Waving, Not Drowning

Hello. Sorry. Where’s April gone?…

I can’t use the excuse of constantly being on the road with work as reason for the lengthy hiatus in blogging - I mean, I’m not the Rolling Stones… But the highway has been long, the miles many and my car is feeling worrying shagged because of this.

Now I don’t know whether it’s just the way my brain is wired, if it’s brought on by sleep deprivation, or maybe everyone has such a mental playfulness on long journeys, but I’m supremely thankful of the ability to amuse myself in the car (stop making up your own jokes in the back!).

Wednesday saw me rise early to head to Cardiff, followed - after a full day talking at people - by another long haul to Blackpool. The morning jaunt (apologies to anyone who follows my Twitters - as I’m about to recycle) saw me playing motorway tag with a nondescript 4x4. Nondescript that is aside from the legend emblazoned on the rear - ‘Fencer to the Gentry’. What a wonderful slogan! How often do you see that?

My mind regarded this as golden currency to conjure with. My immediate summation was that the driver of said vehicle was some kind of on-call sparring partner to the aristocracy. 4am and some clattered old Duke has an insatiable need to duel - who ya gonna call?…

This scenario played out for some time until finally I passed the vehicle and supplementary text down the side of the car made it clear the driver was merely in the business of erecting posh fences. Shame, that.

Anyway, that digression is merely a long preamble to this blog’s topic; setting expectations and boundaries (groan!).

Once I’d finally arrived - later that day - in Britain’s laughable comparison with Las Vegas, Blackpool, I checked into the hotel and met my boss in the bar. Now whilst it takes up an inordinate amount of my time managing my manager, he is fundamentally an entertaining drinking companion and not slow in getting the beers in. Much later into the evening than my day’s exploits should have permitted, my boss glanced at his phone and lamented the amount of emails that had been churning through all night. And yet he’d not switched modes himself by having his work and personal means of communication one and the same.

Being a staunch family man and very protective of my own personal space and time, I’ve set very clear expectations with any job I’ve taken. When workload requires long hours I will do them (very occasionally under duress), but I make damn sure I claw back some ‘me’ time when it suits my personal life and schedule. I have rarely found the need to work into the weekend, when all around me colleagues have made great show of the sacrifices they’ve been making. Often I see that coming down to a shaky moral code and lack of organisational skills rather than business so grave that it should eat into drinking time.

Or maybe I’m just lazy.

But in my line of work it’s not like we’re curing cancer. If your line of work is curing cancer, please disregard all of the above and get your skates on. You knew what you were getting into and when the job is done, take the rest of your life off…

Colleagues have scoffed at the personal expense of my running two mobile phones, but when I switch off that business mobile at a time of my choosing and my life begins anew without fear of corporate stupidity infringing, well - I fail to put a price on that.

And whether by design or pure luck (and I’ll jinx my good fortune now by writing it, I’m sure) I lead a healthy life both physically and for the most part mentally. Years and years have slipped past without my taking a sick day. Those who toil into the night and across weekends are rarely able to say this - and the sad fact is it usually takes someone in their forties dropping dead in front of them before they temporarily reassess their priorities.

I may yet drop down dead in my forties, but it won’t be from corporate slavery.

Okay, maybe some folk love their jobs and careers far more than me. If I were a porn star or a cake taster, perhaps I’d have more commitment. Then there’s the danger of being so totally absorbed by your job that you lose your ‘self’. I went to an ‘Evening With’ - supremely lucid into his 70’s - master raconteur Clive James last night, where he recalled what a perfect mimic Peter Sellers was, to the point where Sellers had no voice or personality of his own. And look at the train wrecks he left behind. An extreme and very specific case, but a cautionary tale nonetheless.

And I know in these current economically terrifying times that it’s deemed more important than ever to tow the line and keep one’s head down - and maybe my ethos is seen as awkward and baffling by my employers; but I’ve yet (and here comes the jinxing again) to be fired for it.

Now who’s the boss of you?

Stay independent.
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