The Circle Is Magic

I have a group meeting at one of my clients this afternoon and I'm dreading it.  They always hold their meetings with everyone sat round in a circle.  Ever since Kevin Smith's birthday party where I accidentally tore off two sheets of wrapping paper bringing Pass The Parcel to an abrupt end, I've felt anxious in a ring.  How was I supposed to know his dad was timing the music so birthday boy would win?  Didn't he have enough presents already?  Too bad, all disapproving eyes were on me, the jerk in the circle.  This anxiety has stayed with me - I once had to leave a theatre-in-the-round production of Carousel coz I got motion sickness.  True story.

I just feel exposed, there's no corner to hide in and that's exactly why experts now inform us that a circular configuration is the most conducive for collaboration.  If we can see all the people, all the time, then we are a cohesive unit.  Group relations are more successful and everybody's ideas are listened to equally.  We also focus more effectively in a circle, it's much harder to check our smartphones or catch forty winks when we are in full view of our colleagues.  We are also more considerate and respectful of others when all eyes are on us.

A circle makes us equal, there's no-one sat at the head, so although the directors are present, all our thoughts and ideas are of a similar value.  We are the Knights of the Round Table.  If only the Last Supper was held at a round table things might have ended more amicably.  For clarification, I'm not talking about the one with Jesus, I mean my wedding reception when I married the kids' mother.  Although one small mercy of having that meal at the straight head table meant I didn't have to sit opposite her mother who has the eating habits of a ravenous warthog.  Top Tip: If going to a restaurant with the in-laws, always grab the seat next to them, never opposite.  Watching your mother-in-law chomp on a chicken leg with half of her starter still lodged in her beard is not appetising.

If you have something disgusting in your eyeline, it's difficult to avert your gaze.  This is why, this afternoon, I shall sit adjacent to the portly accounts manager.  Last week, I made the mistake of sitting opposite him and I just couldn't take my eyes off the limp wisps of belly hair poking through the gaps between his shirt buttons which were straining to restrain him.  You don't want to look at it but you can't help yourself.  It's like Katie Hopkins.

Similarly, it's not a good idea to sit opposite the office hottie as it can be too distracting.  Like those poor police inspectors who had to cross-examine Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, if both eyes aren't on the ball, it's harder to beaver away.

Putting my own discomfort aside, these meetings are in fact the quickest and most effective I attend.  Nothing has to be repeated and participant engagement is high, everyone has equal opportunity for input and the team co-operates well.  It's noted that work which happens outside of a circle tends to be more individual and maverick.  Maybe that's the kind of guy I am?  After all, I did once take a taxi to the McDonalds' drive-through.  I like to think outside the box so I don't like sitting in a circle.  That makes sense but in terms of collaboration it is the circle that is magic, it brings us together and gives us a sense of union that is only surpassed by the Hokey Cokey on an E.  Remember that one for your next office party. 

I'm not lovin' it...

Last week, I was home alone, drunk and hungry.  After a half-hearted rifle through the fridge/freezer, it became clear that only one thing was going to satisfy me.   So I got a taxi to the McDonald's drive thru.  And I'm not ashamed.

McDonald's has always been part of my life.  In 1984, I went on a school trip to the Natural History Museum which ended with a visit to one of the few McDonald's restaurants in the UK.  To a 12-year-old boy, this was more exciting than the skeleton of a Brontosaurus, it was the highlight of the day.  I lived in Swindon, the closest thing I ever got to classic American cuisine was when Robbie Pratt's Dad did a barbecue for his birthday and stuck a half-cooked Bejam burger between two pieces of white sliced.  Naturally, the prospect of a bona fide beefburger from the USA was super-exciting even if it did have sliced gherkins in it. 

Now I'm a grown-up, I treat myself to a Big Mac once a week.   It's been a mainstay in my diet for the last 25 years.  I'm all too aware of the scare-mongering Super-Size-Me health warnings but I don't care, I'm happy to put up with a few extra pounds to keep this 'lovin' it' affair alive.  Yet something is making it harder and harder for me to stomach them these days.  It's not their unsound business practices, it's not the scars on the roof of my mouth from the white-hot apple pie filling, it's not even the acne on the two-stars on the tills…

It's the current advertising campaign.  It makes me mad. 

Their current spot is the story of two parallel lives, an older white gentleman and a black yoof.  We follow them doing the same tasks but with different spins  - oldie listens to a crackly old gramophone, yoof to tinny dubstep on his smartphone, oldie pulls his braces up, yoof's jeans hang below his booty, oldie shoots a game of pool, yoof shoots a rival gang member - only joking - but you get what's going on by now.  They live in the same neighbourhood but they are worlds apart.  Never the twain shall meet.  But there is one thing that straddles this huge cultural and generational gulf and it's a beef patty in a bun.  It's not Jesus or Allah at work here, it's our Lord and Saviour, Ronald McDonald.

Both the yoof and the oldie are sat a table away from each other.  As they both bite down on some Frenchly-fried reconstituted potato, their eyes meet and a friendly smile of acknowledgement passes between them that wouldn't be out of place in a Match.com advert.  It's a look so alien that even the lovely middle-class actors portraying these men have a job to find their motivation.  This kind of contact barely happens in a supervised victim/criminal mediation meeting, to suggest it could happen under the harsh lights of a burger bar is ridiculous. 

Admittedly, this doesn't irk me as much as their previous ad where the mum selfishly moves her boyfriend into the family home against her teenage son's wishes.  Cue awkward scenes of New Dad trying to bond with reluctant boy.  Music fails.  Sport fails.  Dad's free taxi service fails.  New Dad is exasperated until he mutters something about Maccy D's and the boy immediately transforms into the perfect son as they laugh over a Happy Meal.  It really is that easy.

When did McDonald's become a social worker?  I don't want their take on the human condition, I was happy with the Justin-Timberlake-soundtracked slo-mo shots of sizzling beef and crisp lettuce falling onto a bouncing bun.  They're selling burgers not the meaning of life. 

Is it necessary to point out that we 'all have McDonald's in common'?  The clarification that I have something in common with the swathes of chavs that hang there is enough to make me defect to the Gourmet Burger Kitchen.

The lure of the Big Mac is hanging by a thin string of melted cheese.  I love you McDonald's but I want you to show me your juicy burgers not your ham-fisted attempts at humanitarianism.   What are you serving up in this campaign next?  The Syria Conflict being resolved with Chicken McNuggets?  Go on, I dare you.

Bula Quo!

I've been a closet fan of Status Quo since the early 80s.  I've stuck with them when others have pushed them aside (looking at you Radio One).  Their music is easy and fun and they always look like they're enjoying their status as light rock/pop legends so when I heard they had made a film, Bula Quo, it was right at the top of my must-see list.  Even the tremendous savaging by the critics couldn't deter me, they were just being snobby, surely?  This is The Quo, they simply can't fail.

My partner, Julian, was less than enamoured when I told him I wanted to see it so I got him to the multiplex on the pretence of seeing Man of Steel in 3D.  I knew the promise of a CGI six-pack would do the trick.  He wasn't best pleased after the trailers and adverts had run to see the certificate for Bula Quo up on the screen but by then it was too late, Man of Steel was already 20 minutes in next door so he was now at the mercy of Messrs Rossi and Parfitt. 

The film opens with some beautiful shots of Fiji interspersed with footage of The Mighty Quo in concert performing the diehard classic Rockin' All Over The World.  This is the song that launched Live Aid in 1985, it's an iconic slice of British guitar pop and The Quo are in fine form.  I am beaming at the prospect of the next hour and a half and even Julian is beginning to tap his foot.  It's infectious.  I can relax, I've made a good decision.  The three chord refrain fades into the first scene and wooden actors begin to deliver terrible dialogue.  Oooh, no, this jars a bit.  Let's give it a bit of time...

Ten minutes in and things have gone downhill faster than Lisa Riley on a bike with no brakes.  I wince.  If I'm not enjoying it, I'm guessing Julian is hating it.  I daren't look at him but out the corner of my eye I can see that his mouth is hanging wide open with incredulity.  It really is that bad.

Twenty minutes in and things don't improve but one thing becomes very apparent.  Everyone clearly had a lot of fun making this film and that becomes very infectious.  It was silly and cringey but ultimately very enjoyable to watch.  Nobody involved in the making of this film was setting out to redefine cinema, this wasn't Citizen Kane or Festen, it was clearly a tongue-in-cheek romp in the vein of A Hard Day's Night and Spiceworld.  The script, performances and direction were all pretty average but the enthusiasm was in abundance.  It totally wins you over so when you reach the scene where they are swimming with CGI sharks or making a getaway from the mafia on a toy train, you can't help but laugh along.  In the closing musical montage, the cameras are turned and you can see the crew who worked on the film.  Everyone is laughing and why shouldn't they be?  They're making a film in Fiji!  

Status Quo have always been about fun.  Their three-chord anthems have been derided by the critics but embraced by fans who have made them one of the most successful British bands of all time.  They've always been there, they may not have been headlining Glastonbury festival but they have their place in rock aristocracy through working hard, being consistent and having the ability to laugh at themselves.  It's a lesson in longevity that we could all learn.  Let's not take everything so seriously and if we attack things enthusiastically with a smile on our faces, it's hard for others not to be enthused too.

I need to remember this when I deliver my next workshop to the accountants at Linda McCartney frozen foods.  Crikey they are one miserable bunch.  Vegetarian accountants.  There's one Christmas party that needs a bit of Quo action.

Everyone left that cinema with a smile on their face, including Julian who looked at me and said 'I'm choosing the films from now on, you loser'.  Love him.

Uninvited...

I was a bit put out last week when I missed a client's anniversary drinks.  I thought it was unusual that I wasn't invited and wondered if I had done something to upset them.  I racked my brains and thought the only faux pas I've ever committed in that office was asking them to choose a different playlist on Spotify.  You can only listen to the Original Cast Recording of Wicked so many times.  My mistake, it soon got switched to Kylie Minogue's Greatest Hits.  Sometimes it's better the devil you know.  I have a good relationship with these people and thought maybe my invitation just got lost in the post.  I fired over a quick email and it turns out that I was indeed invited.  Via Facebook.

Now, social media is part of our lifeblood these days.  If we are not wise to it, we feel left behind.  I consider myself competent with Twitter and Facebook yet I recently missed an invitation.  Out of curiosity, I looked for the event on Facebook and there I was on the guest list, my notification had been buried in the avalanche of baby pics and cat videos.  I wondered how many others had missed out too?  Least of all the clients who created it.

As we move towards social media there are a few things we should remember.  Not everyone is online.  I recently booked an actor for a workshop and the very old school agent was still to discover the joys of email.  Everything was done over the phone.  I was able to peruse his charges' CVs on the Spotlight website but any communication had to be done via the landline.  Which of course was the perfect opportunity for him to hold me captive with his Kenneth Williams impressions.  And his Charles Hawtrey.  In fact he was nearly halfway through Carry On Camping before he remembered a lunch meeting with Lionel Blair and mercifully drew it to a close.  Now, I imagine that old dinosaur is a minority but what if he isn't? 

When you use technology on an hourly basis, it becomes second nature, you could be forgiven for assuming that everyone else is doing the same, constantly refreshing inboxes and paying particular attention to newsfeeds.  This isn't the case.  Many people still don't spend a long time online.  And of those who do, many of them aren't on Facebook.  Shock horror.  It should be no surprise with the constant security scaremongering and endless sickly sweet stream of self-motivational memes that some people prefer not to keep in touch via the Book of Face.  And of course, perhaps the most confusing are the people who are on Facebook but use it infrequently.  Therefore giving the illusion that they are hearing our news but actually not picking up on it at all.  Even Facebook regulars - especially those with a large number of friends - can miss our news as it's buried beneath the photobombs and cat-bearding.  Our all important party invitations can slip down the stream very quickly.

And this is how I missed out on the drinks.  The client assumed that I would receive the invitation and I'm guessing assumed that I saw it and ignored it.  Neither of which is good for business. 

We need to remember that social media is not an all-encompassing tool.   It should be used to enhance campaigns, not run them.  Yes, it is a proven way of reaching people and finding new contacts and customers.  A brilliant way of sharing news and reviews but we must not assume that it is reaching all of the people all of the time. 

In this age of tweets, texts and emails, don't underestimate the power of a handwritten letter.   If you really want to get someone's attention, get back to basics.  I recently sent a thank you note to an Australian contact through the mail and she phoned me up to thank me.  That has never happened with an email.  It's hard to ignore the written word when you hold it physically in your hand.  I'm sure that's why the tax office keep sending me letters. 

If you want a guaranteed response, send a letter.  It's quite the novelty these days.  Back it up with e-contact but don't rely on it.  Whoever sent a Valentine's email?  Well, I actually did make that mistake one year.  Another reason why my marriage broke down.  That and the fact that our home computer froze on a naked pic of Hugh Jackman.  I did try to pass it off as my daughter's doings but she was only seven at the time.  My wife wasn't best pleased.  Still it was good to get everything out in the open.  Eventually. 

I believe that it's called al fresco...

Yesterday's summation that keeping the sunshine outside as a treat was consolidated this morning by an article in The Metro.

It said if we take our lunch break outside of the office, it makes us a happier person.  How many of us take lunch at our desks?  More than half apparently and I am the worst offender.  Wherever I happen to be working, my lunch break consists of me dashing across a busy road, standing in a queue in Pret and then back to the office where I settle in front of my screen with a sandwich.  This is certainly lunch but it definitely isn't a break and those who pause properly are most productive in the afternoons. 

We're all given breaks by our employers but how many of us use them effectively?  Also, do any of us who work for ourselves seek the benefit of a rest break or two during the day?  After all, Andy Murray didn't win Wimbledon without having a little sit down with a banana and a swig of Robinson's Barley Water, did he?

Taking a break promotes productivity and happiness.  A recent study by the University of Sussex found that eating your baguette on a bench or the beach (the beach! I have to find contracts in Brighton!) make your day a more enjoyable one.  Taking lunch in the designated works canteen appears to have little change in your general wellbeing but eating your lunch at your desk is a definite no no.  It actually makes you unhappy.  The study showed that people who shovelled their salad at their workstation actually suffered as a result, emotionally and productively.

Eating outside is the way to go.  Interestingly, even lunch in a restaurant didn't increase the happy factor too much, it appears we all need a little bit of sunshine and fresh air during the day.  Perhaps this is why my mum used to make me eat my dinner outside with the dog some nights?  Only joking, my mum loved that dog, she'd never let him eat next to me.

In our crazy, cutthroat, time-sensitive world, it's a misconception that lunch taken at our desks will help us get out of the office on time to spend the evening with our families.  It's a false economy.  As little as 15 minutes can perk us up and boost our productivity which may even see us leaving the office earlier.   And anyway, so what if that 15 minute break does end up extending our working day by a measly quarter of an hour?  It makes our day wholly more pleasurable.  Wolfing down your lunch is the equivalent of putting your foot down on the motorway and stressfully weaving in and out of the traffic just to arrive at your destination approximately six minutes earlier.  It's not worth it.  Take the scenic route.  Enjoy the ride and arrive at your destination refreshed.  Savour your sustenance. 

I'm sat writing this in a client's office, watching Cecile, the French girl in accounts, scarfing her Subway, eyes fixed to her screen, scrolling away like the internet would implode without her constant participation.  I guarantee she will crash at 4pm when her intestines have a pile up, bottlenecked at the sliproad to her bowel.  She won't quite know why but her creativity will cease and she'll struggle through rest of the day.

The most effective serving suggestion is to dine outside alone minus your smartphone.  If you take away the constant stimulation of your colleagues and devices, your brain relaxes and thought and creativity naturally gestate.  That difficult tagline that just won't come to you in the boardroom?  Don't be surprised if it rises to the top while you're dining al fresco.

If you're still not convinced perhaps it's worth bearing in mind that your desk harbours 400 times more harmful bacteria than your office toilet seat.  Now there's food for thought.




I'm hoping that Kevin from IT reads this entry.  His Tarka Daal makes the office smell like a moshpit at a Korn concert.  Not very appetising for anyone.

I ate my lunch outside today.  The business didn't crash.  I got all my work done and I went home at the usual time and yes, I did feel a little bit happier.  Until I got home and found that my son had given the rainbow trout to our foster cat.  Fifteen pounds that cost!  I have a feeling somebody else will be eating outside tonight!

Let's go outside...

Summer's here.  Unmistakeable British Summer.  Glorious sunshine punctuated by sudden showers.  Although we have been spoiled lately with a few days of unbroken sun rays.  If UK weather was more reliable we could book our holidays with confidence but as luck would have it, I recently spent ten days with my partner and kids in a caravan in the Lake District in the pouring rain.  As we arrived back all damp and soggy, the skies cleared and on my return to work a few days ago, unbridled sunshine.  Thank you, Mother Nature, is this revenge for all that hairspray I used in the 80s?  Hey, the A-ha look was in, I had to maintain that quiff somehow. 

So I find myself in an office looking out at a world bathed in a glorious golden glow.  Teasing me through the window like a hooker in Amsterdam.  Then I think, hang on a minute, you're a grown up, you can work outside if you want to.  Long gone are the days of school when you had to endure hours of algebra with Mrs Bullock in a stifling portacabin.  If you want to work outside you can.  But is it that easy? 

We are so conditioned from that early age that work happens in a room behind a desk.  At school, it was a necessity as you had to be in proximity of your teacher but maturity awards you personal freedom yet you do still have restrictions of another nature.  We still need to be plugged into our phones, internet connections and electricity supplies yet technology has moved us on, we are no longer disabled by cables, the world has become truly mobile.  So why do we still spend so much time at our desks?  Do we need to still be in a classroom environment to be productive?  To test this, I am going to continue this blog outside...

Firstly, it's lovely to be outside, if all I wanted to do was watch the world go by with a Strawberry Mivvi, I would be sorted but I need to work.  Seating is at a minimum and it's all taken, I'm not the only one who has decided to enjoy the sunshine.  I have already tried to work perched on steps and crossed-legged on the grass and it ain't working.  I just can't get comfortable with my laptop.  Two nuns vacate a bench and I head over, I set myself up but it gets uncomfortable quickly, the heat of my laptop is burning my thighs more than the midday sun.  I relocate to a picnic table but am soon joined by Japanese tourists who ask me to Google opening times of the Science Museum and directions to Buck House.  My head is also a target for an errant frisbee and a Spaniel cocks its leg on my briefcase.  This wasn't the idyllic notion I had imagined.  It's not the environment, it's just the practicality.  Then I get an idea...

Somebody should create a pop-up office in the park.  A designated area for the professional who feels trapped in their office.  Every park should have one, I notice that more and more parks have gyms now, so the knuckleheads are catered for.  What about the people that can read?  Can't we have desks in the park so we can exercise our thought and creativity?  The council would make a killing if they charged by the hour.  The ice cream hut could do a sideline in Post-its and pencil sharpeners.  You could hold meetings there, how much fun would it be to have your ten-thirty brainstorm in Kensington Gardens?   You gain more freedom outside, the person sniffing at the next desk doesn't irritate you so much.  If you want to make a private phone call you can just keep walking - no restricting four walls here.  You can take your shoes off and feel the grass beneath your feet.  How relaxing and inspiring.  It's almost perfect, so why aren't more of us doing it? 

Truth is, in less than an hour, I need to go back inside.  My battery is draining and my 3G keeps failing.  Also, I'm a bit ginger, I burn really easily.  And I get hay fever.  Plus I'm really easily distracted.  Ooh, look, a swan…

I've come back inside now, I immediately feel more focussed, I feel security in my landline and more reliable wifi.  I also take comfort in the proximity of the toilet and the coffee machine and the front door security system which keeps out the tramps and Japanese tourists.  Also seeing other people beavering away is quite contagious.  We need a workplace - we need the routine, the camaraderie.  After years of schooling and further education, we have become conditioned to concentrate in a classroom environment.  The days I go into the office are easily my most productive.  We need alternative approaches and varied ways of working but when the deadlines approach and the pressure is on I need to be back in that portacabin.  Keep the sun as the incentive.  'When you get all your work done, you can go out and play,' so said Mrs Bullock. 

Suspended Coffees

There's only one thing I don't like about Facebook.  It's not the barrage of baby pictures that trickle down my timeline, it's not the relentless requests to join in the latest round of Words For People With No Friends, it's not even the ironic complaints about privacy that are posted by people on the world's most famous social networking forum - if you're that bothered, don't use it, nobody is forcing you to.  No, the one thing that gets on my nerves is the constant stream of sickly sweet internet memes that are shared en masse by people who didn't eat their Ready Brek and need a little fuzzy warm glow around them.  It's a quick fix of life-affirming positivity.  People don't even think too deeply about what they're sharing as they effortlessly click to show their friends the humanitarian they really are at heart.  Let's take this week's big-hug-in-a-furry-jumper jpeg and caption.  You've all seen it, the photo of a wrinkly old man drinking a cup of coffee.  The Pollyanna passage that follows explains that in some coffee shops people are buying 'suspended' coffees along with their morning cappuccino, the idea being that these suspended coffees go on a tab and any needy person who can't afford a caffeine hit can come in and ask if there are any pre-paid drinks to be had.  So, in a coffee bean, the rich guy buys the poor guy a cup of dark roast.  Lovely.  A swift skim of the frothy surface and a million Facebookers coo at the kindness and forward to their friends before moving on and sharing the next meme - a jpeg of a poor little Polish pussy who has been blown apart after a gang of Neo-Nazis stuck a firework up its bumhole - the photo is a fake, it's actually a shot of Damien Hirst's latest installation - yet the authenticity and plausibility of any posting is irrelevant, it's the feeling of action that it gives to the legion of armchair activists.  'I can change the world with a click of a mouse!'  If only Gandhi and Mother Teresa had a Facebook account, think of all the extra good work they could have done.  Anyway, back to this other wrinkly scrotum-faced coffin-dodger - the old man in this week's internet meme practically decomposing into a cup of coffee.  He has been specifically chosen to tug at our heartstrings, he is so decrepit he has to use two hands to lift the tiny cup to his lips.  He needs this cup of suspended coffee.  He might die without it.  To be honest, if that is anything other than the blood of a virgin in that cup I don't fancy his chances of being around to drain the bottom of it.  It's a pitiful picture, he has pulled us in.  We read the text and we are drawn further into this well-meaning pay-it-forward story but let's look a little closer…

Is this not a brilliant business idea dreamed up by a coffee shop chain?  Think about it.  People aren't just paying overblown prices for one cup of coffee anymore, they are now parting with their hard-earned for an extra cup that they won't even drink.  They are paying twice.  Let's say the average medium-sized latte is £2.50, a good proportion of this amount is profit so the coffee shop chain will be making this profit on suspended coffees too.  They don't care whether you're buying it for the needy, your mate or even the Queen, they have just sold an extra unit and the takings swell the coffers.  Canny.  It's a business model that could be rolled out through any industry, suspended haircuts, suspended shoes, suspended belts?  We all know the needy need their trousers holding up.  For this to be an authentic charitable endeavour the coffee vendors should be offering the suspended coffees at cost price so for every £2.50 you give them, they should provide 5-6 coffees to the needy?  In one chain, if you buy a filter coffee, all subsequent refills are gratis.  Sounds like there isn't such a huge cost price there?  Can't you just give free filter coffee to those in need?  Hmmm… that may present a problem - a long queue of unwashed, unkempt people, it could turn the coffee house into a soup kitchen, I'm not sure the yummy mummies and the wannabe Rowlings would like that too much.  Suspended coffees come with their own inbuilt prevention of this, they can run out.  If too many smelly people come in, you can simply tell them there are no suspended coffees left today, simple.  Although the caffeine-needy may start to stake out branches of Starbucks and Costa waiting to pounce on the next free cup, they may even start hassling people on the way in to leave a suspended coffee for them.  That caffeine is very addictive - once you're hooked…

That's assuming that the needy/homeless will get to hear about suspended coffees, I don't see many of them checking their Facebook accounts along the South Bank of a morning.  Will they be au fait with this terminology?  Even if there is a sign in the window, 'Suspended Coffees Available Here', it's an odd term.  The uninitiated may have visions of an extra-frothed-up, dry, skinny, light cappuccino with no milk or water, just a coffee vapour that gets pumped in your general direction as you inhale.  A triumph in the fight against flab and consumer sanity.  Whatever will they think of next?  Also, who gets to decide who is worthy of a free coffee?  Is it at the discretion of the trainee barista who sometimes has trouble understanding my order?  I'm a simple man - black Americano to go.  How will he cope when confronted with the task of means-testing a punter by appearance?  Not all of the needy are apparent by sartorial inelegance.  On the flipside, Helena Bonham Carter has just won a Golden Ticket to the Frappuccino Factory for the rest of her natural life.  Yet the absence of crass mildly-offensive guidelines will only provide a loophole for politicians to exploit.  Iain Duncan Smith will surely drop in on his way to work to pick up his Double Mocha Macchiato with extra sprinkles and whipped cream.  And those Shoreditch media kids with their unkempt hair and beards on the office coffee run, they could ask for suspended coffees and pocket the money, they need it badly to save up for the secondhand tracksuit tops being resold to them at inflated prices in the jumble sales, sorry, vintage shops.  Mugs. 

If I was predisposed to actions of an altruistic nature, I wouldn't deem coffee an appropriate thing to proffer.  It lacks nutrition and promotes urination.  Never a good combination and I speak from experience.  That pitch at Sainsbury's was a steep learning curve for me.  I always carry a spare pair of briefs in my case now.  Actually, in Sainsbury's, for the price of a coffee, you can buy a rather nutritious and filling meal deal which consists of a sandwich, snack and drink.  Wouldn't that be a better thing to give a crack-faced pensioner than a measly cup of coffee?  You could pay for it with your Nectar points.  Saving the world while you do your weekly shop.  Minimum effort required.  Of course, paying for a suspended coffee also takes away the need to interact with the homeless.  It's the self-scan check out of the charity donation.  As annoying as conversing with that trainee barista can be at least it's better than the uncertainty of talking to that potential psycho sitting on the pavement.  I heard that one of them stabbed a man once.  In Covent Garden.  I know, with all those people about.  Nobody came to his aid.  Even the human statue pretended it wasn't happening.

My partner, Julian, thinks that free coffee for the homeless isn't an altogether ridiculous idea.  He says that a shot of espresso might motivate some of them to get off their arses and find a bloody job.  Harsh but that's one of the things I like about Julian.  He keeps me on my toes.  When I feel like taking it steady in the gym after a hard day in the office, he always reminds me that he could easily trade me in for someone younger.  That's actually very beneficial for my physical health if not my emotional.  I know he loves me really, he's been totally accepting of me and my kids.  My oldest, Jemima, thinks that we shouldn't stop at suspended coffees, she says that we should all go to King's Cross and buy suspended tickets to Birmingham, that way the needy get a free train ride and London solves its homeless problem all in one unselfish act.  That's my girl!  Look out, Boris, you've got some serious competition in a couple of years!

Must dash, my little boy, Thomas, is getting a commendation from the Fire Service for putting out a fire in a skip behind McDonalds.  He's only eight!  I'm too proud at the moment to worry about what he was doing round the back of McDonalds in the first place but fingers crossed we may get a few Happy Meals out of this one.  I collect the toys.  Exciting!

So to begin...

So the next few posts will be the last few from my old intermittent bloggage (if that's a word) ((It is now)).

Here we go again...

Ok, this time I'm going to make a concerted effort at keeping a blog.  I know I've said this before but I'm determined to be disciplined from now on.  I'm going to cheat and bring a few of my older blog entries with me to pad this out and feel like I'm not starting from scratch.  I'm going to aim for one blog a week, and I'm going to share it so there will be pressure to keep it up.  Hmmm...  That's exactly why my marriage failed.  Is this a good idea?