07 September 2016

Let It Grow

So much for the procrastination cure about which I wrote the other day. Let it grow, indeed. I've got to carry on until I get this out of my system. A couple of weeks ago it was Walt Whitman, yesterday it was Chekhov and today it seems to be the Grateful Dead.

In 1995, in the US for the Internet Law Symposium at which I had been invited to speak, I'd hired a car to drive from Seattle to Bellingham to visit friends - and, come to think of it, to run the Mount Erie race, billed as "Skagit County's Oldest and Steepest Road Race", which didn't put me off because it was the only race in the area that weekend. Point-to-point, finishing at the summit, then you had to jog back down again which was even more painful than running up the hill. To make matters worse, it was just a week after my first Marathon.

As the hire car was provided with a cassette player (remember them?), I invested in something to listen to - and, seeking to expand my musical horizons and unaware of who else would be speaking at the Symposium I bought this ...

Of course it didn't come ready-autographed, but I was rather pleased to have it to hand when I met Barlow. (He signed it with his email address, a very modern thing to do in 1995 - I have erased the second part although I imagine he hands it out fairly liberally. In fact it's on his homepage, and so are his phone numbers and real-world addresses.) A couple of years later he kindly gave me permission to reproduce his essay about intellectual property on the Internet, "Selling Wine Without Bottles", in my Sourcebook on Intellectual Property Law. What a nice guy. One of those people I'm pleased to be able to say I've met in my life, like Stephane Grapelli, Ted Heath, Simon Callow, Harold MacMillan, Jackie Stewart, Leonard Bernstein, Michael Tippett, Peggy Ashcroft, Michael Fallon, Dave Pegg, Eugene Ionescu, Joanne Harris, Jeffrey Archer, David Putnam, Michael Portillo and Roger Bannister (a rather random selection: please excuse me if I have omitted you).

And while I am on the subject ... I rather like his Principles of Adult Behaviour, although following principles set down by a member of the Grateful Dead reminds me of Hunter S Thompson offering advice on life. And having sought out that link I am reminded that this is all "Reading Galbraith" and I should occupy my time more profitably.

A great tape, too, which I enjoyed listening to frequently until car tape players disappeared.

Looks like rain

No it doesn't look like rain, for once, but it's a great song which has come to my attention in a very nice way and which cries out to be used here. I won't wait until rain threatens, which probably won't be long anyway. An added bonus is that the lyrics are by John Perry Barlow who, as readers of this blog might remember (because I have been known to mention it before) is the only member of the Grateful Dead with whom I have ever shared a stage - at the Internet Law Symposium, in Seattle, back in the days (1995 - I wonder how I fitted that in with everything else I was doing at the time: perhaps I wasn't teaching the LPC by then) when Internet Law was so new no-one except perhaps Barlow knew anything about it, and we were all making it up as we went along. Well, I certainly was. And at least I can claim to be a lawyer, not a retired cattle rancher and sometime lyricist.

Having spent several weeks hobbling around having (as I told my doctor the other day) bu****ed my plantar fascia - the usual problem, running too far too fast too soon once it felt a bit better - I have hit upon a magic cure, which isn't magic at all but perfectly well-known if you just know where to look on the Web (www.return2fitness.co.uk). And once I'd placed an order for a brace and some clever sticky tape, I used some of Mel's kinesiology tape and fixed the problem even before the delivery arrived.

There's a strip under my foot too, running from the ball of the foot to my old friend Achilles. Return2fitness.com suggested that taping and bracing overnight would show quick results, but I've been amazed at just how quickly it has worked. Had I tried it a few weeks ago I might have saved my entry in the Loch Ness Marathon but even if my plantar fascia will permit me to run there's no way I can get back Marathon-fit in a couple of weeks. Indeed I could have been cross-training, as in my imagination I hear many readers (many? who am I kidding?) telling me, but I really can't get into riding a bike around with no destination in sight, or swimming up and down a pool: I prefer to run pointlessly. How stupid is that? Don't answer that, on a postcard or otherwise: I know very well how stupid it is.

Now that I have reached my seventh decade, which is the way I like to express it because prime numbers are much more fun than ordinary ones, I'm taking on a lot more work. Is it typical of me to do the opposite of what most people do? I will be teaching intellectual property law two days a week, inconveniently at Nottingham Law School but if you ignore the fact that it's 130 miles up the road (and the railways do not offer a viable alternative from Oxfordshire) it's a great institution, and I expect to have fun. And I know quite a nice morning run along the river there.

01 September 2016

25 August 2016

The untold want

I was reading some guidance, which looked extremely useful, about a mindful approach to dealing with procrastination, a vice which has afflicted me since I was a child such that when our Latin teacher asked who in the class knew the meaning of the word mine was the only hand that went up. (Perhaps the others were just taking their time to get round to it.) Set aside five minutes to complete a task, and when you feel the urge to procrastinate don't try to overcome it but rather hold it in your mind, assess what it feels like, stay with the urge and then appreciate that you are able to feel it and not to succumb. Sounds good. I'll give it a try, later. First I have a few things I need to do ...

So today I found myself learning a bit about Walt Whitman. I've got a collection of his work on the bookshelf, but in fact I found what I needed on the web. It doesn't take  much to create a diversion from what I ought to be doing.

How I got to Whitman is another story, but it's relevant to a problem I am grappling with involving goals. So the couplet which I'd come across:
The untold want by life and land ne'er granted,
Now, voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
- once I'd worked out what it might mean (with the aid of some poetry discussion groups on the web), had quite a resonance for me. Particularly, it must be said, in light of a significant life event which is coming along tomorrow. There seems to be no way I can postpone it. It cannot be dealt with by procrastination.

The "untold want" which hasn't yet been granted to me could include those elusive goals. I'm pretty sure - in fact, I know - that there is a lot of other stuff included too, but I'm focussing on goals here. It might help me in my next Skype coaching session - I should think of myself as the voyager, sailing forth, to seek and find - to seek and find all sorts of things. Perhaps that's a particularly healthy attitude to have with tomorrow in mind.

Keep mediocrity at bay

An article entitled How to be mediocre and be happy with yourself  on the BBC News website caught my eye, partly because I had been discussing mediocrity only a few days earlier. That was in the context of whether I am a perfectionist, which I am pretty sure I am not, preferring spontaneity, authenticity and conviction to perfection. That only means, I think, that I wouldn't say perfection was the most important thing to seek - it might well be achieved while chasing other goals. But one thing I really don't like is mediocrity.

I don't think that I recognise much of what is discussed in the article as mediocrity. It seems to be more about ordinariness, some of it about disorganisation, some of it about the rejection of the demands of excellence and efficiency in favour of la dolce vita (Italy being held out as a paradigm case of mediocrity, it seems, although my paraphrasing might leave something to be desired) and to my mind those are not the same things. There's noting really wrong with the ordinary (although it can get boring if you have too much of it). I think Italy proves that you can create a lot of excellence without having to spend every waking moment striving for it.

I don't presume to say that never I produce anything mediocre. I'm sure this blog demonstrates that. But I try not to, although I'm not sure everyone else tries similarly. There's often a sense that mediocrity is good enough. I'm reading the latest Alexander McCall Smith book (well, it was the latest one when I started it, but that's  not a distinction that can last for long in his oeuvre) and was amazed to find an erratum slip apologising for the fact that all words ending in "-ize" (and I think words containing that string) had been automatically changed to "-ise". A computer was blamed, but in fact it seems to me to be a colossal failure of proof-reading. I suppose the only viable way to deal with the error was to issue the faulty copies with an addendum slip - it would be horribly expensive and time-consuming to pulp the entire print run and make thousands of new books. The result, I think, could rightly be called mediocre.

I've encountered mediocrity in other books, too - and I think I have already written about examples. Typographical errors, grammatical and stylistic howlers (why can no-one execute a simple parallel construction?), fact-checking failures (sewerage is not discharged into the sea, Greek is not written in Cyrillic) - my potential enjoyment of a book can be destroyed at a stroke.

I have encountered many fellow-lawyers who are content to be mediocre, too. Because the practice of law is no longer always concerned with a deep understanding of the subject but often with making the largest possible profit, competence is actually devalued. A former colleague could bill many, many more hours than I ever did because it took him so long to overcome his incompetence. (Which reminds me of a "credits" box we - to be precise, Nick Draper - once put in The Warwick Boar, sometime in the mid-1970s, listing people who had assisted in the production of the paper and adding that the process had been hindered by "incompatense".) I'm not sure that mediocrity is rewarded very often, although time-based billing does tend to have that effect, but it certainly isn't opposed and rooted out wherever it rears its ugly head. Perhaps it's the rejection of "elitism" which promotes mediocrity, though the better response to elitism is surely to celebrate everyone's authentic and committed achievement (another topic about which I have written before).

Yesterday I spent the hottest afternoon of the year in a basement room in the office of a firm of solicitors, presenting an update on data protection law. I hope the result was not mediocre. I worried for years that I delivered mediocre courses, and I have no doubt that sometimes they were just that. Then someone revealed to me, on the eve of a course that I feared was going to turn out mediocre, that some 20 years previously my lecturing had actually been very good. My confidence was suffering a bit before my data protection talk - given the subject, who could be surprised? - but by a happy coincidence my memory of that watershed moment received a prompt shortly before I had to perform. I might not be perfect, but perhaps if I have the stars I shouldn't ask for the moon.

26 July 2016

Going Home

A few walking interludes, but a good solid run across London yesterday evening to catch the train home. But, perhaps because I haven't been doing it for so long, I forgot the route - twice. From the start I turned off Bunhill Street towards Barbican tube station, and ended up taking an unfamiliar route to Blackfriars to reach the Embankment, then in Hyde Park I found myself at the Old Police House, having aimed for Paddington but taken the wrong path. I suppose it added a bit of mileage.

I normally reckon on an hour for this journey, and gave myself an extra ten minutes to allow for lack of training, so I made the train with that much to spare. A very satisfying outcome.

24 July 2016

I'm so tired

Alarmed to realise that I will be running a Marathon in nine weeks, and haven't made much progress in overcoming about a year of hard non-training, I did 10 laps of the playing fields yesterday morning (5K) at a reasonable-for-now tempo pace (8:13) and followed up with 7+ miles this morning, at a reasonable snail's pace. The first two or three miles were definitely of the run-walk variety, as I felt as if I'd rather be doing anything but running, but eventually my brain took over and reminded me that I'll never get anywhere without a bit of determination.

I felt a little disappointed about the performance, but the important thing is that no-one else will ever be remotely disappointed by it. When I run, I am in absolute control of what I get out of it, whether it's gratification or disappointment. No third party can affect that, nor can they share in the gratification or disappointment. Running is a perfectly autonomous activity, and that's a very strong attraction. Not that it isn't also a social activity, or that support and encouragement from others doesn't make a difference, but whether I perform as well as I can or not is entirely a matter for me.

08 July 2016

Strange Brew

David Cameron calls himself a "One Nation" Tory. So does Boris Johnson. In fact it's possible that most Conservative MPs do, as the notion is a rather flexible one. How many of them, I wonder, have read Sybil, Disraeli's great novel (my second favourite, after One Day in the life of Ivan Denisovich), or Coningsby, its predecessor, in which he expounded the One Nation philosophy?
Two nations; between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are as ignorant of each other's habits, thoughts, and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different zones, or inhabitants of different planets; who are formed by a different breeding, are fed by a different food, are ordered by different manners, and are not governed by the same laws . . .
I have a suspicion that many more Conservative MPs have claimed the "One Nation" label than have ever read the books.

When I first read Sybil, back in about 1979, it had a profound effect on my political outlook - reinforcing, I am pleased to say, rather than challenging, my beliefs. Those beliefs sustained me through several years as a very active member of the Conservative party, and through five election campaigns of different types of my own, including the 1983 General Election, as well as the election campaigns of many friends. They were, of course, rather unfashionable beliefs at that time, but when my friend the late Iain Picton described himself as a Disraeliist-Leninist many of us knew what he meant and might have adopted the label ourselves - although I was wary of bringing Vladimir Ilyich into the equation. It did rather suit Iain's approach, though.

It takes only a moment's review of the state of the country to work out that we seem to be further from being one nation than at any time in living memory. Our avowedly One Nation Prime Minister, trying to heal - or at least to bandage - a rift which has split the Conservative party since before I was ever a member (and, for the avoidance of doubt, I gave it up in 1993) has unwittingly opened more cans of worms than he could have imagined existed. The promise of a referendum should have been undeliverable, as in a coalition with the Liberal Democrats the Tories could never have held it: but, would you believe it, the Tories won a majority in Parliament (not, of course, a majority of votes cast) and had to do as they had promised. No big problem, the government must have thought: the "remains" (that brings to mind Robert Venables referring to the HR department at our former firm as "Human Remains", which I hope I can develop into a post-Referendum witticism) will win, because they (that is, broadly, the government, the opposition, the Lib Dems and most others at Westminster) have the best arguments. And the "Leave" campaign was distinctly lacking in star quality, until the only politician in the country with any significant amount of charisma decided to hitch his wagon to the Leave campaign, clearly hoping that it would lead him to No 10 via a glorious and narrow defeat in the referendum. But inadvertently the Leavers won - or, perhaps more accurately, the Remains lost. The similarities between their performance and that of England's footballers against Iceland a few days later are striking.

No-one actually played the race card in the campaign, but there can be no doubt that immigration became probably the biggest issue in the referendum. I have a privileged vantage point, I know, and my memory of the seventies is a bit faded, but I can't remember a time when race relations in this country were as bad as they are now. One Nation? I would laugh, were it not so tragic.

But even the setting of one group of people against another - a foreseeable consequence of the campaign, surely - is not the worst of it. The referendum was treated by a large number of voters as an opportunity to express their feelings about the government, and politicians, in general. Having been treated to years of austerity (during which the gap between the bulk of society and the super-rich grew wider and wider, with the poor becoming poorer, the neither-poor-nor-rich staying much the same, and the super-rich becoming more super-rich), voters were minded to vote, simply, for change. Encouraged by the Leavers to blame everything on the EU, they opted to bail out. Nissan workers in Sunderland, whose jobs only exist because the UK is in the single market, were among the many turkeys to vote for an early Christmas. The county council in Cornwall, where the Leavers were in a majority, is anxious to replace from central government funds the £60 million per annum in grants that it received from the EU: they have got to be joking. Ebbw Vale has also been singled out as a community in receipt of EU largesse which prefers to be out. Not because the voters thought about it, I imagine, but because they were offered an opportunity to tell the political establishment what they thought of it.

I just watched a clip of a BBC programme in which a young man (black English, as it happens) explained that he supported leaving because of the difficulty of finding good work. Partly he blamed the availability of cheap labour from eastern Europe, and surely that must be a problem for the labour market, but he also railed against "zero-hours" contracts and a lack of employment protection. What sort of employment protection will he get in a post-Brexit England governed by a neo-con Tory government (however often they trot out the "One Nation" rubric), freed from the constraints of EU directives? "Zero hours" contracts might be unenforceable in England as a result of Autoclenz Ltd v Belcher [2011] UKSC 41 and Borrer v Cardinal Security Ltd [2013] UKEAT 0416_12_1607 (and see this article) but anyone wishing to see the end of them would be well-advised to look to the EU, not HMG, for help.
The referendum campaign and its aftermath have revealed that the concept of One Nation is far, far removed from what we have. Indeed, what we have could be said to be the antithesis of what Disraeli hoped for. How the gap can be bridged, how England can be returned to its former tranquillity, is difficult to see at the moment, and it seems that the One Nation project would be better served by the flawed EU than a Conservative government.

01 July 2016

Моя страна сошла с ума (My country has gone insane)

Andrey Makarevich had a particular aspect of his country's foreign (or should that be domestic? President Putin would probably say it was, but then again so might Solzhenitsyn) policy in mind in this song, but the title is apposite. As, for the purpose of this story, is the language.

On Wednesday, in Manchester to give a course on intellectual property law, I presented myself at the hotel restaurant for breakfast. A young lady took my room number and showed me to a table. Her name badge, and indeed her accent, revealed that her origins lay somewhere else in Europe - further east. I couldn't read her surname, because of a combination of the lighting and my glasses, which are not intended to help with anything less than about 20 feet away, but judging by her first name I thought she was Slavic, but what I could see of the surname didn't seem Polish: so, thinking I was being friendly, I asked her where she was from.

Immediately the professional smile disappeared from her face and was replaced by an expression of anxiety. I felt terrible, even more so when her first reply was "I'm not Polish!". Perhaps reassured by the fact that I hadn't immediately told her to go back to whence she had come, her anxious moment passed and she asked me where I thought she might be from. "One of the Baltic states, I think", I said, and she said she was very impressed. "The middle one," she told me in answer to my next question, and I then proceeded to confuse myself about the very simple alphabetical order from north to south and place her in Lithuania - I hope that wasn't a mortal insult to a Latvian. But she went on to say that she was of Russian descent, and Russian was her first language.

I learnt from that experience that we all need a new way to talk to people who might find questions about their origin threatening. I have always felt awkward asking such questions (though I suppose the urge to be friendly has caused me to try to overcome it). It's perfectly likely that someone with a Polish name, for example, is descended from a Battle of Britain fighter pilot and was born in this country. If I'm confident that I'm talking to a Pole I can at least greet them and thank them in their own language, which saves having to ask any awkward questions. When I thanked a bank worker in her native Romanian, she showed me how her hand was actually shaking as a result. My Latvian hairdresser recently complained that she is forced to speak Polish most of the time, because her circle of friends in Didcot comprises mostly Poles (and, because there are so few Latvians to start with, that's hardly surprising): and of course she speaks Russian too, although I imagine a lot of people from eastern Europe might be less than happy to be greeted in Russian, especially as many or most of them are here to improve their English. (My hairdresser did give me a couple of words in Latvian, but they didn't take root in my increasingly unretentive memory.)

While I ate my breakfast, I mulled over how to deal with this novel situation. The sentiment that has to be communicated is "I don't care where you are from, but I am interested to know". The form of words also has to avoid the Polish fighter pilot (or other occupation) syndrome too - it has to allow for the possibility that the answer is, for example, Balham. It also has to recognise that treating someone as a visitor to "my" country could cause offence if they have chosen to make their home here. For the purposes of Wednesday morning, it was sufficient (when I sought out my Latvian acquaintance to apologise for causing any anxiety) to say "I hope you will be very happy here, as long as you choose to stay."

Fortunately, there's now a very simple solution to the dilemma: simply wear a safety pin, in a lapel or just on a shirt or pullover. It's a powerful symbol, so long as people understand it, and it immediately put me in mind of the paper clip in occupied Norway.