join a firm that embraces Diversity in the form of female staff seeking flexible working hours. The firm would consider and reject said flexibility and offer me a full time role that would allow me to leave the office earlier than the fee-earners, the directors or the partners and thus for all intents and purposes at salary review time - be part-time. My contribution would help create a big enough cushion to enable the firm to offer voluntary or pro bono work and thus be Socially Responsible. I would then have the satisfaction of knowing that my firm was competitive in terms of its values, congratulate myself on being one of "the Best and the Brightest" lured to it by same progressive social agenda and I could in turn pay a stranger to raise my children, do their homework with them and watch them grow and learn. I would nevertheless, enjoy a satisfying, organic, fresh, handmade sandwich for lunch (low cal hopefully as I would have skipped the gym session due to having to attend the early morning breakfast meeting with the fee-earners, clashing with both pilates and the middle child's class assembly). Icing on the cake? I would be sure to find a coffee shop with staff capable of steaming and frothing skim milk to my satisfaction.


Meanwhile the kitchen floor would get mopped, the kids would appreciate me more, I would have ready cash to spend on non-recyclable consumables like another espresso machine, home gym equipment, expensive toys to salve my conscience and buy back my children and airline tickets to exciting destinations.


This self employed/working from home thing doesn't pay too well but it certainly offers a lot of benefits for cynical blogging failed lawyers like me...


What else?

Scripting one's own story

Today I attended my first London Book Fair. It often happens that a much anticipated event that has loomed large in one's imagination for some time disappoints. The Book Fair did not disappoint, exactly. I was not expecting a queue of agents waiting to sign me up at the door. Nor did I expect to sell my next book. And no, I could not spy any visible press coverage. Although I did see two old blokes chatting next to a cam corder - look out You-Tube...


But a decent coffee would have been something, given I am back on instant after yet another cracking Bodum experience. A decent coffee in an emporium that large (think of the show-bag pavilion at the Brisbane Ekka - "Exhibition" - circa 1982 and you will comprehend the scale of this event) is not asking too much, is it? I did score a free pen, stale shortbread biscuit, holder for my travel card (thanks to Lexis Nexis for that!) and an orange cream Roses chocolate (possibly the high-point). I learnt that the Fair ("LBF) is largely about publicity and publishing, rights and distribution and various other intellectual property concepts that can be monetised by the players in the Book industry.  And there were, admittedly, a variety of interesting workshops and discussions for authors, e-publishers and illustrators, largely scheduled for after 3pm (most book trade people evidently not being charged with school pick up duty).


So yes, the LBF was worth attending. 


However, wandering through the hall pretending to no one at all that I knew where to go, I felt, as I often do, like an extra in the film of someone else's life. Or a nameless face in the crowd in a book with no title. Usually, I do have some clue as to who the film or book is about (admittedly mostly me, but sometimes Mr Springgirl, a larger than life friend, one of the Off-Spring), but today, and I dare say at any industry show or convention on this sort of scale, I could not discern just what the story was. Perhaps this is a metaphor for how we all move through our lives. If the story is ours or that of a person or place we know or care about then the action can unfold as it will. But to pick up a book and begin half way through and have no idea what is going on? There we struggle.


If this metaphor is not working for you, imagine weird three walled rooms full of books as the backdrop to dozens of speed dating couples in deep conversation and you will get an idea of the atmosphere at the LBF.


Bewildering. It is reminiscent of returning to work after maternity leave. No one is going to throw one out, but...


The task for me now, given my intent to market my book/s, to appear winning and charming and to win readers and clients over on the strength of a 2 minute impression, is to manage this in a mindful fashion. I am at heart a mindful person. I negotiate most interactions in a present and mindful way. For example, I am aware in the moment that I have no idea what is going on at an event. I am aware during a conversation that my audience has switched off, or that I, the audience, may have done so. I am aware while being ignored by an acquaintance in the street that I am being ignored by an acquaintance in the street, I watch myself acquiesce to that and I am aware of any (not much) emotional response to the episode.


Are we all like this? 


Admittedly, I am a slow burn sort of character. The film of the book of my life will probably be a long drawn out affair - going straight to tv and run over several nights during the football off-season, over five or six years...


So yes, while in many regards I am a self starter, full of boundless energy, when it come to small talk and networking I never really enter the room to begin with. Sure, I can do the dinner party chit chat with strangers, the gossip with the mums at the tennis court (under duress), and the lunch table at the work conference. Those are fine - the implied welcome, the shared purpose, help break the ice. I can chat to my neighbour on a plane, though hopefully only for a few minutes every hour. I can chew the fat at the water cooler, if push comes to shove. But walking into a room full of strangers and starting a conversation is just not my strong suit. Classic self limiting behaviour and as a perceptive lawyer turned coach I am the first to "own" it. 


And from where does this come? Having thought long and hard about it, it seems that I cannot think of a single thing worth saying. This is the real issue. 


It is not a lack of confidence - though a better hairstyle might help. No, it is a sense of futility; a feeling that it has all been said before. We know too much now. Virtually everything ever written can be accessed in our living rooms. I am overwhelmed, indeed awestruck at the extent of human knowledge and understanding. A brief perusal of Wikipedia alone can leave me speechless. 


And so cast adrift in this ocean of information and connectivity and activity, I flail about looking for something to cling to; a mast to pin my colours to, a rock or a safe harbour, while I search for the gossamer thread of originality and optimism and oomph. 


There are plenty of buoys, plenty of sharks, shoal upon shoal of fish.... But where are the floral sails, the gingham surfboards, the silver crested waves that will bring us home to shore?


So where was I...


Oh yes - the to do list:
new haircut (new shoes while I am at it)
list of small talk topics
subscription to Hello, Spectator, Private Eye and Sky HD


Sorted!

Grounded

It has been a strange few days. All flights in and out of the UK are grounded due to a cloud of volcanic ash high above Europe that may damage aeroplane engines and windscreens. There is talk that the Royal Navy may be drafted to assist stranded UK travellers needing to return to the UK. All the romance of Dunkirk, the age of steam, land and sea travel... If only we had gone abroad this Easter.

Aside from the sheer novelty of not seeing or hearing a plane in its usual place in the sky over south-west London for four days, we are being spoilt by a burst of clement, clear and warm weather. The communal garden that we call ours was teeming with residents today. The obligatory shirts off (so delightfully European) temperatures were to be savoured. As was the wafting aroma of burning sausages, spilt wine, cut grass and fresh blossoming flowers. On days like these one remembers why one moved to London. The quiet of the skies only enhanced the impression that one was luxuriating on a village green rather than an urban playground 58 seconds walk from the busiest westbound artery to the now deserted Heathrow and beyond.

The communal garden is a snapshot of modern life. A melange, if you will. Young couples hand in hand over the Sunday paper, smile dreamily at their own reflections in each other's sunglasses. Still new parents enjoy the first tentative steps of the soon to be toddler; vigilant, proud and almost as dreamy as those news hungry young lovers. The older folk bring their own chairs - the park benches being too hard and upright - books and cups of tea. Clusters of older children, finding a "homey" and playing "It" (or "catch"), chase and cycle and search energetically for cats and squirrels to torment. The weary but oh so relaxed working parents soak up the sun before another week underground and inside, ignoring the children because for once they can.

The children want for nothing - playmates, food, freedom... drama, enmity and turf battles.

And so in the midst of this spectacle, I, semi-recumbent reader of Lee Child thriller, took it upon myself to broker peace between this Lord of the Rings-esque ensemble of players. I have a new calling - my son told me afterwards that I should consider working full-time as a "Negotiator" (his words) as I managed to repair some broken hearts at the sandbox, secure guarantees of forgiveness and sharing and quell the growing rivalry over the spoils of communal garden conflict. Needless to say these skills have been honed in my own home through much of my life. It is my dream that my son will emulate the style and aplomb at the sandpit in solving his own conflicts going forward. It seems to be the case that while he has been exposed to (subject to) my style all his life, he is now seeing how successful it can be in achieving a happy resolution. I doubt it is novel. While I know mine is a different approach to that of some teachers in our short and sometimes chequered schooling history, (another post will be needed to do justice to the myriad modern means of tacitly encouraging persistent bullying in the interests of building resilience), I would have thought most mothers could sort out the old sandpit shenanigans fairly smartly.

So forgive me if I state the obvious - blogs do sometimes stray into that arena I believe - but inevitably my thoughts turn to sharing these strategies for conflict resolution - not because I hold any key, but because my son perceives that I do!

Could I pen a handy guide to managing conflict among the under 10s. What do I really know? What works? I hasten to add that I am only dealing with extra-familiar conflict. In terms of minding my own house, I am open to suggestions. The usual threats to call the babysitting agency, suspend some perceived treat or to remove the guilty party(s) from the equation, or object of conflicting desire to the bin or charity shop, are ceasing to generate the fast and certain results they once did.

But enough dirty laundry. At least at home it is only me being driven to distraction. In public the risk to unsuspecting, though not always innocent bystanders is such that it is imperative that I model or instil some reasonable mediation techniques as often as I can. Maybe the Off-Spring can learn from these situations to resolve their issues not only with neighbours and friends, but also each other.

Or perhaps by definition siblings cannot apply that learning at home. I suppose that there is some consolation in the fact that kids seem to split upon family lines when fighting outside the home. They must love each other after all...

Here goes. The Negotiator's tips to sorting out the garden/playground/street battles of the chattering middle classes under 10's (ie where there are no knives, swear words or gang issues in the mix):

(My recently silenced inner voices are moaning now. Not another bloody list, Springgirl!)

1. Never take sides.
2. Bring all factions together in one place - face to face. This avoids the name calling, disingenuous blame laying and face-losing tears that can occur if the parties are separate.
3. Make sweeping statements about life being too short for all this animosity. Chances are they will lose the will to fight back as their little brains stew over what animosity means. Also the whole "life is short" notion seems to be very effective with this age group as they grapple with the concepts of death, hell, ghosts and retribution on a daily basis.
4.Threaten those under your control/guardianship with time out indoors if they cannot bring a spirit of reconciliation to the sandpit. The recent memory of grey wintry days stuck inside with nothing but fights with their siblings to break up the tedium will ensure compliance. For those not under your control this suggests a modicum of authority that their parents, sipping Verdelho on the other side of the garden, may lack at that moment.
5.Seek no information as to the source of the problem or conflict. Keep above the fray and thus keep them focussed on the prize - a long summer of fun outdoors.
6. Ask each child for their personal buy-in to the notion of moving forward with kindness towards each other. Like an entente, when one comes in, they all capitulate.
7. Praise them for their sensible and mature rapprochement.

I am sure I can make this work in other contexts. I hasten to add that this works where there are multiple protagonists, strangers with whom one has yet to lose credibility and with small girls who heretofore have managed to be mean and nasty under the radar and thus are already disarmed by the fact one has approached them in the first place. The above 7 point plan seems not to work in the sanctity of the family home among one's own children. In that context the tears, obfuscation and name calling barely stops long enough to allow any of the negotiation/mediation to really begin.

Inner voice - is there some learning for us there, Springgirl?

Let's hope all of the weary travellers for whom entrance or egress from Europe is important soon manage to make or complete their journeys in the coming days.  Nothing worse than being grounded.