Today is the day I will discover the name of the man in the van. I already know that he's married. Now, don't get ideas, I am not (to use a phrase loved by my nana) a fast piece. I found this out when purchasing my 99 yesterday and he volunteered the information that a bomb scare was in process not too far from where we were all enjoying the afternoon sunshine.
My money is on Pete.
But whilst the costs of this little piece of primary research are starting to stack up - with an additional impact on my thickening girth - to sit in the B School forecourt licking a cone and bask in the sun as students campaign for their sabbatical candidates is extremely pleasant. It's nice to see gaggles of young people enthusiastically engage in all kinds of marketing ploys and to see them enjoying themselves so much whilst doing it. Over the past few years, the SU elections have seen a growth spurt of campaign activity and for a short space of time the place is transformed into a vibrant hotbed of rhetoric. And whilst some might bemoan the absence of political orientation and debate, I am at least cheered by the sight of people so keen on spending a year essentially working for an electorate and putting forward a view as to what that work should consist of. Now if you could translate THAT into academic study you'd be on to a winner...
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
Monday, 12 March 2007
The man with the van
Coming out of the Business School this pm, and on my way to the library, I saw an ice cream van. What is it about spring weather (at its best) that has you smiling at daffs and making a dash for the 99? And what is it about the really rather ‘inferior’ ice cream and the not quite a flake flake that combine together so wonderfully? The van man had lollies too. It is almost enuf to make you want to go into work, safe in the knowledge that he will be back, his sole mission to entice your tongue around the whirls of soft ice cream and feel the cloying sweetness slip down your throat. Sauce and nuts optional.
Sunday, 4 March 2007
let's hear it for the gril...
Being a gril involves having a different mindset from that of a girl. We all know what girls are and jolly nice they are too – I won’t have a word said against them because they do a damn good job and they’re fabberlus.
Grils are a special variant. My problematic prof at work is a gril, so are my two cats, Anne Widdicome, Shirley Williams (just), the sadly missed Mo Mowlam and Diane Abbot. Sleepy is definitely a gril and so, I suspect, is Schnee...
Being a gril involves large amounts of eccentric behaviour and a resolute refusal to toe the party line if it is truly against your principles and beliefs. Grils are often prepared to endure substantial ridicule – not only for their beliefs and stance but for aspects of their life such as their sexuality, their weight, their personal appearance and their personality. Grils are often involved in breaking new ground; taking on jobs in traditionally masculine occupations or in very macho cultures. In this sense they often break glass ceilings and can, if they so wish and have big enough hearts, encourage other women to follow them.
One emergent gril in a hugely male dominated profession is American orchestral conductor, Marin Alsop. Her occupation is one of the last bastions of hegemonic masculinity – you think of all the conductors you can name and I will lay a wager that they are all male. This does not mean that good women conductors do not exist, far from it. But for whatever reason (and this is not my field) they do not necessarily either emerge or go the distance as their male equivalents of similar capability might.
I was lucky enough to see Ms Alsop conduct the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra two weeks ago. A friend of mine who is a Mahler fan (they did the first symphony) was clearly moved by the performance, stating that it was probably the best or certainly up there with the best he had ever experienced. I don’t have the same musical knowledge to make an informed judgement but I thought it was wonderful too.
So let’s hear it for the gril, a woman who clearly doesn’t wear heels (ever), walks a bit like a navvy but exudes huge personal warmth and conducts like a beast. She had her own website and you can download her doing Mahler’s 5th live with the LSO and cheer, ‘more grils, please, more grils’!
Grils are a special variant. My problematic prof at work is a gril, so are my two cats, Anne Widdicome, Shirley Williams (just), the sadly missed Mo Mowlam and Diane Abbot. Sleepy is definitely a gril and so, I suspect, is Schnee...
Being a gril involves large amounts of eccentric behaviour and a resolute refusal to toe the party line if it is truly against your principles and beliefs. Grils are often prepared to endure substantial ridicule – not only for their beliefs and stance but for aspects of their life such as their sexuality, their weight, their personal appearance and their personality. Grils are often involved in breaking new ground; taking on jobs in traditionally masculine occupations or in very macho cultures. In this sense they often break glass ceilings and can, if they so wish and have big enough hearts, encourage other women to follow them.
One emergent gril in a hugely male dominated profession is American orchestral conductor, Marin Alsop. Her occupation is one of the last bastions of hegemonic masculinity – you think of all the conductors you can name and I will lay a wager that they are all male. This does not mean that good women conductors do not exist, far from it. But for whatever reason (and this is not my field) they do not necessarily either emerge or go the distance as their male equivalents of similar capability might.
I was lucky enough to see Ms Alsop conduct the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra two weeks ago. A friend of mine who is a Mahler fan (they did the first symphony) was clearly moved by the performance, stating that it was probably the best or certainly up there with the best he had ever experienced. I don’t have the same musical knowledge to make an informed judgement but I thought it was wonderful too.
So let’s hear it for the gril, a woman who clearly doesn’t wear heels (ever), walks a bit like a navvy but exudes huge personal warmth and conducts like a beast. She had her own website and you can download her doing Mahler’s 5th live with the LSO and cheer, ‘more grils, please, more grils’!
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Learnings (II)
The last 24 hours has brought me profound and helpful learnings which I will share with you, dear readers, in the hope that my insights provoke reflection and action whenever you experience what I term GOCS (Grouchy Old Cunt Syndrome).
I realised that this state was upon me late last night when my hunnee, as is his wont, did his drama queeny bit. Sadly my hunnee does this to me and his latest piece of queenery was the second in less than 24 hours. The GOC creaked into action but lo! I had a learning! And lo the learning was this! He does the queening because I give him an audience and he gets a response. It actually doesn’t really matter what the response is, be it nice or nasty, caring or a kick in the rubber parts, he gets my attention and my interaction. I promptly turned off the mobile and disconnected the PC.
In this age of connectivity, it seems important that we learn the importance of disconnecting. An old student of mine and I have been having lengthy on and offline discussions about the uses of social networking and the ways in which people use media like MySpace, Facebook and so on. Doing some research on the issue, it seems that prospective employers are increasingly surveying these sites to see what their prospective hire REALLY gets up to in his/her downtime. Not that I think it’s any of their business, but be aware, comrades, what you put up is on open access and it is perfectly possible that my musings on GOCS could one day be surveyed by either a gross little fart of a student or a larger faculty fart with the power to shape my future in quite profound ways.
This has left me wondering about the power and beauty of discretion. I love discrete people – not being terribly well endowed with that faculty myself, I do totally respect it in others – and think that this behavioural trait is much overlooked. In a world of constant connection and interaction, maybe we need to reconsider the value of holding back, or at least switching off and disconnecting.
I realised that this state was upon me late last night when my hunnee, as is his wont, did his drama queeny bit. Sadly my hunnee does this to me and his latest piece of queenery was the second in less than 24 hours. The GOC creaked into action but lo! I had a learning! And lo the learning was this! He does the queening because I give him an audience and he gets a response. It actually doesn’t really matter what the response is, be it nice or nasty, caring or a kick in the rubber parts, he gets my attention and my interaction. I promptly turned off the mobile and disconnected the PC.
In this age of connectivity, it seems important that we learn the importance of disconnecting. An old student of mine and I have been having lengthy on and offline discussions about the uses of social networking and the ways in which people use media like MySpace, Facebook and so on. Doing some research on the issue, it seems that prospective employers are increasingly surveying these sites to see what their prospective hire REALLY gets up to in his/her downtime. Not that I think it’s any of their business, but be aware, comrades, what you put up is on open access and it is perfectly possible that my musings on GOCS could one day be surveyed by either a gross little fart of a student or a larger faculty fart with the power to shape my future in quite profound ways.
This has left me wondering about the power and beauty of discretion. I love discrete people – not being terribly well endowed with that faculty myself, I do totally respect it in others – and think that this behavioural trait is much overlooked. In a world of constant connection and interaction, maybe we need to reconsider the value of holding back, or at least switching off and disconnecting.
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Learnings
One of the things that I do every now and again, usually before I go to bed, is to ask myself what my recent learnings have been. A lot of them have related to my failed marriage, a few to my work and colleague, quite a few have been focused on my family. I don’t necessarily reach astounding conclusions or provoke new ideas or ways of seeing intractable problems, but occasionally my musings let me see things in different ways. Which I usually then forget.
Today’s learnings were odd ones. I realise that I would have made a poor judge in the case of OJ Simpson because I would have lynched OJ’s defence team and personally issued invective after the high profile (and undoubtedly highly paid) forensic science experts that were hired to demolish the prosecution case. These eminent gentlemen went on the found the much vaunted ‘innocence project’ which has now been given the BBC treatment in one of their worst offerings in living history.
The other learning du jour concerned the ways in which those who are often cast or celebrated for their emotional intelligence and humanitarianism are actually capable of breathtaking acts of insensitivity. But, these acts often go relatively unremarked because the individual concerned has been very adept at promoting their emotional literacy and their caring. The rest of us mere mortals who bungle around desperately trying not to hurt people’s feelings but who fail to engage in the open display of caring often miss a trick. And there is absolutely no market any longer for straight shooters – even when those people also actively work to be careful in the ways in which they treat people.
The department I work in has a real problem that could cost us dearly in the longer term because my Head of Department cannot deal with conflict. Last week I asked for a different member of staff to do my appraisal. What would be the first question you would ask in such a situation? Think about it. Well, it was never asked. So I am given a new appraisor but the reasons for my request were not asked for and I felt somewhat uncomfortable in stating them without being asked because that would place me in an awkward light when as far as I am concerned, the professor concerned is inept. This is pretty much evident to all who have eyes to see and ears to hear, but there is great reluctance for her incompetence to be raised. Now, this is partly to do with the nature of academia and the long standing problem of performance and the ways in which poor performance is managed. The other, possibly more pertinent reason could lie in the professor’s research area, which is bullying and harassment. Given that these terms are often seen as being self-defined and therefore not always open to reliance rational conceptualisation or range of definitions, you can see the problem. How easy it is for faculty claims of quite frustrating performance to be turned back on the person(s) who issue them or raise the problem as being an instance of bullying.
And, of course, if you work in this area, you are almost deemed to be dwelling amongst the emotionally literate. Well, that might be possible, but it hasn’t stopped this wretched woman wasting my time and intellectual energy for hours on end. One day I shall say, one day…probably the day I leave!
Today’s learnings were odd ones. I realise that I would have made a poor judge in the case of OJ Simpson because I would have lynched OJ’s defence team and personally issued invective after the high profile (and undoubtedly highly paid) forensic science experts that were hired to demolish the prosecution case. These eminent gentlemen went on the found the much vaunted ‘innocence project’ which has now been given the BBC treatment in one of their worst offerings in living history.
The other learning du jour concerned the ways in which those who are often cast or celebrated for their emotional intelligence and humanitarianism are actually capable of breathtaking acts of insensitivity. But, these acts often go relatively unremarked because the individual concerned has been very adept at promoting their emotional literacy and their caring. The rest of us mere mortals who bungle around desperately trying not to hurt people’s feelings but who fail to engage in the open display of caring often miss a trick. And there is absolutely no market any longer for straight shooters – even when those people also actively work to be careful in the ways in which they treat people.
The department I work in has a real problem that could cost us dearly in the longer term because my Head of Department cannot deal with conflict. Last week I asked for a different member of staff to do my appraisal. What would be the first question you would ask in such a situation? Think about it. Well, it was never asked. So I am given a new appraisor but the reasons for my request were not asked for and I felt somewhat uncomfortable in stating them without being asked because that would place me in an awkward light when as far as I am concerned, the professor concerned is inept. This is pretty much evident to all who have eyes to see and ears to hear, but there is great reluctance for her incompetence to be raised. Now, this is partly to do with the nature of academia and the long standing problem of performance and the ways in which poor performance is managed. The other, possibly more pertinent reason could lie in the professor’s research area, which is bullying and harassment. Given that these terms are often seen as being self-defined and therefore not always open to reliance rational conceptualisation or range of definitions, you can see the problem. How easy it is for faculty claims of quite frustrating performance to be turned back on the person(s) who issue them or raise the problem as being an instance of bullying.
And, of course, if you work in this area, you are almost deemed to be dwelling amongst the emotionally literate. Well, that might be possible, but it hasn’t stopped this wretched woman wasting my time and intellectual energy for hours on end. One day I shall say, one day…probably the day I leave!
Saturday, 24 February 2007
Son of Star Wars
I am grateful to Sleepy and to Darcus Howe for prompting this one.
I had a really dispiriting experience this week. One of the units I run this semester is for final year undergraduate students and is concerned with the impact of virtual technologies on markets, marketing, work and organizations. I do the front end of this generally popular but challenging pantomime horse and cover philosophical questions like ‘what is virtuality?’ ‘Is it anything new?’ as well as the historical context such as the rise of the Internet and the forces that gave rise to it and allied technologies.
Of course, one of the things you come across when you investigate why the Internet was formed was the existence of the cold war and the rhetoric and realities associated with it. I understand that this might be slightly challenging for kids born in the early 1980s to get their heads around, I also understand that they might only dimly be aware of the existence of Ronald Reagan and the Star Wars initiative…but to be honest, I am getting a bit sick and tired of being understanding because they should have a sense of history – their history, their family history, their society’s history as well as those of others – but it seems to me that for them, history is what occurred last year. The sense of disconnect with the past is actually quite profound and therefore quite worrying. I am of the belief that if you do not understand history you will almost inevitably repeat it – you’ll probably repeat history anyway for other reasons, but at least an historical perspective allied to some form of self and societal awareness might give pause when the big questions are being asked.
So after talking about Star Wars to blank faces, I was so glad to see it resurface.
I so totally rule.
But my sense of triumph is a bitter one and I have concern for the generation of young adults whose sense of time and context is so weak and whose curiosity about their world is almost non-existent. At some point, my fear is that we will reap the national curriculum whirlwind and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
I had a really dispiriting experience this week. One of the units I run this semester is for final year undergraduate students and is concerned with the impact of virtual technologies on markets, marketing, work and organizations. I do the front end of this generally popular but challenging pantomime horse and cover philosophical questions like ‘what is virtuality?’ ‘Is it anything new?’ as well as the historical context such as the rise of the Internet and the forces that gave rise to it and allied technologies.
Of course, one of the things you come across when you investigate why the Internet was formed was the existence of the cold war and the rhetoric and realities associated with it. I understand that this might be slightly challenging for kids born in the early 1980s to get their heads around, I also understand that they might only dimly be aware of the existence of Ronald Reagan and the Star Wars initiative…but to be honest, I am getting a bit sick and tired of being understanding because they should have a sense of history – their history, their family history, their society’s history as well as those of others – but it seems to me that for them, history is what occurred last year. The sense of disconnect with the past is actually quite profound and therefore quite worrying. I am of the belief that if you do not understand history you will almost inevitably repeat it – you’ll probably repeat history anyway for other reasons, but at least an historical perspective allied to some form of self and societal awareness might give pause when the big questions are being asked.
So after talking about Star Wars to blank faces, I was so glad to see it resurface.
I so totally rule.
But my sense of triumph is a bitter one and I have concern for the generation of young adults whose sense of time and context is so weak and whose curiosity about their world is almost non-existent. At some point, my fear is that we will reap the national curriculum whirlwind and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
Skippy the butch kangaroo (and other dudes)
One of the delights of DIY is the skip. For me, there a few things more satisfying than the arrival of this item in an empty, pristine state and its eventual departure full of your life’s detritus. It’s as good as therapy and a lot less expensive. And whilst is might piss off the neighbours because they can’t park in front of your house, my environmentally correct decision to eschew a car helps me maintain a lofty stance against their muted plaints…
This week a fresh new skip arrived and I keenly await the coming of butch guys with big drills - as you do. I have already spent a couple of hours slashing and devastating the current crop of vegetation that has sprung up in the concrete patch that is my back garden. Today I will progress a little further knowing that by this time next week both unwanted veg and concrete will all be gone. OK, Sleepy I know that it might equally be replaced by police tape sealing off the place as a burial site, but I remain rigidly optimistic.
However, one thing has intrigued me – and I warn readers with a delicate disposition to avoid this paragraph – is the existence of a pile of excrement that seems to have come from a truly large beast. This is not your run of the mill cat poop. I know my cats’ turds (sadly) and these are not their handiwork. And whilst we do now have two rather large tom cats next door, they must have got substantial intestines to produce this sample…Euuuw.
Finally, yesterday ended on a high. I had spent the day battling intellectual demons and a profound sense of failure and depression. This goes with academia I think – I’m not the only one to get like this by a long shot. However, this was substantially lifted by a recital of baroque music at the cathedral which was absolutely stunning. Upon my return I had an email from pugilistic Jimmy and one from my hunnee telling me that Mark L (the sexiest man on the planet, I swear) had commented that I was ‘perfectly formed’. At this rate I might even set some nookie before I die.
Yeehah and on with the rubber gloves.
This week a fresh new skip arrived and I keenly await the coming of butch guys with big drills - as you do. I have already spent a couple of hours slashing and devastating the current crop of vegetation that has sprung up in the concrete patch that is my back garden. Today I will progress a little further knowing that by this time next week both unwanted veg and concrete will all be gone. OK, Sleepy I know that it might equally be replaced by police tape sealing off the place as a burial site, but I remain rigidly optimistic.
However, one thing has intrigued me – and I warn readers with a delicate disposition to avoid this paragraph – is the existence of a pile of excrement that seems to have come from a truly large beast. This is not your run of the mill cat poop. I know my cats’ turds (sadly) and these are not their handiwork. And whilst we do now have two rather large tom cats next door, they must have got substantial intestines to produce this sample…Euuuw.
Finally, yesterday ended on a high. I had spent the day battling intellectual demons and a profound sense of failure and depression. This goes with academia I think – I’m not the only one to get like this by a long shot. However, this was substantially lifted by a recital of baroque music at the cathedral which was absolutely stunning. Upon my return I had an email from pugilistic Jimmy and one from my hunnee telling me that Mark L (the sexiest man on the planet, I swear) had commented that I was ‘perfectly formed’. At this rate I might even set some nookie before I die.
Yeehah and on with the rubber gloves.
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