Learning to talk to myself?

I went to London last week (the day before going to Lloyds) to a day's training - and an interesting day it turned out to be. The first half of the day was about learning how to talk out loud to yourself, and appearing madder than I already am. Well, OK, that's perhaps not exactly what we learned, but that's part of it.

Image streaming! It was, I have to say, very interesting and - for someone as visual and (I think) creative as me - very useful.

Image streaming is a bit like visualisation (using images to stimulate creativity) but the difference is you have to say out loud what you see. There's quite a few rules, well - concepts really - to make it successful, and you have to be prepared to talk out loud (so privacy is always good). But the results are scientifically supposed to increase IQ, so can't be a bad thing. There were some interesting points raised by various people in the group, and it also struck a chord with me on the music reading thing. When I play with the Brookfield Band they always give me music (which I can't read) with the chords under the staves (which I can read!). I discovered that I can play quicker if I say the chord names out loud than if I just read them. So - the thing about the brain processing more quickly or efficiently because I verbalise is certainly true for me.

I partnered up with a young woman from a college in Portsmouth, she's starting her own life coaching business. We got on well and at lunch time I took her down Portobello Road as she'd never been there. Unfortunately, not a market day, but it was sunny and we enjoyed the walk in the quiet suburban streets of London. We did the 'image streaming' together and it was intersting. She started in her garden, went for a drive, ended up in the countryside and then by a lake. My images started in the desert, included her walk in the countryside and had some quite strange juxtapositions of desert and woodland.

One of the rules is don't try to interpret as you go along, let it come to you at a future date, or you will end up 'directing' the images. So, no analysis forthcoming I'm afraid!

I have tried it twice so far (apart from the 'experiment' in the training itself) and I have had a few ideas sort themselves out, so it could be working. But I need the space and time - and privacy - to try it properly and not feel a right dork mumbling about what I see in my head. And to be honest, what I see in my head sometimes is quite bizarre (yeah, even more bizarre than some of the gigs I've played!).

The technique was developed by Win Wenger - so I'll check out his website and see what else I can learn. And practice a bit more too - when no one's listening!

But image streaming wasn't the only thing we did - we also had a session on 'emotional intelligence'. Now, I knew a bit about it as it features in some of the leadership stuff my boss does, but this was more in depth, but still only scratching the surface.

Interesting stuff again - but not nearly as much fun as the image streaming. The day ended with a discussion or more of a presentation on the change in western culture (mostly US) and the cyclical swing from 'civic' to 'individual' in 40 year chunks. Actually, it was just an excuse for the presenter to play his favourite songs from the last few decades, but some interesting research in there too.

A useful day for me, I certainly felt the image streaming will be something I can use, and enjoy just for the sake of it too.

I'd rather be dancing...

That's the title of one of my songs. And I wrote it because of my neighbour, Debbie, who is a dancer. We've been friends for about 8 years now, and our daughters are only a year apart in age. The other day when she came round, she told me about their annual Lindy Hop dance and how she was doing a barbecue. Well, however the conversation went, I ended up volunteering to cook for the afternoon workshops. So, barbecue for 30.... why not!? Well, Debbie is a hairdresser and she was wielding a sharp instrument in my direction - it seemed a good idea to 'volunteer'.

The Saturday of the dance arrived and I arrived at the school hall at 3.30pm whilst they were doing dance workshops. When it comes to dancing, I can just about cope with a barn dance, but what they were doing was something else. They hopped, jumped, slid, almost threw each other around. I fired up the gas barbecue and was introduced to the meat - some skinny burgers, things on sticks, frankfurters (frankfurters for a barbecue?!), ribs, sausages, more things on sticks... The gas barbecue heated up quickly so I got my sausages cooked well and truly. One set of tongs for fresh meat, one set for cooked, a tea towel over my shoulder, baseball cap to keep my hair out the way and an apron. And a thick, thick cardigan - it was a bank holiday weekend and consequently bloody freezing! (Yeah, even in May.)

Sausages on, I was distracted by a noise from the trees behind me. I strolled over the grass and saw, to my delight, baby blue tits hopping about the branches. Back to the barbecue - wanted sausages, not charcoal. Steve, one of the dancers and a regular at the club that Debbie and her partner run, came over to chat to me. He and his wife Sue had arranged the food. Lots of salad, and (after a brief inspection by Debbie) not quite enough meat. Meanwhile, hall doors open, I could see the dancers learning some kind of 'jumping' dance move and it looked most odd (to my inexpert eyes, of course).

The things on sticks looked, especially once cooked, very much like a dog turd. "Dog turds on a stick!" I shouted out when the barbecue was ready. Plates of sausages and other meats (Debbie had rushed out and bought more) were being cooked and taken into the hall, but my stick-turds took a little longer to cook and I didn't want them left out. The problem with things on wooden sticks, on a barbecue, is the wood burns and the sticks fall off. "Watch out for the ones with a surprise in the middle!" - the non-burnt sticks in the middle of the "turds". Well, poor marketing you may have thought, but I was getting requests for "another dog turd please..." so my cooking can't have been too bad.

I was thoroughly smoked myself, warm now though - and enjoying feeding the hordes. The burgers were useless - thin floppy things that tried to escape through the bars of the barbecue and suffered a fate worse than eating, but mostly I managed to cook and serve reasonably edible fare.

After two hours, it was time for me to disappear whilst they prepared the hall for the evening dance. I would return, but not - indeed - to dance.

9pm and I went back to the dance - the hall now dark and decked, the band (five piece swing band, loud, lively, lovely) in full pelt. The floor was alive with dancers - and the most incredible dancing it is too. Lindy Hop is like jive and rock and roll and all sorts (oh I could get in trouble with the purists here I know) but such fun to watch. Hayley, Debbie's 14 year old daughter, was dancing with Paul (Debbie's husband). They moved fantastically - Hayley was easily as good as any of the adult dancers there and as she danced her face was alight: a bright smile that was genuine (not like those plastered on ones you see on ballroom dancers - you can hear the instructor loudly calling 'smile'! behind every one of those).

"Do you dance?" I was asked. "I can't dance." I answered - but the truth is, I don't know. I just never learned I suppose. I was tempted to learn, watching them, but I have a feeling the 'flinging about' might just do my dodgy shoulder no good at all.

The band were great, double bass, drums, sax, guitar and vocals and keyboards - all wearing white shirts and colourful ties. But at their break (and this was the reason I had returned to the dance, after all), there was another band doing a guest spot: the Jivettes.

Hayley and four of her school friends went on stage, Hayley clutching her double bass (Buster, bigger than she is!) and her friends on keys, trumpet, sax and drums. They played two songs and once again Hayley shone: she sang and played the double bass and - of course! - the crowd loved it. I loved it.

I chatted to her father, Graham, afterwards, he was very proud too (as was his wife, Stella). This wasn't his world - the dancing, the music, but he was (in a demure way I have to confess) exceedingly proud of his daughter, and rightly so. "Must go," he said, "say goodbye to Terry" (Hayley's brother and a bit of a rascal, to be honest). I was off too, having enjoyed watching the dancers and of course Hayley's performance. I heard later that he didn't even say goodbye to Hayley, which must have hurt her feelings.

So - a sneak look at another world - that of Lindy Hop. Dancers of all ages, all races, all abilities, and all - without exception - having fun.

Fish out of water

Anyone who knows me knows I have no tastes in clothes or dress sense. I rely on the advice of friends, colleagues and my 13-year-old daughter (a look from her is amply sufficient to deter me from making a bad choice). But no one intervened in time to save me from this faux pas!

Knowing I was going into London I wore a smart, dark brown suede skirt and (as a brown jacket that I though matched nicely had previously been pointed out to me as 'too severe') a tan suede jacket. A bit hot for a warm May train ride into London, but with a pale pink sleeveless top I didn't think it looked too bad.


I wish I'd looked in the mirror though (not something I do often, have to admit, apart from to apply a little slap and brighten up the old mush). When I arrived at my destination, however, I realised that I stood out like a... well, like a country bumpkin! Because my destination was Lloyds of London - that hallowed City establishment. OK, I was smart enough, but I was very 'brown' - and everyone round me was suited, booted, ready to ... well, whatever it is they do in Lloyds. I sat down in the reception area (having been given a pass, had a urine test, retina eye scan.. well, OK, maybe not quite that rigorous) and some chap in a dark blue pin stripe on the other (deep leather) sofa was saying into hims mobile "yes, after £50 million, sure - he can have that for free... but after £60 million ..." I tuned out. Another world - not my world.

My lady came down to meet me - she looked very smart in a black dress (fantastic actually, given that she's 5 months pregnant) and we went to lunch at a local French restaurant for our meeting. As we exited the Lloyds building I asked her about the architect. Built in the 80's, it looked to me like a huge pile of tin cans - just on the verge of going rusty (not brown, but covered in that grime that layers any flat surface in a city). "What's it like to work in?" I asked - and she wasn't that impressed. She is not on the 'trading floor' but in the offices - where the main area is open plan and the managers' offices are all round the edge, so no one in the middle gets any natural daylight. They are refurbishing to make it all open plan.

We had a good meeting over lunch. She is about 34, smart, pretty and obviously a smart cookie. Looks good in black. Then there's me - more than ten years her senior, hair with stay greys fighting the remnant colour, dressed in something that would perhaps not have seemed out of place on an Indian reservation. But nonetheless, we got on well, established an easy rapport and the business end of our meeting was simple and both of us were happy with the outcome.

I went back with her to the Lloyds building to inspect the room we are going to use for a meeting in September: in the basement of this huge steel monstrosity is the perfectly 'preserved' Old Library from the original Lloyds building. Dismantled piece by piece, reconstructed and now used as a meeting room. Dark oak panelled walls, bookshelves, a gallery, a ship carved into one panel, paintings, hi-tech presentation equipment... the whole room an anachronism. Which, actually, I quite liked.

We parted and (after purchasing a postcard of the building) I headed back for the office, to Liverpool Street to catch a main line train. As I sat on the train I got out my notebook and did some work - catching up on various bits and pieces that needed doing. "The next station will be Rye House..." the recorded voice said. I looked up. We had just left Rye House... "The next station will be Cheshunt..." the voice said again, once we'd left Cheshunt. "This train is for London Liverpool Street..." Eh? Back the way we'd come? No... we were still going in the right direction, but obviously something was up with the recorded announcements.

I did return safely to Ware, though I wonder if anyone missed their station due to the announcements. It was warm - hot even. I walked back through the town, over the bridge by the river where swans and Canada geese haggled over bread thrown by small children. Through the town centre where shoppers and workers scurried, crowding the small pavements. Too warm for wearing, I carried my suede jacket over my shoulder back to the office. Darn, I should have worn a business suit, I really should have.

Inside story – a visit to prison

Well, today I went on a client site visit to interview the training manager so I could write a case study. I imagined I would be going in to his office, having a brief chat so I could write up how effective our company’s training was for the staff at the prison. Well, it wasn’t quite like that - not like that at all in fact.

The prison is a Category B Young Offenders Institute and though it caters for male prisoners aged 18 and above, it has lifers and local prisoners of all ages. I looked it up on the web and saw that the prison was essentially a Victorian one, built originally as the county jail.

I went with a colleague, Bev, and we arrived in the security reception. We had to have passports, were not allowed to take in mobile phones or perfume or anything that could be considered ‘dangerous’ (or drugs, or guns or any of that kind of thing I guess). I simply took my passport, car keys and a notebook and pen.

We were allowed through security in a brand new reception (there was much building work still going on) and were greeted by Ian, who asked if we would like a tour of the prison. I know Bev had been before, but I said yes. I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like this. We walked into the main courtyard area and I noticed two sparrows playing in the gutter – enjoying the water left by the relentless rain we had enjoyed but was now, thankfully, in abeyance. The buildings were exactly as you would imagine – dark brick edifices, small grilled windows, imposing, dark, but not quite Satanic (that was Mills wasn’t it? – not prisons…)

After walking past where the sniffer dogs inspect visitors, the first stop was their brand new visitors centre. That is, where people come to visit their relatives, not a ‘come see our lovely prison’ centre. It was light, airy, bright and empty. There were rows and rows of seating clusters – four chairs around a single round table, all linked together in one single piece of furniture (a bit like those unmoveable tables and chairs in some of the nastier fast food restaurants). The tables were low, the seats widely spaced (but contact between those around them was easily possible) and one in every four chairs was red. “Guess which one the prisoner sits in.” Ian said. Hanging down from the ceiling were cameras, providing 360o vision, and there were two raised platforms for the overseeing officers. Up above, Ian said, were two video courtrooms. Much easier to video link rather than convene a court and transport prisoners for what might be a five minute remand hearing. There was a well equipped children’s play area funded by ‘the blue rinse brigade’ from the local diocese.

Then he took us up some stairs through two sets of doors. Every entrance was double doors – each with their own separate key. This was an administration area and Ian was showing us their mini ‘black museum’ – a display cabinet full of items confiscated from prisoners. There were many mobile phones, ropes made from bedding, packets of drugs (some hidden in tennis balls or in birthday cards), knives and other highly creative and wicked weapons created from razor blades (which they are entitled to as a basic 'human right') and an extremely complex and – I had to admire it – well-crafted ‘fishing line’. It was a spool wheel with a long string and a comb like metal affair on the end. Its purpose was to be thrown over the wall so that contraband could be attached and reeled back in. The phones though – Ian said a mobile phone was worth about £800 or £900 inside, so people were always trying to smuggle them in. Mostly, as it happens, internally. “The most we found in one guy was four.” he told us with morbid glee - and they had all been secreted in the same orifice!

He took us through to the central courtyard where the old Victorian ‘hub’ of the prison lay. Extending out from an almost octagonal building were the four original wings – so from the air the place looked a little like a wheel (I know this, as he showed us a aerial photo). We went in and he pointed to Wing A (where the isolated prisoners were), B, C and D. Each wing had a different ‘clientele’ – for example one was for the ‘unemployed’ though most of the inmates do actually work. He took us into Wing C. Through the doors, into the corridor with the prisoners. This was the old prison wing, with low brick doors (Victorian prisoners where shorter, obviously) and a metal grill between floors to ‘catch’ attempted suicides. Some prisoners were cleaning the floor, and chatting and swearing just like youths anywhere as we walked down the hall towards the stairs (he wanted to show us how the ceilings were now converted so that entry could be gained from outside, in case of riots). There were officers (we were not allowed to refer to them as ‘guards’) in an ‘office’ at the entrance end and one (female) officer at the other end of the wing. Not an overly heavy ‘presence’.

One prisoner addressed us: “Do you mind if I ask why you lovely ladies are here?” We replied “Just visiting.”
“So am I.” he said, and smiled broadly. “And he’s a lovely bloke,” he added, pointing to Ian. He wouldn’t know who Ian was – not a clue, but obviously he had a sense of humour. Ian told us they had enjoyed the company of a few famous guests in times gone by, but one prisoner who had been with them 44 years was originally a 'friend of the Krays' and couldn't survive on the outside. As soon as he was let out, he would offend and end up back in the prison, where he would be told what to do, and when. Something about the 'institutionalisation' of individuals - and a little of the architecture - reminded me ironically of an old University.

There was no communal eating area (not like in the films, he said more than once), prisoners were taken their meals from the central kitchen block. They had one hot meal a day (evening) and all cultural and religious preferences were catered for. “We spend more per day per prisoner on food than they do in primary schools.”

Ian showed us the new buildings that had been erected to extend the prison – it now held nearly 700 prisoners – and in these wings we saw an updated mirror of the original, and obviously successful, Victorian design: corridors, rows of cells, the stairs and gallery (upper levels) but no grill. “They aren’t needed now,” he said, explaining that the way things are run now, there is so much less chance of anyone trying to kill themselves by throwing themselves over the gallery (which really wasn’t that high). But prisoners do kill themselves – they’d had two in recent months, both hangings. One lad had only been in prison 8 hours, the other was not on suicide watch nor considered a risk. It depends on the determination of the individual: those determined to do so, will find a way. The thing that struck me was how bright it all was, not dark and dingy (like in films…). They also had cells for the disabled – with wider doors and special showers.

He constantly referred to ‘my prison’ or ‘our prison’ and was obviously very proud of the institution. It has very good records according to the ‘targets’ set by Government and with an average stay of only 3 months, the focus really did seem to be on rehabilitation rather than punishment. He showed us blocks where prisoners were trained in bricklaying, fork lift truck driving or electronics, we went into the education centre and saw classrooms with prisoners learning various things – including cookery (which meant knives, yes, highly trusted, select prisoners, with kitchen knives). We also saw the blocks that were the health centre, the gymnasium (currently undergoing refurbishment) and we passed the astro-turf football pitch where inmates were being coached by a Football Association coach. It sounds rather ‘easy’ – doesn’t it? But every night these men (some really only boys) are locked away. They are restricted in what they can do, who they can talk to, and what they eat, they don't see their loved ones as often as they may wish, and some of them die. Every week there are fights, posturing and rivalries between individuals and the various ‘gangs’ in the prison. “We have the Russian Mafia, the Tongs, the Italians and gangs that have been established in the prison.” And they have to be kept apart.

I thought back to those vicious looking implements in the display cabinet – toothbrushes melted to secure razor blade tips, knives made from everything from bits of wire to the sharpened metal splint from a medical wrist support. No, it wasn’t easy here, and these men around us who seemed so relaxed and casual were probably just ‘posturing’ for the visitors.

To see the newest wing we could have taken a short cut across the exercise yard, but it was prudent not to as the yard had about eight or ten prisoners out. “We wanted to make this a basketball court,” Ian said, pointing to the tarmac covered area where the prisoners lounged “but Health and Safety said we couldn’t. If a prisoner fell and hurt their knees, they could sue us.” So in the interests of prisoner safety – or protecting prisons from litigation – the inmates were denied the opportunity to play basketball. So what, they are criminals! Well, yes, but they are people. And some may be just on remand, and some may be innocent, and some may just do less harm if they could work off some energy by doing something as simple as basketball. Who knows, I wasn’t there for the psychology, but it certainly made me thoughtful. On the way back past the yard, one of the prisoners waved. I smiled and waved back - high fence and razor wire between us.

We went past a low brick hut, with stairs that led down to what could have been a basement. “That’s where I’m working until the new admin block is complete,” Ian said. “it’s the old hanging shed.” And under the flooring, the trap door is still there he told us. The last hanging was just after the war. “You can’t undo capital punishment.” I commented, and Ian seemed to agree. I’m sort of glad we didn’t meet in his office.

The whole complex was very compartmentalised – we went through many gates even when outside and the main perimeter was a high steel fence topped with razor wire. Beyond the wire was a road width empty space (suitable for emergency vehicles) and then a high, high wall. The prison had originally been built three quarters of a mile outside the town – but the town had grown to meet the prison walls and gardens now backed on to the high walls on one side at least. “You’d think we just dropped the prison in to the middle of the town, the way some neighbours react.” He said. “We were here first.”

As we walked back to the exit, I took the opportunity to ask the questions I was supposed to – about the training and how it was working out. In just a few minutes more I picked up what I needed to know for those purposes, but for my own experience as a writer, and indeed a more knowledgeable perspective for my case study, the trip round the prison itself - including that small interaction with the prisoners - had been invaluable.

Traditional American Folk ...

This Friday Shani and I played at Bury St Edmund's Folk Club, supporting an American duo - Sarah Grey and Kieron Means - who play Traditional American folk music. Kieron plays guitar and sings, Sarah (his mother) sings and plays banjo (plays concertina too I hear, though she didn't this night). Not actually the most 'suitable' act for us to support in some ways - we are, er, anything but 'traditional' (electric guitars? My goodness! Suprised some of the audience didn't faint.. no, I'm joking, honest), but we seemed to go down well enough.

The American folk music was interesting - what struck me most of all was the similarity in harmony structure: Kieron sang the same pattern harmony to Sarah's songs, and I wondered if that was the 'tradition'? His guitar technique was interesting - flailing like a banjo player (probably very typically American traditional too). But I'm no expert, I can't analyse the harmonies or the techniques, just observe and comment.

It was a good evening overall - I enjoyed performing, enjoyed seeing Sarah and Kieron and Terry, the club organiser. I do not have a hankering to go learn any traditional American tunes or songs now though (doesn't that sound odd - traditional American?). Though it was of interest, I was not that 'engaged' by the form (and I'm not a great lover of blues type music particularly).

Interestingly, Sarah has been working on a project tracing the roots of songs - let's face it music travels the world very quickly - can we truly be honest about the origins of tunes, even if words give us a sense of time and place? An example - I was at someone's house once and I heard the local radio playing Traditional Indian Music - and my goodness, it sounded very Celtic indeed. And Morris Dancing - so similar to the Hota in the South of Spain? Morris - Moorish - the Southern Spanish Gypsies were Indian, Southern Spain was Arab for many decades... Ah, we are all a mish mash.

The key to me is simple: good music, whether it be traditional, contemporary, classic ... I don't mind. But I do like a good lyric.

What a rambling this has turned in to - never mind! I'll post something less confusing soon.

A poem - "Boys Pockets"

String, bark peeled from a twig
Nestling comfortably amidst
The twist and fluff.
The shiny conker, scratched
And the paperclip
Jostling with the crackling wrapper
That inexpertly covers the last-chewed gum.

Unused handkerchief, folded still
But bearing the imprint of fingers
Who love mud, and stones,
and the great discoveries that lie
Unheeded at the feet of adults.

My gigs seem to get stranger by the minute...

Well, week after we got back from Ireland, Bryan was ill so I stood in for him on a Sunday night gig in Cambridgeshire. Now, that's a big county as you may or may not know - but this one was near Pondersbridge between Peterborough and Ramsey. In an area known as 'the Fens'. The fens are big, flat, and pretty (in a desolate, agricultural sort of way).

It's spring, so the fields are yellow with rape, and the air full of its cloying scent. As Penni and I drove... and drove... to reach the village of Pondersbridge we could feel our throats closing with the thick aroma and pollen of this ghastly, but no doubt financially rewarding, crop.

We hit Pondersbridge and had to phone Richard, who'd booked us for a 'pub folk night' because we couldn't find the pub on this Roman straight road. Ah, turn right towards Peterborough, and about two miles... in the middle of the middle of nowhere. An enormous pub! Huge grounds, marquees in the garden, bouncy caste (oh no... we're not playing in there are we? Visions of the spike on my stand up bass....) and a big old roadside coaching inn type building.

Around us was nothing but huge open expanses of field after field - some yellow, some chocolate brown, some green. The birds sang, the sun sank slowly in the sky - you could see for miles and miles.

We met up with Richard, his wife Bridget, Mari and Tony. The four of them are in a band and Penni and I (yeah yeah, I know it was supposed to be Bryan, but they got me!) as 'support'. We went in and met the landlord. Richard had arranged everything with him, and we were in a nice room just off the main bar (next to the dessert display cabinet ... lemon cake, chocolate gateaux... mmm.....). Penni and I had filled up on chocolate raisins on the journey there - but supper looked like it might be fun later.

Not many audience (er, is the singular of audience 'audient'?), but a couple turned up who'd seen an advert in the paper, so we started off. Penni and I played OK - our Irish 'rehearsal' came in useful (we don't normally play together). We sang some, and a few more people came in (wow, six!). The landlord came in, smiling and obviously enjoying the music (if not the lack of paying customers).

After we'd done our stint, Richard's band went on. They rehearse every week - Tony on his whistles and flutes, Mari on her bodhran, Bridget and Richard singing (with Richard on guitars as well). They did some lovely tunes, but then it went a little bit awry. Tony told me later that Richard had, in his impromptu way, changed the set at the last minute. They didn't like that. But it sounded OK, and the audience enjoyed it.

Then Richard asked Penni and myself to join in, so we had six of us on stage - matching the six in the audience. If one of them left there'd be more of us than them... Adding the bass and Penni's powerful rhythm guitar lifted the evening and we had some fun. We did another unaccompanied version of 'I guess it doesn't matter' with Richard adding a third (and sometimes very peculiar and at other times wonderful) harmony.

We played through till 10.30 - Sunday after all - and the landlord kindly paid us and we wended our way home. Supper? We finished off the rasins on the journey home.

Another odd gig. Not quite as bizarre as some, but certainly odd.