Brick on Brick, Without a Plan

The Art of Communication

The art of communication is one that should never be left without nurture. It is a skill I have honed since childhood, when making myself heard, and hopefully understood, mattered.

I know the many times in my working life when being articulate, honest, truthful, clear, and detailed about ideas, events, or situations has been the difference between staying put and being walked out of the door with alacrity.

Conflict and the Power of Words

Conflict leers around the office or the workplace, where genuine engagement can easily slide into belittlement and being patronised. Both could be mistaken for compliments, only to be turned into something backhanded or used to upbraid you.

Besides that, there are the power plays and egos, where choosing your words carefully can significantly change the tone of an exchange. Drawing on a wealth of vocabulary with studied deployment is hardly putting the quality of your education to waste.

Finding the Right Analogy

When the going gets tough, and it usually does, finding the correct analogy to depict a situation becomes the best tool to deploy.

Consider a scenario where a user expected us to exhaust every avenue to determine why his anticipated long-running script terminated after two hours, even though nothing on the system had changed.

I posited that when a washing machine does not complete a wash cycle, you explore issues with the device, the water supply, or the connection to the mains; you do not ask for a building inspection.

That thought came to me as I finished taking a shower.

A Managerial and Political Issue

This afternoon, I was met with a complex managerial and political issue. For all my protestations about the guidelines, framework, and structure needed to govern a process that I felt left us exposed, all management wanted was for us to do something, anything, first, before addressing concerns that would fill reams of paper dating back to July last year.

After I had answered a series of questions, the activity was cherry-picked out of a larger case for correct procedure and directed towards a decision to be enforced.

In what I could only term a dare to challenge authority and face the consequences of stepping out of line, the manager, now assuming control where earlier they had failed to provide support, asked on the Microsoft Teams group chat:

The Challenge on Teams

"Everyone, anyone here unhappy with the approach?"

He might as well have said, "Anyone up for a fight? I'm here to bludgeon you."

I was dissatisfied, but this required tact, and there came the inspiration for another analogy.

The Bricklayer Analogy

"To put it another way, we are the bricklayers, and you want a house for which no architect has been engaged to design and no structural engineer has assessed. We are just putting brick on brick and hoping we end up with a shelter everyone can use."

As bricklayers, we know what houses should look like, but without a plan, a lot can go wrong. My job is to paint the picture; how you appreciate that work of art is beyond my ability to dictate, but the work has been done.

It will sink in somehow, and the message will not be lost in the morass of politicking and power plays.

Eloquence as Construction, Not Evasion

Let me be clear about one thing: eloquence here is not a tool of evasiveness. It is the means by which I explain and construct a clear narrative of the risk profile of an activity, one that could lead to penalties, the loss of professional reputation, or a negative impact on business operations and the user community.

Knowledge shared through such communication exposes the blind spots and pitfalls that are usually not taken into consideration.

Nor is this a matter of perfecting a process. There is no process. What we have is a range of assumptions that have not been properly tested or validated, yet are forced into implementation by expediency.

There is a further purpose to all this. By communicating in this way, one is also documenting the issues, so that when the matter of responsibility for any action arises, the points made earlier will show that management was informed and chose to act against the identified risks they had been asked to appreciate.

Experience Speaks for Itself

Many of us might hold junior roles in the multilayered hierarchy of the organisation, but never confuse our positions with a lack of maturity.

After 40 years in this business, where this is probably one of the least significant roles I have held in 30 years, I think I know a fair amount about management, and about being managed, and about getting a point across without equivocation.

We didn't just start at this yesterday.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Borstal Wednesdays on Teams

The Wednesday Dread

Wednesday mornings do not deliver the kind of impetus and encouragement needed to see the day through with a sense of purpose and an aim for achievement.

One is reminded of being in a secondary school morning assembly with all the trappings of a borstal; the headmaster traipsing across the platform, slapping the birch into his hand, and speaking in a booming voice of quarrelsome displeasure and pique.

Diktat Over Dialogue

For a gathering of professionals, where the distinction is more one of corporate hierarchy than any other gift or ability, the patriarchal and patronising tone of diktat over conversation rubs everyone up the wrong way.

One might want to consider that this manager is perhaps oblivious to the fact that those who report to him are indeed professionals. Besides, whilst there may be a case for certain colleagues needing some hand-holding, guidance, direction, or instruction, the broad-brush approach to generalisation over the particular and specific creates a rather toxic environment.

Morale and the Pulpit

It can be said that a majority do not leave the Wednesday powwow thinking they have been edified; it is moral-sapping, pulpit-thumping vituperation that easily slips into uncouth language, betraying both discourtesy and disrespect.

In the same vein, I appreciate that the higher-ups are under pressure to deliver results, but ruling by fear, deeming us stupid, or questioning our intelligence will get you nowhere.

We are here to do a job, not to be corralled like sheep or donkeys into some subservient role, subject to constant and unwarranted opprobrium. The borstal comparison becomes all the more telling when you wonder whether they once presided over some regimented setting and held sway over unskilled labour.

The Reckoning Ahead

In other words, in my decades-long experience of dealing with management, this one ranks, in every sense of the word, as the least commendable and capable when it comes to managing talent, and would be far better suited to commandeering a chain gang.

Heck, some of us are way past slithering up a greasy pole of obsequiousness for favours; we have had roles of greater responsibility and remuneration, and are here for nothing other than the joy of doing and giving back.

If there is room for improvement, I cannot say, because this appears to be learned behaviour from a former leader who barely earned my respect, their brusqueness unbecoming of anyone cultured. The headiness of office is becoming an aggrandisement of self, not far removed from bullying. Many will tolerate this for just long enough before the blowback makes heads roll.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

When Schedules Don't Matter: Between Flight Times and Body Times

Journey Times and Assumptions

Now that I think of it, these things should not be left to guesswork. The assumption I had, and the reality were different things, even when traversing time zones. How I could have missed that timing escapes me, especially for a journey I have made so many times. This time, I saw it plainly: the flight information stated 11h25, not the 10h30 I always had in my mind and when talking to people about it.

I am looking forward to a long journey watching Africa displayed before me as my kind of long-haul flight entertainment. As aeroplanes do not get given speeding tickets in the air, we did Amsterdam to Cape Town in 10h28. The scheduled duration and actual flight time rarely align, yet I still find myself calculating based on what I think I know rather than what the timetable actually says.

The More Immediate Concern

Before settling into my seat, though, there was a more pressing matter to address. Using the customer assistance service meant I was one of the first to board the aircraft, and I went to the toilets first before returning to my seat to check the journey duration. It was then that I noticed the discrepancy in flight times.

The flow is low and feels constricted. Whilst the urgency is pressing, the initiation starts late and the duration is long, much longer than usual. However, there are times when it suddenly seems to unclog with the greatest ease and relief. I have noticed this in the past couple of days, and it elevates concern.

The trouble with bladder plumbing, a consequence of prostate cancer and radiotherapy treatment, is one I cannot ignore, even if I seem to manage it well. Though on Saturday, as I walked back home, I found neither refuge nor respite, no place to flash my "Just Can't Wait " card. Consequently, I wet myself. The incontinence underwear was no match for the torrential release.

A Saving Grace

The cover of darkness and the length of my winter overcoat became my saving grace, concealing the wet patch on my bright red chinos and sparing me the shame and embarrassment. What a relief when I eventually got home.

The usual dearth of facilities for people with conditions like mine is something I navigate daily, but Saturday reminded me how fragile that management can be. We make assumptions about many things: flight times, the availability of toilets, our own bodies. Sometimes reality has other ideas.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: Playing truant at The Scrooge School of Corporate Christmas

The Spectre of Christmas Parties

Christmas parties are a genre I would rather not be part of, having attended two such events in the 1990s. Both were experiences I would prefer to forget, with recollections close to reliving a nightmare. Part of me would say I would never have been found in the company of those I was with, but for the circumstances enabling it.

In the first instance, we attended a tavern close to Tower Hill. It was themed as a medieval banquet, complete with all the excesses of drink and meat, along with the bawdiness that chose to disrespect the waitresses as part of the entertainment. My verdict: never again.

A Sobering Experience

Then, in a swanky hotel in the West End, when I moved to another company, the alcohol flowed freely. I had the unfortunate situation of being the only sober man, apart from the drivers, for probably ten miles.

I learnt a great deal from my colleagues that evening. The setting, I later discovered, served as the consummation of an illicit affair between married people. It was full-blown adultery, and I knew nothing about it at the time.

My manager, full of drink and many words, took to whispering in my ear about how much he liked me, the work I did, and many other things that would have left me more red-faced than a ripe beetroot. I kept what he said close to my chest. At least I knew I enjoyed a lot of favour and liking from my boss; for a contractor, it also meant someone was fighting your corner.

The Art of Absence

From then on, I mostly absented myself from such gatherings. I couldn't make it, I was on holiday, or I found an occupation that could pass for an excuse.

Three such parties came on my calendar this year. The first was an invitation to participants on a project we finally got over the line last month. They all came from the provinces into Manchester and totally went to town. After dinner, I was ready to go home whilst they were off to a pub and much else.

One of them was inviting others to a party at 4:30 AM. Even as a night-time insomniac, that was well past my bedtime. I was home just after 11:00 PM to take my medication and snuggle up in bed, not knowing that the paracetamol I needed to relieve a headache was bedside too.

Corporate Miserliness

The other, arranged by our management, was a thesis to the Ebenezer Scrooge School of Economics. We were required to bring items in to share when such a season of goodwill, where much was demanded of us outside our remit, should have elected for a spirit of generosity on the corporate AmEx card. I did not attend; I was on leave.

However, this year at work, and I enjoy what I do, has exposed me to characterisations of management that led me to freelancing for almost 30 years. The way the use of authority and status can gradually turn you into a misanthrope, as a product of both being patronised and dehumanised at the same time. It is probably a management technique.

A Genuine Gathering

Then, I have just returned from the restaurant where, as a volunteer to a Black men's support group, I was invited by the convenor to thank us for the support we give to the group. It was just five of us, but it was a very pleasant evening: no alcohol, sober talk, and more communal support for each other.

That will be the end of such parties for 2025. I do not, however, expect those who failed to perform to a standard befitting of their station to have improved. Hopefully, I will not have to be at the receiving end of another exemplification that would make Mr Scrooge proud of this generation of graduates.

Wishing you all a merry Christmas amongst those who care enough to show that they do. Enough said.

Fentanyl Appearing for Pain, Pills, and Policy

Within the depths of pain

In some ways, I probably have a very high pain threshold, but in late 2009, my pain tolerance was completely overwhelmed when I had cancer in my left foot, with fungating tumours and blackened skin lesions, both deadly and deathly.

Standard painkillers (paracetamol) and stronger medication (tramadol) failed to relieve the pain. It was so intense that I could not put my foot down without crying. In the hospital, I was given morphine, but that only lasted two days before I was vomiting everything.

The Search for Effective Pain Relief

Then came OxyContin, but I was not given enough of it. The nurses seemed to be rationing it even as I begged for relief. However, when I was discharged after 18 nights in the hospital, my pain medication was adjusted. Multiple types of pain relief were administered to target different aspects of the pain.

Paracetamol, oxycodone, and a fentanyl transdermal patch; all that, and pain still persisted, sometimes taking centre stage. I resorted to almost hysterical laughter to release endorphins as a form of palliative coping.

After another consultation, I told the doctor I was still experiencing pain. In his view, my medication should have been sufficient; it was not. He doubled the dose of the fentanyl patch, and only then did I achieve what might be called pain relief.

The Path to Recovery

I was on pain medication from late September 2009, and by the end of January 2010, the tumours were gone. I had fresh, pink skin on the soles of my feet, a miracle of medicine, but it involved gruelling treatment, including chemotherapy and its dreadful side effects.

The pain had gone by March, so I removed the fentanyl patch. Big mistake. I salivated excessively, spat out mouthfuls of saliva, and became severely diarrhoeic. I had to reapply the patch. From this, I learned I needed to wean myself off it gradually. I kept it on for twice as long while gradually reducing the dose by halving the patch at each change.

It took three months to fully stop using the patch, long after I no longer needed any sort of pain relief.

Understanding Fentanyl's Role

Without fentanyl for this level of pain, life would have been unbearable, almost not worth living. One day, the patch fell off. Not knowing you could cover it with a transdermal sticker or plaster to keep it in place until the new patch was ready, I was laughing deliriously. My friend thought I had lost my mind; it was a protective mechanism. If I hadn’t been laughing, I might have been dying from unbearable pain.

Today, fentanyl should only be taken under medical supervision. I also understand that not everyone has experienced the severe pain I did, nor have suffered the otherworldly pain others endure; my pain was eventually brought under control, subsided, and disappeared entirely. I consider myself extremely fortunate.

My body became so accustomed to fentanyl that I couldn’t simply stop using it. It took willpower and determination; perhaps a rare gift. We all have different physiological responses. I am not seeking praise for that.

A Broader Perspective

Beyond the need for medication for chronic pain, there are issues of susceptibility to addiction, both requiring a sensible, empathetic approach under medical guidance across a broad spectrum of related conditions.

Regarding fentanyl as a narcotic, I feel ambivalent. People don’t become addicts solely by enjoying sweets; there are complex circumstances that I believe cannot be addressed purely through criminal justice.

Labelling fentanyl as a weapon of mass destruction would be narrow-minded and lacking understanding of human suffering, especially in pain management.

Learning from Recent Experience

My perspective is personal. I am cautious with medications, aware of their addiction potential. Recently, I used codeine, which converts to morphine in the body, to manage penile and urethral pain during the fourth week of radiotherapy for prostate cancer.

Prescribed to be taken up to four times daily, I rarely exceeded two tablets a day. After three days, I only took one tablet at night. I still felt pain and discomfort, but consciously avoided the lengthy process of weaning off codeine once my body adjusted.

As long as those who truly need such pain management are not disadvantaged by misguided policies, I hope this decision by the White House does not, in pursuit of an ideal, create suffering for many who simply seek relief.

Pain in my blogs

Blog - In hospital to kill the pain

Blog - Getting off the pain train

Blog - Generally responsive and dealing with pain

Blog - Stronger medicine and another course of chemo

Blog - Boldly tell your doctor everything

Blog - Off and back on the pain patch

Blog - Opinion: Where addiction and tragedy can confuse issues

Blog - Knowing pain is personal

Writing Well: Craft and Wellspring

Well, it’s tough

“Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.” This quote is attributed to both John Sheffield, 1st Duke of Buckingham and Normanby (1647–1721) and André Breton (1896–1966); however, I do not intend to make any issue of the results of my internet search.

Writing well can be viewed as both a wellspring and a craft. At least, this became my reading of the quote, not as a sign of wisdom, but as a recognition that the willingness to express oneself and the choice of expression have won changes in areas that seem intractable.

Over the last few weeks, the teams in which I work have found themselves subject to management's pressing inclination to seek statistical successes with little consideration of the effort involved that does not show up in the figures. It has been nigh on impossible to communicate the difficulties in our battles to tackle the problems we have encountered.

Well, Bad Faith

At one point, in what was clearly a breach of trust and confidence, we were both threatened and bullied. It was a particularly low exercise of managerial control, oblivious of everything but meeting some arbitrary target. It rankled so much that I even found my voice fading in agitation, anger, and angst whilst challenging the various ungallant uses of office.

Much as I appreciate that people in authority might be caught up in the illusions of power and demands, they cannot defy the reality of the practical elements necessary for achieving what they want. It is against this backdrop that I entered the fray of another push for targets without a sense of effort.

My goal, expressed a few days before, was for management to reward those putting in the most to achieve the target, even if the seemingly impossible target could not be met and the goalposts shifted in the meagre rewards they were offering. A difficult exchange ensued that first challenged the premise, then conditioned the situation, before adjusting the focus.

Well, Write Well

Fetching from the writing well of wisdom, gauging the time to interject and pressing the case, I first exposed the numbers malady before setting the perspective. This was presented in an inadvertent comment from a manager; my response was a case of writing well for effect.

It put the purpose on the defensive and led to a reassessment of the goal, but I held back from responding further. The ordered use of words is a skill demanding the scalpel blade of teasing rather than the machete of chopping. What ensued included receiving a slight rebuke, but the bruises of battle are part of being in a fight, though it rarely feels like one when the other party needs to exert authority.

The initiative eventually came without my suggesting it directly. Whether the target is met or not, the best-performing member of the team will be adequately rewarded. This should have been done the week before, beyond empty platitudes. Is it any wonder morale is so low?

Well, Just Write

The writing well is a resource from which I have dug deep to fetch the fresh water of writing well in the art of persuasion. The wounds matter less given the many victories won through time. I don't even bother to celebrate the wins, except in appreciation of the gift of writing well.

I suppose this is why this blog exists. Of all the mediums of expression available to engage us, writing has the potential to exist long after interest has been lost in hearing and watching people perform.

A realisation of poorly availing oneself of support systems

The after-cancer misconceptions

There is one blessing of effective recuperation that allows many to perceive one's apparent return to normalcy in most activities, suggests the illness suffered was not that serious.

Let me put it back in context, when I received a diagnosis leading to a prognosis almost 16 years ago, my consultant clearly stated in uncertain terms that if I could not tolerate the treatment, which was chemotherapy, I had probably 5 weeks to live.

In that state, I had already lost a quarter of my normal body weight, and I was in literally unmanageable pain, because I did not tolerate morphine that well.

My left foot was seething with fungating tumours, with two of my toes, the largest and the next about to fall off. However, because I was blogging through the experience, some people thought I was just having a bed rest.

Once again, I appreciate many may have no concept of what cancer is, and how it affects, the spirit, the mind, and more evidently, the body. It is a nasty malfunction in the body that in many cases leads to death. This is not to exaggerate the effect of cancer, but it should not be brushed away with indifference, because one has survived and is thriving after a cancer diagnosis.

It is a serious disease

For those of us fortunate to come out at the other end, to tell our stories, we are no better than those who succumbed to the disease. In my view, it is the medical personnel that battles cancer bringing the body of knowledge acquired from treating cancer to bear on our ailing bodies.

It is the same with my second encounter with cancer, I felt quite different because it was invisible and painless, yet deadly. It was blood tests that informed the need for an MRI scan and then a biopsy of my prostate gland showed cancerous cells for which the consultant recommended immediate active treatment.

This was not a mild headache needing an analgesic, every treatment was radical and impactful with sometimes debilitating and lingering side effects.

Nine months after I completed radiotherapy, my normal voice is in the forgotten past, urinary and bowel issues persist, night-time insomnia upsets my sleeping patterns that certain days at work find little verve or strength to perform in the afternoons.

Reviewing the support systems

Much as I tried to manage my return to work with the support of experts, by sheer personality and will, I fear I might have exerted myself to the extent that leaves me wondering if I have poorly managed things. My sense of independence tends to dispense of the reliance on support systems long before I have fully benefited from what it all has to offer.

Certain motivations have given way to lethargy, the mix of the political leading the technical in my workplace can exacerbate stress.

What I must avoid at all costs is a relapse and I do not think I am doing enough as both the cancer support nurse consultant and occupational health specialist have notified me of their intention to close my file, as I have recently not leant on them for support in the last couple of months.

From a medical standpoint, I have not been discharged by the oncologist or the urologist, their schedule is to monitor my situation for another two years.

One would think these support systems should run in tandem, but that does not seem to be the case. My response to them would offer thanks and express my concerns.

As for me, each day is a blessing, and things would only get better. I have promised myself; I would rather be able than be a person with disabilities due to my circumstances, but I should do that in view of the limitations borne by my condition.

Basil Fawlty is in Cape Town

What you see is anything you get

We had such an abundance of choices about where to spend the rest of our time in Cape Town, that the decision took days. The fact that some advertisers on hotels.com do not bother to update information about their properties and most especially the pictures leave one wondering what is available and what is not.

For instance, where we are staying now, the information about the property said there was no lift in the building and that there was only a shower in the apartment. Well, there was a lift, and it was not recently installed and how do you miss a bathtub in a bathroom?

Who we saw was something to see

The new place we booked for an overlapping day for checking in and checking out said there was only Wi-Fi in the public places apart from the fact that the pictures depicted a different place from the address that I had to visit the property manager to confirm the situation. One of the pictures had an old-style cathode ray tube television when the detail suggested a flat-screen television. You do wonder what these property agents get paid for.

Taking Brian with me to collect the keys, there was no way I could have returned to tell him of my experience with the agent and he would have believed me. The agent, a rather unkempt man well into his sixties, if not seventies who should have retired probably a decade ago attended to us, and I use attended quite loosely.

What we saw was nothing we’d seen

He was as disorganised as to have that be a credit to his managerial prowess, I sat watching as he attempted to get many things done and successfully half-complete anything, even as he fielded telephone calls, gave instructions, confirmed bookings and we were to pay a breakage deposit and collect the keys to the apartment.

It so happened that he also had to show us into the apartment, moving supermarket trolleys around his jumbled office, grabbed linen and other essentials before giving us a ride in his car to the apartment. We could have been riding shotgun with a twisting roller-coaster for the road when a call came in.

How he drove was daringly crazy

He unbuckled his seatbelt to get the phone that he put in his ear with the left hand in a right-hand drive vehicle when we began to veer off the road. So, whilst holding on to the phone conversing, he took his right hand off the steering wheel to shift the manual gear across his body to the left, we prayed and it was close to our destination as we silently promised ourselves never to be a car where he was driver, ever again.

The man who has probably been in property management for decades has a good idea of what he should be doing, but there is no doubt that he needs not just help, but a professional air of competence that belies his business, for my patience was tested and my mettle experienced a dip in tolerance. If Brian were not there, I cannot tell of what I would have done.

Who he was, was someone we knew

When he told me his name a few days ago, I thought I heard the English name Basil which left me concerned about having encountered the South African version of Basil Fawlty of Fawlty Towers. And though his name does end up in the English version, if so addressed, we could never have met up with a better version of the hotelier as a property manager. The less said the better. It was an ordeal and a half, that I was not all shook up leaves me rather staggered.

Now, give the cat some milk

A backroom Rottweiler

Nothing can be as irksome as interlopers encroaching on the areas of expertise of others to usurp a situation. A 33-year career in Information Technology leaves you too aware of many things that you find yourself restraining yourself from stating the bleeding obvious short of lacing your apparent vitriol with expletives.

In my profession, whilst I am engaged as subject matter expert, I prefer to stay in the background and feed my line management with the information and arguments they need to make to the business or entities for what we want to do. Where I do attend meetings, I am conscious of the fact that where the comfortable are being comforted the more and the afflicted suffer even more grievous affliction, I come to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted.

Don’t project your failure

That is why a project manager who thinks they can bend everyone to their will would hate an encounter with me because I do not mince words, I say things others might never find the phraseology to express.

Like when one said we have to work weekends if need be and I retorted, we all have lives outside of the work, that weekends could not be seized on without due consideration. I might have gone on to say it was a failure of core project management not to have properly assessed the time, resources, and cost to complete a project because no one talked to the people who mattered.

They really work you up

Teams are engaged to solve problems or create solutions as a daily activity, yet someone somewhere in the organisation rather than come round to discuss the scenario they need a solution for, they craft elaborate and pointless solutions not properly understanding the problem in the first place and put our backs up creating unnecessary angst.

If I had any hairs to pull out, I would be pulling clumps out daily. You wonder why they fancy themselves in our roles just to have the satisfaction of activity without achievement. If I were to direct my ire at them, I go on an exploration of the English putdown that acts like slow poison. Do I recall when someone was giving me grief and my one-line response was, “This situation has moved on from personalities to providing a solution.” Now, give the cat some milk. 

Thought Picnic: Taking the animal out of the workplace

The jungle at work

In a working career that is in its 30^th year, I have only twice encountered a situation where the one bestowed the privilege of leadership has been no less a member of the fraternity of the silverback gorilla in the jungle.

It is as if every concept of leading men was taken out of the management guide of Tarzan in his element. They having mastered the jargon and act of obfuscation where the multitude of words suggests the vacuity of purpose, everyone enduring the onslaught of bullshit laid out by the trowel.

Courtesy always matters

In some instances, I have considered myself probably too old-fashioned for certain environments from the surfeit of expletives in the speech to the lack of basic manners in address and conversation, the act of communication might well be served with grunts, growls, barks and quacks.

I have seen better in the animal kingdom in terms of social development and grooming, like who sits beside you on the train or on an aeroplane, you can’t choose the class, breeding or comportment of most of the colleagues you would end up working with.

In the main, even the difficult ones for whatever reason I always found accommodation for and cultivated the means of creating mutual respect which has developed into a friendship. I like to think I am quite easy to get along with. Courtesy matters to me and it is completely in my manner, nature and rearing to be courteous.

Of rotten disrespect

What I cannot stand and abide is indifference and disrespect, especially from those I need to work with daily. Situations where requirements, goals and deliverables that are primarily my function to provide filtering down to me via the grapevine rather than communication and where such attitudes when challenged do not elicit a positive response. A case of persons impervious adaptation within a diverse environment or maybe they cannot handle diversity at all.

Such was the situation that one has had to face in those two situations, animus and uncouth behaviour caught within the metaphor of a rocking horse, much activity, many meetings, idiotic jargon and unnecessary stress borne of being belittled and patronised as if your sojourn in that setting is the pinnacle of your career achievements.

We are first human

The workplace is where people come to work, but primarily the people are human beings, from all backgrounds too diverse to list but amenable to the vagaries of good business conduct. The have feelings, families, lives and much more. When you take away the fundamentals of humanity in your dealings with your colleagues at work, you create tension leading to the untenable.

The absence of the human touch regardless of your inadequacies, prejudices and even ineptitude, leaves one with no other option than to walk and there comes a time when a man has too much self-respect to be treated with disrespect.

What a day it was

Stepping in

It began ominously with the threat that a few new recruits having not been following instructions to the letter would face the axe after the last warning.

I interjected with an unusual intervention that offered to implement a technical check rather than them using the unforgiving rod of strict management. I say unusual because I have on many occasions before resisted moves by management to attempt to manage their staff through technological means when what it needed was a chat between the said parties.

However, in this case, I thought it would be easier to offer a technological solution with a few logging elements that prevented the heretofore mistakes being made again.

Setting up

I went about crafting a solution and when I was satisfied with the first draft, I tested the functionality and then decided to put it through its paces in a simulated live environment.

It was at that point that I noticed one of the critical elements of my infrastructure had gone missing like disappeared without a trace. I was livid and perplexed, as I was being informed that our office move will not take account of contractors who would be expected to hot-desk.

Now, my job is not suited to hot-desking, I have many systems, some for primary usage and others for testing, along with large screens to facilitate my productivity, the whole idea was myopic in the extreme with blanket restrictions on contractual staff that the organisation needs for critical activities but are wont to treat without care or consideration.

Crying out

The first problem, however, was more serious, it meant everything I used to do to create a deliverable product was now not impossible to contemplate. When I lost one of my systems to a redeployment without being notified, I did not make a fuss but the new untrammelled Wild West activity that had crept into this setting was now unacceptably intolerable.

I fired off an email to the supposed new manager in charge of our Wild West, our Wyatt Earp of sorts and I could only heave a sigh of relief to be informed that it had only been switched off because it was not utilised. I held my cool because, as an authentication system, it did not have to be actively accessed, but it always had to be online, anyone should know that.

Sitting down

Soon afterwards, I heard that a desk had been reserved for me in the second tranche of moves, all this good news in the space of an hour. A day that seemed to be going downhill fast was suddenly snatched out of the jaws of despair.

I finished my tests, crafted an implementation notice and sent it off to all that mattered and within minutes, thanks and gratitude came flowing in. What a day that was.

Thought Picnic: May I calmly state?

A balm for calm

The last week has had me in fits of all sorts of rage at work and at play, it has begun to bother me that I need to dial back and consider what is setting me off.

Most of the time, it is disorder; the kind of order that is usually outside my control, the issue of communication, miscommunication or the lack of communication, basically, communication breakdown. It is one I desperately try to reorder, first by intreaty (an archaic word) and then if amends are not made, frustration sets in.

Deliberate deliberating

I have written a few emails and messages, the kind I do not feel comfortable with, but I realise are necessary to clear the air, and they usually do.

The danger is really for those who unaware of my circumstances try to engage me from a negative perspective where normally I am courteous and accommodating, I can be remorselessly curt and nasty.

In some cases, I will apologise, but where my patience is tested, and I am generally a patient man, a discovery can be made. An expletive might creep in shocking those who know that one is rather more refined than to be caught out.

Avoiding the peril

Evidently, I am quite aware of these changes in my demeanour and I try to disengage, calm down and reflect to regain my composure and disposition. I am always a better man than my anger, displeasure and frustration sometimes betrays.

For some, it is the letting off of steam, in my case; it is more like giving away that piece of my mind I do not want to retain, in a frank and blunt expression of views. What I will not brook is those who not knowing me question my premise, for that will be the dangerous case of a boy scratching his itchy nose with the gaping fangs of a viper.

That is lethal and consequently fatal. I can handle this, a few deep breaths and thinking about the lasting impression I hope to leave. Here’s to a better month, march on to better things.

Thought Picnic: Fan, shit and table

Like Line-Management 101

One of the functions of a line-manager is to know how to ensure that the skills pool does not suffer the inconvenience of indispensability.

It is important that a team has experts, knowledgeable people whom we can trust to get things done, yet, it is essential that the expert does not become someone we cannot do without.

That means, there should be someone else able to do whatever the expert does, maybe not as neatly or as quickly, maybe needing some help and guidance, though not necessarily poise to replace the expert, only being there to backfill if necessary.

Continuing Line-Management 101

Part of this line-manager activity is having the resource to get a job that usually gets done by their team available when that job needs to be done, with caveats obviously about the alacrity and finesse. One often needful element is to ensure that the experts document all their procedures and processes, should in case, someone needs to act in the expert’s stead.

A line-manager would have somewhat failed in their responsibility if at the point of need, they have failed to adequately provide resource to fulfil a requirement that all they have is excuses that would adversely affect an operational activity.

Fan, shit and no table – Line-Management failure

At this point, the shit might well hit the fan in an uncomfortable escalation, the line-manager having poorly provided for the consequence, in not having a table to hide under when the shit starts flying.

Sometime ago in an exchange with a colleague, I wrote a rather tersely worded email when it seemed to be looking for who to blame rather than take responsibility for what he was tasked to do. “I cover my arse by doing my job rather than by looking for someone to blame, you should try to do that too.”

The response was a protest, but he had not hiding place, he was exposed just as a line-manager can be exposed by avoidable personnel management flaws.

So there …

A Bit Of Heckler Management - Get OFF My Lawn

The block for peace

On occasion, I have blocked people on Twitter and probably severed one friend connection on Facebook.

They got on my nerves, I entertained them long enough to test my patient resolve and exceed my tolerance levels; it became the only option I had left; sever the relationship, so we can separately get on with our lives.

I have seen this happen to other friends especially on Facebook, they post a status, we all engage and in the midst of it, someone is contrary, negative, abusive or disruptive.

They are adjured and warned to no avail and then the host goes for the nuclear option; unfriend the person and consign all their discourse to oblivion. Life goes on.

Context, context, context

Months ago, I wrote a blog that was essentially for a Nigerian audience but it quickly garnered more visits from the Indian subcontinent because it pertained to an event that took place in India in the 19^th Century.

A cut-out quote was fabricated and misattributed to a personality, I disputed the provenance of the quote, its truthfulness, the setting, but never the spirit. Contextually, many understood the premise of that blog but a few for sentimental, nationalistic or other reasons took issue with the blog and decided to vent in the comment space of my blog.

For long, I entertained their views whilst trying to keep their focus on the facts; that the quote was wrong, that it was not made to the British Parliament, and that any other discussion should go to another forum.

However hard I tried, it descended into ad hominem attacks and worse, then I realised, this is my blog, this is my space, and I have total control over what is posted as blogs or as comments.

Heckler management

My comment advisory clearly suggests any comments should be in consonance and within the context of the blog commented on and that I will not countenance discourteous expression.

I will engage in robust discussion with anyone on my blog, in the comment space, on Facebook or on Twitter, but I know when to run away, rarely from an argument but definitely from a mad man.

My blog requires a dose of heckler management; I have written my blog, allowed the broadest engagement but to a point where if the engagement detracts and contributes nothing new to the core material but ad hominem attacks, I will have the heckler removed along with every opinion the heckler proffered regardless of what said before.

Get off my lawn

That is my prerogative, and I will exercise it sparingly yet with alacrity, with dispatch and with ruthlessness, if need be. It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.

I have decided not to allow the irritation of one person to spoil the open forum for interaction on my blog. I will henceforth remove all trace of their views and blacklist them.

We are strangers here and the least that we can expect of each other regardless of our views, is respect, courtesy and dignified expression. You fall short; you fall out.

Life is too short for nonsense, and we can go on to have a nice life in our separate places on our different lawns. These rotten hecklers will sap you of the will to do anything productive if you let them, I am done with this.

Ìrírí - How our brotherly love could have blossomed

Pre-term brothers

Just a few minutes ago, I ended a conversation with my father that took us down memory lane with comparisons of realities of life that left me in surprise and shock bordering on rage.

There were many stories but the one I never knew was about my half-brother who before he received a given name experienced the misfortune of being born into an avoidable situation exacerbated by systemic failures in Nigeria.

My half-brother and I were born over 40 years apart, in literally similar circumstances but in different lands. We were both prematurely born, he arrived at just over 7 months, I arrived in 6 and a half months, somehow, we were delivered in maternity homes without facilities to cater for the prematurely born that we had to be moved to better equipped hospitals and that is where our stories begin to diverge.

Our separate lives

On the cold morning in 1965, after I was born, arrangements were made to move me to a major city hospital where as my father recounted to me, I had all the hallmarks of royal treatment – spacious, well-ventilated room, with nurses and medical personnel at my beck and call, I did not lack for care, comfort or succour – I am 47.

My half-brother, let’s call him Ìrírí (Yoruba for experience) was born in Ibadan which at one time was famed to be the largest city in Africa along with many firsts.

He was rushed to University College Hospital (UCH), Ibadan the premier teaching hospital in Nigeria where a philanthropist had previously donated 6 incubators to the Paediatric Unit to cater for premature birth.

Five of six, down

Ìrírí arrived to find that five of the incubators were out of commission but was fortunate for a few hours to have the only functioning incubator temporarily vacated for him to at least have a fighting chance to lay claim on a Nigeria of our dreams.

However, alternative arrangements had to be made for Ìrírí, so when he had stabilised, the decision was made to transfer him to an incubator installed in the private practice of one of the UCH consultants, also in Ibadan.

Ìrírí made it to that practice but at the same time, he became an everyday Nigerian at the mercy of too many things out his control. The incubator was vacant and available but the public electricity supply was down and as if fate had colluded to deprive Ìrírí of an inalienable right, the backup electricity supply could not be provided because the generators will not start.

Ìrírí rests

So, Ìrírí mustered all the strength he had to survive, he wriggled and writhed, panted for breath, desperately hoped that his heart will hold out and many other organs that were not fully developed for earthly experience strained at the limits of their ability without the support they all needed – after trying so hard, they decided this earthly experience was not worth it.

There, Ìrírí drew his last breath bidding the earth farewell but leaving a most indelible mark on the lives he has touched for the short while of just about 36 hours that he was with us – over 40 years after Akin was born in England, Ìrírí could not survive similar circumstances in an independent Nigeria in its 6^th decade.

Time, manner and place

Then my father drew comparisons between Ìrírí and myself; as a poor student just about to take up a job in a sorting office for Christmas, I was born just 2 days after they had moved house, my mother’s labour probably brought on by the stress of moving house, I had the best of facilities provided at no cost at the behest of the government and here I stand.

Back in our home country of Nigeria, everything had to be paid for and it made no difference to the outcome, the experience was harrowing, the prognosis was dire and either as a microcosm or snapshot of the Nigerian experience, the short life of Ìrírí exemplifies so many things that are just not right with Nigeria.

The premier teaching hospital in the country had 5 out of 6 donated incubators out of commission, this does touch the matter of pre-existing incubators or what might have caused a philanthropist to make those donations.

Murder by proxy

Then the matter of usage and maintenance that led to the failure of the incubators that none of the management thought it prudent to either seek new funding from the donor or go on a fund-raising drive which contributed to the murder-by-proxy of Ìrírí.

I do wonder what the philanthropist would have felt if he learnt that the equipment he donated to the hospital had fallen into disrepair that the purposes for which the incubators were acquired could no more be served.

Then think of the many like my dear Ìrírí whose experience of this world was truncated by a system that serves nothing but rank incompetence, mismanagement, corruption, malfeasance and worse.

It ought not to be so, but that is one of the realities of Nigeria today.

Dear Ìrírí, Rest in peace, my half-brother, Nigeria did not deserve you.

Thought Picnic: Villa Bellagio - a case of a manager beyond her depth

A bad manager

When  I consider the issues I have with Villa Bellagio, the hotel I have stayed in for 2 weeks now that has failed to resolve the 10 day loss of wireless internet service, I see a serious deficit in problem management that I put down mainly to the manager at first and then to the brand.

The hotel in advertsiements clearly touts that it offers free Wi-Fi, it is part of the product set and like I have said before, one of the things people check for when booking a hotel is the availability of Internet connectivity, either wired or wireless. It is also becoming uncompetitive to charge for that service and this trend was started by hotels with the Radisson brand name and it has extended to the group and now beyond that.

The lies are many

The manager had a story as regards the loss of this service for the first 4 days which was far from the truth when she blamed it on Swisscom saying other hotels were having the same problem when our own independent investigation determined that the hotel or possibly the hotel chain itself had cancelled their contract with Swisscom.

Apparently she was not aware of that situation until I informed her of the situation. What amazed me was how such a unique selling point in the hospitality industry could have been missed by a manager running a hotel with about 100 rooms.

I accept the fact that we are unusual clientele for the fact that we have spent more the typical average stay of less than 3 nights such that the story that might have worked for short-stayers will not work for us, but it makes the issue nonetheless urgent.

No problem ownership

She never once owned the problem from the very start, everything else was to blame, Swisscom first, then her head office and now probably us for being a nuisance demanding the service be restored.

She no doubt must have had a discussion with her staff because I first heard of the “it is a complementary service” line came from one of the desk clerks, but she was missing a fundamental point which was, complementary or not, this was part of hotel service just as much as one will expect to have one’s room cleaned, clean bed linen, a television and even a fridge, if not a mini-bar.

No re-mediation steps

Between the hotel group and the hotel, they cannot have been unaware of the pending loss of this service and facilitated a replacement, first with immediate re-mediation pending the installation of the new service with presumably the service provider I am told they have signed up with, but I am nowhere near believing that she has told the truth here either.

In fact, I have come to the conclusion she will manufacture any story to get her out of a sticky confrontation with me that I will need to contact the head office myself and remonstrate about this dissimulating manager.

Beyond her depth

Beyond the being a hotel desk clerk able to check-in and check-out middle-aged to retired Far-East Asian guests, this lady who has been promoted well beyond her capabilities cannot really manage a hotel, she by terms looks no different from her staff and lacks the requisite aptitude to manage even the simplest situation of giving priority to rooms that clearly have “Please Make Up My Room” door signs over other non-urgent rooms. [See earlier blogs on this.]

That it has taken this exceptional situation to recognise a fundamental flaw is both unfortunate and careless, she has not grown to the challenge and by that, she might well destroy both her job and the brand too just because 6 people came to stay 3 long weeks at the hotel and got a good feel of how it really is being run.

Abandon hope

So, once again, I was at the desk this morning, we had extended our stay for another 2 nights; at this stage there really was no reason to change hotels even though we had another week to run. Our patience has been tested, our endurance of the incomprehensible has been tried, and life goes on.

There. I learnt that new phone lines have to be put in on Monday and then the wireless connectivity will be restored thereafter. I did not believe one word of what she said apart from understanding we might not get the service restored before we leave and that is if ever the service will be restored at all, it has gone on too long to hold that prospect.

When I asked for a contact at their head office, she said she will call up for me and then connect the person to my room. Trust had broken down to the level that I just told her, I will find out myself and make my own call.