Monday, 26 July 2010
I-priorites
Got a new I-phone the other day. Ace – now can’t live with out it. I spent a night filling in my contacts and making it the portable all-singing-all-dancing wonder bit of kit that it is. Then as I went to text my daughter in my Contact Favourites I realised a scary thing – I had placed my Contacts there in probable order of priority – and guess what was first? Work. Husband came a mere 5th, kids at 2 and 3. I don’t know who I feel sorriest for – the poor sods at my office with me on the phone all the time or my poor husband who is a mere 5th in my list of priorities.
Ladies that louche
Louche
Definition: of questionable taste or morality, decadent
Word of the month – use it with care. Roll it round you mouth and apply when possible. Came up when the the JDC girls and me went out for supper the other night and I have decided it’s a word we need to use more. Think Oscar Wilde, think Moulin Rouge.
Now where did I put that corset?
Definition: of questionable taste or morality, decadent
Word of the month – use it with care. Roll it round you mouth and apply when possible. Came up when the the JDC girls and me went out for supper the other night and I have decided it’s a word we need to use more. Think Oscar Wilde, think Moulin Rouge.
Now where did I put that corset?
Monday – ‘I love you just the way you are’
Rows: Nil
Coffee: 2 but decaf (saintly)
Wine: Monday – need I say more?
Decibels: 20 (with small peak when reached check out – so much for this months shopping ban)
I went to Marks and Spencer’s today and bought myself a few ‘essentials’. Now I am sure we all know M and S is a little enormous in it’s sizing so I downsized from my normal twelve to a ten. When I tried my first top it was like trying to fight your way out of a parachute. Enormous. I then had the task of trying to gain the attention of an assistant whilst half clad, managing to give a seventy year old in the food hall a coronary as he inadvertently got a glimpse of my cellulited form.
‘Can you get me an eight please?’ I asked ‘These sem to be coming up very big'. You’ve got to love ‘flattery sizing’.
‘But madam is very slim’ she replied. ‘Madam’? Had I accidentally dropped into the set of Grace Brothers? That’s Surrey for you. And slim? Not a commonly use adjective in our house. However, she duly sourced the size eight. I tugged it over my now sweating brow and it fits as it should. Size eight? Woo hoo! No need to cut that label out then.
But the reality is I am no size eight. I am exactly the same size I was when I was seventeen and I am pretty sure that was a size twelve. I wasn’t deemed large then – but certainly not tiny, curvaceous even. But a distinctly average sized twelve. The reality is I have stayed exactly the same – its just the world around me has changed and so I have gone from being a very average seventeen year old to a thirty eight year old now deemed svelte, compared to today’s average of size sixteen.
Similarly, I have been in business now for eighteen years. My budgeting, financing and expansion has always been cautious, particularly as my primary business has been the sole income for my family. I guess you could say I was risk adverse. I have never borrowed exponentially or been anything other than steady. Steady growth, steady income. Boring even. For this reason I hadn’t been on the ‘tout for business’ radar. Banks were only interested if you owed them millions or indeed had million in deposit, lawyers weren’t interested in odds and sods of work – they wanted the big deals. And for this reason I have been of little interest. Until now.
Since the recession hit, my boring little core business - which is still doing deals, and still functioning in credit - is deemed the bee’s knees. I am not just a courier company I’m a solvent courier company. I have never been so entertained by my bank, so courted by the local business community, so on the radar. The social invites are positively flooding in. My business and its contribution to the local community are suddenly as popular as Noemie Lenoir. Staid, boring companies are now deemed good. And I have done nothing different – I have remained exactly the same – it’s just the world around me has changed
The moral of this story is – sometimes by staying exactly the same, you become exactly what you wanted to be. I’m no Elle McPherson or Alan Sugar (although my physical resemblance to the latter increases daily) but I am doing ok. I have no doubt that the economy will take off, and times and attitudes will change again but for now I might as well just enjoy.
Coffee: 2 but decaf (saintly)
Wine: Monday – need I say more?
Decibels: 20 (with small peak when reached check out – so much for this months shopping ban)
I went to Marks and Spencer’s today and bought myself a few ‘essentials’. Now I am sure we all know M and S is a little enormous in it’s sizing so I downsized from my normal twelve to a ten. When I tried my first top it was like trying to fight your way out of a parachute. Enormous. I then had the task of trying to gain the attention of an assistant whilst half clad, managing to give a seventy year old in the food hall a coronary as he inadvertently got a glimpse of my cellulited form.
‘Can you get me an eight please?’ I asked ‘These sem to be coming up very big'. You’ve got to love ‘flattery sizing’.
‘But madam is very slim’ she replied. ‘Madam’? Had I accidentally dropped into the set of Grace Brothers? That’s Surrey for you. And slim? Not a commonly use adjective in our house. However, she duly sourced the size eight. I tugged it over my now sweating brow and it fits as it should. Size eight? Woo hoo! No need to cut that label out then.
But the reality is I am no size eight. I am exactly the same size I was when I was seventeen and I am pretty sure that was a size twelve. I wasn’t deemed large then – but certainly not tiny, curvaceous even. But a distinctly average sized twelve. The reality is I have stayed exactly the same – its just the world around me has changed and so I have gone from being a very average seventeen year old to a thirty eight year old now deemed svelte, compared to today’s average of size sixteen.
Similarly, I have been in business now for eighteen years. My budgeting, financing and expansion has always been cautious, particularly as my primary business has been the sole income for my family. I guess you could say I was risk adverse. I have never borrowed exponentially or been anything other than steady. Steady growth, steady income. Boring even. For this reason I hadn’t been on the ‘tout for business’ radar. Banks were only interested if you owed them millions or indeed had million in deposit, lawyers weren’t interested in odds and sods of work – they wanted the big deals. And for this reason I have been of little interest. Until now.
Since the recession hit, my boring little core business - which is still doing deals, and still functioning in credit - is deemed the bee’s knees. I am not just a courier company I’m a solvent courier company. I have never been so entertained by my bank, so courted by the local business community, so on the radar. The social invites are positively flooding in. My business and its contribution to the local community are suddenly as popular as Noemie Lenoir. Staid, boring companies are now deemed good. And I have done nothing different – I have remained exactly the same – it’s just the world around me has changed
The moral of this story is – sometimes by staying exactly the same, you become exactly what you wanted to be. I’m no Elle McPherson or Alan Sugar (although my physical resemblance to the latter increases daily) but I am doing ok. I have no doubt that the economy will take off, and times and attitudes will change again but for now I might as well just enjoy.
Friday, 23 July 2010
Voice of Authority
I know, I know, I know - many weeks, no blog - but life has got kind of busy. Apologies. But thank you to those who asked for the next instalment! Glad to know you are out there.
Random thought – what voice did you choose for your Sat Nav? It struck me the other day that this choice tells a very interesting story. Actually my Sat Nav did physically strike me as I tried – mid travel, of course, running late for a meeting - to retrieve Sat Nav from glove compartment and stick it to windscreen bypassing the essential ‘lick’ bit of the ‘lick, stick, suction’ process. This ensured it dropped down hard on my knee at the next hard right hand corner. Nice. I finally conceded, pulled in to a lay-by and positioned it correctly and sent my man ‘Ken’ off to find details of how to get to my next appointment.
Now ‘Ken’, my in car logistics assistant, is a rather authoritarian Australian. I choose this out of 20 potential voices as I deemed it to be the one that I would actually listen to. Yes, it’s true. I am so pedantic I would negate the information of a Sat Nav whose voice didn’t have sufficient gravitas. So I chose the voice that most closely resembles……my father! Scary stuff although he (Dad not Ken) will be pleased. It’s taken 38 years and I am finally listening to him…..or a replica at least.
That got me to thinking – for what reason do other people choose theirs? One of my drivers has an Irish lady (reminds him of a softly spoken school teacher he had a crush on), other’s have quite a harsh Welsh lady – which apparently has had a real uptake since the appearance of the Vanessa character on 'Gavin and Stacey'. You can imagine it can’t you, ‘At the end of the day, when all said and done, that’s a right you need to be taking. Lush’.
Funnily enough I have a dominatrix friend who had a brainwave about recording a voice over for a Sat Nav but I had to tell her I thought it would be a bit counterproductive – any man who fancied a bit of that would be purposefully going off course to get the bollocking. My Ken’s calm, ‘Turn around when possible’ would be replaced by ‘I said RIGHT you simpering little idiot, TURN AROUND’. They could be getting lost on purpose for ages!
So what have you got as your voice on your Sat Nav and why? I am intrigued….
Random thought – what voice did you choose for your Sat Nav? It struck me the other day that this choice tells a very interesting story. Actually my Sat Nav did physically strike me as I tried – mid travel, of course, running late for a meeting - to retrieve Sat Nav from glove compartment and stick it to windscreen bypassing the essential ‘lick’ bit of the ‘lick, stick, suction’ process. This ensured it dropped down hard on my knee at the next hard right hand corner. Nice. I finally conceded, pulled in to a lay-by and positioned it correctly and sent my man ‘Ken’ off to find details of how to get to my next appointment.
Now ‘Ken’, my in car logistics assistant, is a rather authoritarian Australian. I choose this out of 20 potential voices as I deemed it to be the one that I would actually listen to. Yes, it’s true. I am so pedantic I would negate the information of a Sat Nav whose voice didn’t have sufficient gravitas. So I chose the voice that most closely resembles……my father! Scary stuff although he (Dad not Ken) will be pleased. It’s taken 38 years and I am finally listening to him…..or a replica at least.
That got me to thinking – for what reason do other people choose theirs? One of my drivers has an Irish lady (reminds him of a softly spoken school teacher he had a crush on), other’s have quite a harsh Welsh lady – which apparently has had a real uptake since the appearance of the Vanessa character on 'Gavin and Stacey'. You can imagine it can’t you, ‘At the end of the day, when all said and done, that’s a right you need to be taking. Lush’.
Funnily enough I have a dominatrix friend who had a brainwave about recording a voice over for a Sat Nav but I had to tell her I thought it would be a bit counterproductive – any man who fancied a bit of that would be purposefully going off course to get the bollocking. My Ken’s calm, ‘Turn around when possible’ would be replaced by ‘I said RIGHT you simpering little idiot, TURN AROUND’. They could be getting lost on purpose for ages!
So what have you got as your voice on your Sat Nav and why? I am intrigued….
Sunday, 27 June 2010
Monday…..The Buck Stops Here
Rows: 2 (but low level)
Coffee: 2
Wine: Nil…but took willpower of Aung San Suu Kyi
Decibels: 30 (Like Black Adder reasoning with the troops before they go ‘over the top’)
Today looks set to be one of negotiation. Battle lines are already being drawn up and it's only 830am. Monday normally means my diplomatic skills are somewhere between Attila the Hun and Cruella DeVille but today it's time to ditch the dalmatian coat, put on a mask of the Dalai Lama and try and get the week off to a good start.
As much as I love my kids and enjoy them as friends, I regularly have to pull the Mum card. You know, the ‘do your room, no you’re not going out until 11pm on a school night and unload the dishwasher NOW’ card. Because as much as I like them, as much as we get on like a house on fire, I am Mummy Dearest before anything else.
Same goes for The Office. Running my own business I mostly get to choose the people I work with. Arguably I spend more time with the Employees than I do with The Family so it’s nice that we are friendly. But before anything else, I am Managing Director. And I regularly have to pull the ‘where are the reports, I think you’ll find that’s in your job description and why are you late’ card.
As MD’s, the skill we have is to see all the pieces of the jigsaw. Individual decisions, taken in isolation, may not make sense to the person they are communicated to. And we don’t have time (nor inclination) to explain the why’s and where fors. Family and Employees have to trust that your judgement is fair and understand these decisions are made as part of a bigger picture. Of course, this is how I see it. The Teenagers think I have the volatility of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano and the Employees think I have the temperament of Stalin on a benevolent day. Although that may be something to do with my new moustache.
So when Daughter is told that, no, Boyf can’t stay over midweek, she riles at the injustice. But I see no sleep for her, then two days of knackered Teenager before she limps to her weekend lie in, which impacts on her college work, the general ambience of the home etc, etc.
Similarly, when Controller changes his work mobile phone number due to his stalker ex-girlfriend, he is somewhat perturbed when I take him to task. He sees the phone number as the issue – I see the new business cards we have just had printed, the 24 hour divert which is programmed to his old number and the 20 clients that have his number if our rural phone lines go down.
My job is to see the bigger picture. I do try to lead by co-alition and negotiation but in the end I am a bit like David Cameron (minus the Eton upbringing and smug expression on his noticeably hairless chin). We have to work together but the buck stops with me, a decisive hirsute leader. That also means it’s my fault if it all goes tits up. Be warned, David. Luckily 90% of the time I get it right. The other 10% is fuel for this column!
Coffee: 2
Wine: Nil…but took willpower of Aung San Suu Kyi
Decibels: 30 (Like Black Adder reasoning with the troops before they go ‘over the top’)
Today looks set to be one of negotiation. Battle lines are already being drawn up and it's only 830am. Monday normally means my diplomatic skills are somewhere between Attila the Hun and Cruella DeVille but today it's time to ditch the dalmatian coat, put on a mask of the Dalai Lama and try and get the week off to a good start.
As much as I love my kids and enjoy them as friends, I regularly have to pull the Mum card. You know, the ‘do your room, no you’re not going out until 11pm on a school night and unload the dishwasher NOW’ card. Because as much as I like them, as much as we get on like a house on fire, I am Mummy Dearest before anything else.
Same goes for The Office. Running my own business I mostly get to choose the people I work with. Arguably I spend more time with the Employees than I do with The Family so it’s nice that we are friendly. But before anything else, I am Managing Director. And I regularly have to pull the ‘where are the reports, I think you’ll find that’s in your job description and why are you late’ card.
As MD’s, the skill we have is to see all the pieces of the jigsaw. Individual decisions, taken in isolation, may not make sense to the person they are communicated to. And we don’t have time (nor inclination) to explain the why’s and where fors. Family and Employees have to trust that your judgement is fair and understand these decisions are made as part of a bigger picture. Of course, this is how I see it. The Teenagers think I have the volatility of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano and the Employees think I have the temperament of Stalin on a benevolent day. Although that may be something to do with my new moustache.
So when Daughter is told that, no, Boyf can’t stay over midweek, she riles at the injustice. But I see no sleep for her, then two days of knackered Teenager before she limps to her weekend lie in, which impacts on her college work, the general ambience of the home etc, etc.
Similarly, when Controller changes his work mobile phone number due to his stalker ex-girlfriend, he is somewhat perturbed when I take him to task. He sees the phone number as the issue – I see the new business cards we have just had printed, the 24 hour divert which is programmed to his old number and the 20 clients that have his number if our rural phone lines go down.
My job is to see the bigger picture. I do try to lead by co-alition and negotiation but in the end I am a bit like David Cameron (minus the Eton upbringing and smug expression on his noticeably hairless chin). We have to work together but the buck stops with me, a decisive hirsute leader. That also means it’s my fault if it all goes tits up. Be warned, David. Luckily 90% of the time I get it right. The other 10% is fuel for this column!
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Thursday…..TFIF…nearly
Rows: nil…can’t be bothered…
Coffee: None, zilch, nadda
Wine: Lemsip and Rose cocktails.
Voice Decibels: 20 (a husky whisper)
Genius Levels: Patient post ECT
Are we nearly there yet? Can I make it all the way to the weekend? I am not so sure. Losing it this morning at 0730 was a sure way to define that my tolerance is reaching an end.
I was simultaneously trying to work out with Personal Trainer – whilst dictating a shopping list to Husband, whilst children are asking me for lunch money and wondering where their PE kits is plus work is on the phone with an urgent problem. Don’t ask me why my Husband isn’t able to spot what we need from Waitrose – he and das kinder still seem to think a flipping fairy fills the fridge. Anyway I am working out – being interrupted every 2 minutes – simultaneously trying to be Super Mum, Wifelet, lithe MILF and Captain-ess of Industry when I simply can’t take it anymore. Then they all looked surprised when I explode like an egg in a microwave – everyone getting splattered by a boiling fragment. I send PT on his way, told kids to bloody well find their own gym kits, instructed Husband he was as able as me to see if we had bread, milk and food and told work to use their bloody initiative.
I guess I am less than tolerant today because I have a cold. A cold would be okay if a) I could stop, b) someone else could take care of my Things To Do List and c) it was sufficiently mild so I could catch up with some home stuff if I actually conceded to taking a day off. Typical MD – using a sick day to catch up on the cleaning. Mind you, as I decried Husbands suffering for the last week with taunts of ‘Manflu, is it?’, with about as much sympathy as Margaret Thatcher had for the miners, I should not be surprised that he is now positively gleaming with smug satisfaction as I continuously blow my nose. And I have always made such a fuss over sick days at work the Employees are fit for an Intensive Care Unit before they take a day off so on principle we all crawl in to The Office regardless of whether we have the plague or not. Madness.
Anyhow I veered strongly off my W rule (for the second time this week….bad MD…must do better) and decided to commiserate over a glass of wine and Grazia. I may be MD but I like a bit of trivia as much as the next girl. 2 hours later I have drunk the whole bottle and ordered my new summer wardrobe online. Small problem, in waking up this morning is that, in the optimistic glow of my Lemsip and Rose fuelled benevolence, I may have ordered a wardrobe that means, this season, I will mostly look like Peaches Geldof. Really a woman of my age should give up pretensions of trying to look like Kate Moss at a festival and concede that M and S knows best. At least Daughter will receive ample bounty!
Coffee: None, zilch, nadda
Wine: Lemsip and Rose cocktails.
Voice Decibels: 20 (a husky whisper)
Genius Levels: Patient post ECT
Are we nearly there yet? Can I make it all the way to the weekend? I am not so sure. Losing it this morning at 0730 was a sure way to define that my tolerance is reaching an end.
I was simultaneously trying to work out with Personal Trainer – whilst dictating a shopping list to Husband, whilst children are asking me for lunch money and wondering where their PE kits is plus work is on the phone with an urgent problem. Don’t ask me why my Husband isn’t able to spot what we need from Waitrose – he and das kinder still seem to think a flipping fairy fills the fridge. Anyway I am working out – being interrupted every 2 minutes – simultaneously trying to be Super Mum, Wifelet, lithe MILF and Captain-ess of Industry when I simply can’t take it anymore. Then they all looked surprised when I explode like an egg in a microwave – everyone getting splattered by a boiling fragment. I send PT on his way, told kids to bloody well find their own gym kits, instructed Husband he was as able as me to see if we had bread, milk and food and told work to use their bloody initiative.
I guess I am less than tolerant today because I have a cold. A cold would be okay if a) I could stop, b) someone else could take care of my Things To Do List and c) it was sufficiently mild so I could catch up with some home stuff if I actually conceded to taking a day off. Typical MD – using a sick day to catch up on the cleaning. Mind you, as I decried Husbands suffering for the last week with taunts of ‘Manflu, is it?’, with about as much sympathy as Margaret Thatcher had for the miners, I should not be surprised that he is now positively gleaming with smug satisfaction as I continuously blow my nose. And I have always made such a fuss over sick days at work the Employees are fit for an Intensive Care Unit before they take a day off so on principle we all crawl in to The Office regardless of whether we have the plague or not. Madness.
Anyhow I veered strongly off my W rule (for the second time this week….bad MD…must do better) and decided to commiserate over a glass of wine and Grazia. I may be MD but I like a bit of trivia as much as the next girl. 2 hours later I have drunk the whole bottle and ordered my new summer wardrobe online. Small problem, in waking up this morning is that, in the optimistic glow of my Lemsip and Rose fuelled benevolence, I may have ordered a wardrobe that means, this season, I will mostly look like Peaches Geldof. Really a woman of my age should give up pretensions of trying to look like Kate Moss at a festival and concede that M and S knows best. At least Daughter will receive ample bounty!
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Mondays are………for multi tasking
Rows: Nil (V.Good)
Coffee: 1 (on recommendation of blood pressure nurse!)
Wine: none (as yet but day is young)
Voice Decibels: 40 (subdued yet persuasive) with small peak (after breath freshner incident – see below)
Genius Levels: Dumb and Dumber
Feeling benevolent today I decided to give Teenage Daughter a lift to college. This was my first mistake, adding this to an already unconquerable ‘Things To Do List’. My TTD List’ has 4 columns – work, kids, home and me. I’ll let you guess which one of the 4 doesn’t ever get done. Put it this way, I have had pedicure and eyebrow wax on the list for 2 months now and my feet still resemble a yaks and Dennis Healey would be proud of my mono brow.
However, still I do not learn and over commit myself daily – denying the undeniable fact that there are a mere 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 52 weeks in a year. And in this absolutely finite time frame I have to be Super Mom, Wonder Director, Daughter to loving parents and Friend to many. So in order to fit it all in I multitask.
Multitasking has its perils. My normal morning routine is shortened by 15 minutes (by agreeing to aforementioned lift for Daughter) leaving me feeling less than fresh mouthed - my penchant for red wine leaving my breath this morning not unreminiscent of a camels. Whilst listening to Daughter do her 'OMG I so totally can't believe you just said that' routine, I forage in my MD handbag for my breath freshener – by-passing all the normal Mummy Dearest detritus – tissues, baby wipes, a cereal bar – plus Managing Director detritus – calculator, latest tax briefing from my accountant, my Dictaphone, Iphone - to find the small bottle of minty loveliness in the form of breath freshner. Recent additions to counter my mild hypochondria in the face of the flu epidemic include a small bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser. The bottles are spookily similar. Same shape. Similar smell with lid removed, same pump actions. Different consistency – but good ole me always gives a pump a second go just in case the first one was just a bit clogged up so I consequently had not one, but two mouthfuls of antibacterial hand cleanser as I sped Daughter towards college.
Nevertheless do I take heed, delete half of my TTD List and sort it all out? Of course not. Instead I head to The Office where the job of MD has a more detailed version of the TTD List – with four more columns – which would be fine if it’s just this weeks list – but it’s perpetual, never ending.
I used to get enormous satisfaction when faced with a completed a list – striking masterfully through each onerous task as it was done. But every Monday – regardless of how clear I am by Friday – there’s a new, fresh list. It starts to be over whelming. So I multi task. Whilst speaking on phone, I utter instructions to awaiting staff member and read through my email. Consequently I managed to send an erotic email to a similarly named work colleague when it should have gone to my husband, have baffled my new staff member by calling them someone else’s name for 2 days and have tried to order stationary from my osteopath. Must do better.
Buddhists call it mindfulness – I call it just doing one thing at a time. Eat and only concentrate on eating, organise and only concentrate on organising, drive and concentrate only on that. But then, I hear you say, what happens to the to do list??
No solutions I’m afraid – or I’d be a very rich woman. Now...how long to Wednesday?????
Coffee: 1 (on recommendation of blood pressure nurse!)
Wine: none (as yet but day is young)
Voice Decibels: 40 (subdued yet persuasive) with small peak (after breath freshner incident – see below)
Genius Levels: Dumb and Dumber
Feeling benevolent today I decided to give Teenage Daughter a lift to college. This was my first mistake, adding this to an already unconquerable ‘Things To Do List’. My TTD List’ has 4 columns – work, kids, home and me. I’ll let you guess which one of the 4 doesn’t ever get done. Put it this way, I have had pedicure and eyebrow wax on the list for 2 months now and my feet still resemble a yaks and Dennis Healey would be proud of my mono brow.
However, still I do not learn and over commit myself daily – denying the undeniable fact that there are a mere 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 52 weeks in a year. And in this absolutely finite time frame I have to be Super Mom, Wonder Director, Daughter to loving parents and Friend to many. So in order to fit it all in I multitask.
Multitasking has its perils. My normal morning routine is shortened by 15 minutes (by agreeing to aforementioned lift for Daughter) leaving me feeling less than fresh mouthed - my penchant for red wine leaving my breath this morning not unreminiscent of a camels. Whilst listening to Daughter do her 'OMG I so totally can't believe you just said that' routine, I forage in my MD handbag for my breath freshener – by-passing all the normal Mummy Dearest detritus – tissues, baby wipes, a cereal bar – plus Managing Director detritus – calculator, latest tax briefing from my accountant, my Dictaphone, Iphone - to find the small bottle of minty loveliness in the form of breath freshner. Recent additions to counter my mild hypochondria in the face of the flu epidemic include a small bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser. The bottles are spookily similar. Same shape. Similar smell with lid removed, same pump actions. Different consistency – but good ole me always gives a pump a second go just in case the first one was just a bit clogged up so I consequently had not one, but two mouthfuls of antibacterial hand cleanser as I sped Daughter towards college.
Nevertheless do I take heed, delete half of my TTD List and sort it all out? Of course not. Instead I head to The Office where the job of MD has a more detailed version of the TTD List – with four more columns – which would be fine if it’s just this weeks list – but it’s perpetual, never ending.
I used to get enormous satisfaction when faced with a completed a list – striking masterfully through each onerous task as it was done. But every Monday – regardless of how clear I am by Friday – there’s a new, fresh list. It starts to be over whelming. So I multi task. Whilst speaking on phone, I utter instructions to awaiting staff member and read through my email. Consequently I managed to send an erotic email to a similarly named work colleague when it should have gone to my husband, have baffled my new staff member by calling them someone else’s name for 2 days and have tried to order stationary from my osteopath. Must do better.
Buddhists call it mindfulness – I call it just doing one thing at a time. Eat and only concentrate on eating, organise and only concentrate on organising, drive and concentrate only on that. But then, I hear you say, what happens to the to do list??
No solutions I’m afraid – or I’d be a very rich woman. Now...how long to Wednesday?????
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