A salutary tale – why we need to remember that people are people.

I have been working in the public sector for over a year now, after what felt like a lifetime (and a vocation) in the local newspaper industry.

When I first joined the public sector I had to create a translation dictionary as the language was so alien to me – after all who really could understand finding VFM in the KLOEs?

Over a year on and I have learned to read public sector – and also to speak it – and here in lies the cautionary tale.

Over the last year people (who have always been people to me – albeit readers and listeners as well) have become customers, patients, residents, claimants, etc.  They have become chaotic, just coping, needy, thriving, high capacity, high need, high demand etc.  I never realised how insidious this language is and how it can be a barrier to remembering that these are real people we are talking about… not case studies only contained within the pages of a book, report, paper or briefing note.

Today I was at an event bringing together some of the most energetic and enthusiastic people working in my region to share learning from innovative work that is being done to help improve chances in life for people who are struggling.

We watched videos of people explaining their situation, their understanding, their needs and their hopes and aspirations for the future.  We were then asked to participate in an exercise to map these people’s need and capacity on a chart – from high to low.  We had table discussions and then at the end we were asked to say, to the whole room of about 150 people, what we had thought about each individual.

I volunteered a comment about one of these people – and using my newly learnt public sector speak gave a comprehensive (and probably far too wordy) summary of our conversation.

Can you imagine my mortification when an hour later the very person I had been pontificating about (and yes the moment he stood up and became a real person I realised that’s what I had been doing) stood up to give a talk and let us know he had been there all day.

A cautionary tale and for me a salutary lesson – people are people and whatever their needs or our strategies, policies etc – we should never, ever forget that.

I really hope I wont ever forget it again.

 

Bra Storage … old habits die hard

I have a habit, not that strange to me, of storing my phone and my cards, money etc in my bra.  It comes from the days, long long gone,  when I went dancing and didn’t want to take a bag.  Keys, money, card etc would slide into bra.

Today I had a salient (salient because some of my work is around behaviour change)  reminder that it is hard to change old habits and that we often resort to them at times of stress.

I have to go through a barrier system to get into the car park at work. Today, already a little stressed and distracted by the amount of ‘stuff’ going on in my life at home and work, I got all flustered as I drove in too wide.  I tried to reach the far away card reader and dropped my card.  Of course,  it bounced under the car.  I had to back out to get it.   I picked it up drove back in and promptly forgot about it.  I parked up, returned a couple of urgent phone calls and then prepared to leave the car .

I keep the pass in the little cash drawer on my dashboard and I noticed it wasn’t there.  So I started looking for it.

Half an hour later, my car is cleaned out and the rubbish all in a bag (ok I admit it, I’m a slob).  The seats had been moved backwards and forwards and I had found 50p, two biros, a chamelia bracelet, four receipts, the ice scraper, some water bottles… but no car park pass card.

I had emptied my bag out and put all the little bags of tissues together (four for some reason), added spare pens to my pencil case, filed my receipts in my purse, and everything back where it belonged… but no car park pass card.

I had folded the soft blankets I used to cover the leather seats on hot days, picked my coat of the floor of the back of the car and found some mascara on the back seat (must belong to someone else)… but no car park pass card.

I had to give up, so I found the car park attendant, explained the problem and went over the road to work.

Once at my desk, I decided to visit the loo before embarking on more phone calls.  I picked up my office swipe card (how many swipe cards can one person have) and left the office in the direction of the loo.  Absentmindedly, I placed the swipe card as I always do in my bra for safe keeping.  As I do so, I find … yes… my car park pass card.  Put away in the heat of the moment, in the place that I obviously find safest.

Old habits really do die hard.

 

Mouse

Mouse, originally uploaded by nuala.orourke.

 

The Last Supper

It is somewhat appropriate that I am writing this post the morning after Maundy Thursday.  However, this post is nothing to do with religion – unless your religion is food.

Yes that’s right – food.  Those dieters out there will know exactly what I mean when I say the last supper.  It’s the meal you eat the evening before you start that new diet.  As an inveterate yo yo dieter, I cannot recall how many last suppers I have had, certainly far more than I am willing to admit to!

The point of a last supper is that you take the opportunity to gorge yourself on the foods you are not going to able to eat once you go on that all restricting diet.  It’s almost a ritualistic pleasure.  Choosing the food takes some time – thinking of what you are going to miss most and planning the preparation and eating of it.  Will it be a curry with all the trimmings – naan, rice, bhajis, poppadums.  What about pizza with garlic dough balls.  And don’t forget the chocolate and crisps for the late late last supper!  Mmmmmm …. the food….. the flavours…

…but it’s madness isn’t it.  The logic is completely missing.  Hey – I need to lose weight so let’s eat a load of food and make the job harder.  Yet most dieters will recognise this behaviour, most dieters will have had a least one last supper!

 

Mouse – 23 February 2009

Mouse – 23 February 2009

Originally uploaded by nuala.orourke

Mouse is the youngest cat in the household. He has only just learnt the joys of the outdoors. He is out most of the night exploring and comes in and sleeps during the day. He’s a colour point and his mother and father both live with us.

 

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple … or shall I?

I have often wondered at what point in your life do you finally stop caring about how you look.  Now I don’t mean going out in scruffy clothes and with greasy unkempt hair, praying you wont meet anyone you know.  I mean stop caring completely.  

As I wander around in my day to day life I often see women who have clearly reached this point of their life!

The first sign of not caring seems to be when you make the decision to let those little hairs on your chin grow and grow.  In fact sprout is probably a more appropriate term.  So sign number 1 is sprouting hairs.

The second sign is wearing dresses that look like nighties.  Preferably they are flowery or spotty, they have no waist, no shape, and have a nice high round neck line with a little fussy lace around the collar.  Over this lovely concoction, a bobbly cardi is worn, probably in pink or baby blue.  Add to this American Tan tights, with hairs sticking through the denier, socks and a pair of fluffy boots or lace up shoes and you have the women who has stopped caring about how she looks.

I see these women all the time when out shopping, although I must admit they are more prevalent near pound shops and charity shops.  

They always make me wonder – at what point in your life do you say enough, let the hair grow, the waist bloom and sod the world.  And when you say this will it be a fantastic relief. 

Will you look in the mirror everyday and smile at the sprouting hairs.  Will you pull on your nightie dress and marvel in the fact that it is so comfy.   Will you step in to American Tan tights, just considering their warmth and value for money.  

So one day will I wear purple … and have sprouting hairs?

 

Time telling stone thing

Age gets to us all in the end. I am neither young nor old but I certainly have my senior moments.  The teenagers are used to being told to put the butter in the dishwasher and the plates in the fridge.  I am used to wandering round the house wondering what exactly it is I am doing, arriving in a room and thinking why am I here and putting things ‘somewhere safe’ only for them never to be seen again.

But it gets worse and now I look at things and the name of them just escapes me.  I think of objects and reach for the word and it disappears, leaving me grasping for it, the flavour of it floating around around in my head, just out of reach.  This latest affliction is apparently called aphasia.

However, I am pleased to report that I found a way to deal with it and it seems that all I need is Google.  

As a member of Flickr, I partake in a photo a day group.  A member put a picture of some ice that had formed a peculiar shape and I looked at it and thought that looks like a sundial. Except I didn’t.  I looked at it and thought that looks like, and I saw a picture in my head of a sundial, but no name came. Grrrr, I thought, it’s that missing word thing again.  I know what that is – it’s a time telling stone thing – but what’s it’s name.  I have a brain wave (one of very few it seems) and into google type ‘time telling stone thing’ and the first answer was Sundial.  

All was calm again.

Until the next time.