I noticed today that this blog is now approaching 400 entries and that according to the google statistics there have been over 60,000 page views.
Now there is no-one more surprised than me that I have found so many things to write and that so many people have taken time to read them - and some have felt moved to comment too. All this from a boy whose Headmaster described him as an "intellecual philistine" and took it upon himself to provide additional tutoring in the art of writing. I remember slogging one summer over an essay I was set entitled "A man is what he is, what he thinks he is and what others think he is; discuss". This was long before word processing and had to be drafted and written long hand. I seem to recall it was 10,000 words, but my memory may exaggerate. I know it felt like that. As I write this I think I may still have that piece in a briefcase at home and I am feeling tempted to pull it out and see how bad it was.
My Headmaster did concede one thing towards the end of our time working togather and that was while (in his assessment) I had no style, when he read what I had written he could always hear me speaking it. It was something of a personal stamp.
He also had me write poetry, but that is another story for another day.
The criticism I received from my Headmaster probably set in my mind that I was not good with words. Certainly in my early career, at interviews, this was the "weakness" I would confess to. I certainly disliked writing long hand and indeed still do. It seemed as if my mind worked faster than I could write and I quickly grew bored of editting and redrafting my work.
It is possible that one could trace my rebirth back to my Amstrad 8512. This was pretty much the first retail word processor and personal computer. It came with a word processing package and printer as standard and a fully integrated processor screen and disc drive (two, I think). I have since moved to PCs, owning one with word processing since the late 1980's. I have used them for my studies and so much more. I have even attempted to write a book a couple of times, but without conclusion so far.
I took up blogging at around the time my career was making a detour. I started looking at how I could create more of a personal brand. I had no idea what was involved with blogging, but thought I would give it a go and see. Initially I did it through another identity in order to protect myself if it was a disaster. The question was what to blog about?
I thought about this for a while without finding a specific topic, so in the end I decided to blog about things I found interesting in the hope that other people would too. I used the moniker "Tales of an Active Mind" and started posting and eclectic mix of things - indeed much the same as I do today.
Last year I came out of the blogging closet and pooled all my material under IanJSutherland and have only used that name since.
As noted in a recent blog I have also entered a short story competition and am slightly nervous to see how my debut effort stacks up against the other entrants.
All in all I guess I need to recalibrate my thinking about words as a weakness.
I did adjust elements in the past, but referring to words as being "relatively weak" compared with my fierce abilities with numbers and patterns. This was partly to play the interview game, but also followed three realisations. The first was that many project managers were coming to me to help them write the textual elements of their plans and reports - I was seen as being pretty good at communicating with stakeholders. Linked with this was the realisation that my generation were given a much sounder education in grammar and English than the following year groups, giving me an edge over many younger managers. The last was when being assessed for a senior job and my verbal reasoning result placed me in the 98th percentile of those involved in Finance. OK that is a skewed sample as it would not include the naturally artisitic, like true writers, journalists, actors, etc, but was still something of a wake up call.
So back to today, I plan to give myself a pep-talk and remove "words" from my list of personal weaknesses. That is not to say I can or will become complacent, or stop striving to improve, but there is no reason to put myself down when the evidence suggests the weakness is primarily in my head and not in any rational assessment.
I am far from being a writer, but I can write; I just need to remind myself.
Tuesday 18 February 2014
Why don't people comment on blogposts more? The power of ERS/XX.
In the last couple of days I have been talking with friends about various aspects of social media and blogging. Two topics came up that seemed to be linked. The first was whether a tool like Linkedin really generates employment opportunities and the second was how to generate comments/debate on blog posts and other contributions.
In relation to first I am sure that Linkedin does generate opportunities, but often indirectly and that probably the more selfless one is, the more likely one is to benefit; a touch of karma if you like. Undoubtedly Linkedin is a data source for many recruiters, that of course is its commercial model. I do get quite a few requests to connect to (and related calls from) recruiters who have seen my profile up there. Many seem to have real opportunities and some progress further, but to date none has actually led to employment for me.
I tend to monitor my profile stats both profile views and appearances in searches to ensure that I am still “in play”. As they say you have to play if you want to win. For me the number of people looking at my profile averages around 35 per week and in the last three months has ranged from 23 top 75. Now this is a mixed population and I don’t get fussed about whether it is new viewers, repeats, friends or anyone else. Instead I take it as a measure that I was top of mind, if only briefly, of a good number of people each week so when I am looking for work they will be aware and may be able to help.
The appearances in searches is also useful as I take it as a measure of the effectiveness and content of my profile against skills and experience sets that recruiters are looking for. This is averaging a little over 200 per week and if it starts dropping I take a moment to reflect what I might add or change to freshen my profile.
Throughout all this I will happily try and help anyone I can, through brokering contacts, passing on opportunities or just being a constructive critic of their efforts. I do this unconditionally, expecting no specific or direct return other than maybe the odd beer or two. One could say I am investing first and that would be correct. I expect and hope that my reward will come in time, but most likely indirectly and without traceable links.
My current role is an indirect result of such effort. In this instance it was not Linkedin, but through eFinacialCareers (eFC), where I also maintain a profile. I think my eFC profile benefited hugely from the work I was doing on Linkedin with the feedback I received being a major contributor to an agency I had never spoken to before calling me for a role with a company I had never worked for. That was out of the blue and the deal was closed within 48 hours!
I believe that helping others first in a rather selfless way actually makes it more likely that someone, probably unconnected, will help you in future. In contrast if all you do is clearly about you and only you, ie very selfish, then the amount of help others will give is soon limited.
Moving on to question about blogging and comments on entries, this has been something that has puzzled me. My blog is over three years old with over 300 entries and over 45,000 hits, yet the number of comments it has elicited is less than 30. If you look through my blog I don’t think it is not because the subjects are all safe and boring.
I have looked at entries in other blogs and on Linkedin to see if I can understand why some receive a torrent of comments and others do not. I think I have something of an answer.
Before I do it is worth stripping out the sycophantic element that is clearly present amongst the comments on “celebrity” posts. Celebrity in this instance not limited to media stars, but covering prominent, public individuals. These are typified by “well done”, “good post” or similar and add little or nothing to the debate.
The second strip out are the clarification questions. These suggest that something was left out of the original article/post and while they may help complete the post they do not move things forward.
The level of real comments and debate seem to come when something like the following exists.
For blogs that received large numbers of comments one can see the following elements:
This suggests that the number of comments is a function of (E x R x S)/(X x X) . The top line (numerator) is a product because if any of these are absent (or near absent) then the chances of comments is pretty much zero. I have suggested that the denominator is the square of the perceived risk that would result from posting a comment. I use the square as is suggests that in the face of any risk all three of the numerator elements have to be significant if there are to be comments.
I have no scientific evidence to support this, it is purely derived empirically and from thinking about the issue, but I feel there is more than an essence of truth in it.
If you look at Facebook many items are commented on as there is engagement and relevance (to the audience at least) and little perceived risk related to commenting. In these circumstances it does not require any great strength of feeling for people to comment.
What do you think?
In relation to first I am sure that Linkedin does generate opportunities, but often indirectly and that probably the more selfless one is, the more likely one is to benefit; a touch of karma if you like. Undoubtedly Linkedin is a data source for many recruiters, that of course is its commercial model. I do get quite a few requests to connect to (and related calls from) recruiters who have seen my profile up there. Many seem to have real opportunities and some progress further, but to date none has actually led to employment for me.
I tend to monitor my profile stats both profile views and appearances in searches to ensure that I am still “in play”. As they say you have to play if you want to win. For me the number of people looking at my profile averages around 35 per week and in the last three months has ranged from 23 top 75. Now this is a mixed population and I don’t get fussed about whether it is new viewers, repeats, friends or anyone else. Instead I take it as a measure that I was top of mind, if only briefly, of a good number of people each week so when I am looking for work they will be aware and may be able to help.
The appearances in searches is also useful as I take it as a measure of the effectiveness and content of my profile against skills and experience sets that recruiters are looking for. This is averaging a little over 200 per week and if it starts dropping I take a moment to reflect what I might add or change to freshen my profile.
Throughout all this I will happily try and help anyone I can, through brokering contacts, passing on opportunities or just being a constructive critic of their efforts. I do this unconditionally, expecting no specific or direct return other than maybe the odd beer or two. One could say I am investing first and that would be correct. I expect and hope that my reward will come in time, but most likely indirectly and without traceable links.
My current role is an indirect result of such effort. In this instance it was not Linkedin, but through eFinacialCareers (eFC), where I also maintain a profile. I think my eFC profile benefited hugely from the work I was doing on Linkedin with the feedback I received being a major contributor to an agency I had never spoken to before calling me for a role with a company I had never worked for. That was out of the blue and the deal was closed within 48 hours!
I believe that helping others first in a rather selfless way actually makes it more likely that someone, probably unconnected, will help you in future. In contrast if all you do is clearly about you and only you, ie very selfish, then the amount of help others will give is soon limited.
Moving on to question about blogging and comments on entries, this has been something that has puzzled me. My blog is over three years old with over 300 entries and over 45,000 hits, yet the number of comments it has elicited is less than 30. If you look through my blog I don’t think it is not because the subjects are all safe and boring.
I have looked at entries in other blogs and on Linkedin to see if I can understand why some receive a torrent of comments and others do not. I think I have something of an answer.
Before I do it is worth stripping out the sycophantic element that is clearly present amongst the comments on “celebrity” posts. Celebrity in this instance not limited to media stars, but covering prominent, public individuals. These are typified by “well done”, “good post” or similar and add little or nothing to the debate.
The second strip out are the clarification questions. These suggest that something was left out of the original article/post and while they may help complete the post they do not move things forward.
The level of real comments and debate seem to come when something like the following exists.
For blogs that received large numbers of comments one can see the following elements:
· (E)ngages the readers and usually communicates, implicitly or explicitly, something of the author’s values and point of view
· Is a topic that is (R)elevant to a significant number of readers.
· Tends to evoke a (S)trong reaction (either for or against the content of the post – one the reader can share)
· The thing that seems to hold people back, at least I think so, is if the reader perceives a personal risk to e(X)posing their own views or position. They will think twice about posting.
This suggests that the number of comments is a function of (E x R x S)/(X x X) . The top line (numerator) is a product because if any of these are absent (or near absent) then the chances of comments is pretty much zero. I have suggested that the denominator is the square of the perceived risk that would result from posting a comment. I use the square as is suggests that in the face of any risk all three of the numerator elements have to be significant if there are to be comments.
I have no scientific evidence to support this, it is purely derived empirically and from thinking about the issue, but I feel there is more than an essence of truth in it.
If you look at Facebook many items are commented on as there is engagement and relevance (to the audience at least) and little perceived risk related to commenting. In these circumstances it does not require any great strength of feeling for people to comment.
What do you think?
Friday 14 February 2014
The Value Of Good Advice
And so my career as short story writer starts - and may indeed stop.
I have entered the NYCMidnight annual short story competition that kicked off this week. With 963 entrants from around the world though largely from the obviously English speaking work I was given an assignment last week and submitted my entry today.
Entrants have been split into 40 "heats", with 23 other writers (am I writer?) in mine. Last Friday midnight we were given the following brief
Genre: Drama
Subject: Stealing
Character: Retiree
and a limit of 2,500 words.
My entry is called "The Value Of Good Advice"
and it can be found below. Please do let me know what you think? On the off chance that I get through to the next round (five of us will) I need to take every opportunity to improve.
Maybe it is a portent that things are changing.
My name is Archibald James. I am 65 years old and today was my last day at Greenfields. I worked there for fifty years, literally man and boy. I joined from school on the 1st September 1963 as an office junior. Greenfields is one of the last of the old-style London Banks. It offers banking services, safe keeping and utter discretion. In 1963, it was the epitome of pinstripe suit, rolled-up umbrella and bowler hat.
I soon acquired all three even though my first job was mostly about making tea and running messages. In truth, I think I was only offered the position because my father knew the manager, Mr. Stevenson, from their service days. The Bank Manager had been a navigator while my father was a pilot. There was a bond between them that was never discussed, but when my father asked if there was a job for his “average” son, there was no hesitation. That is how I became a city “gent”, well clerk initially, but that soon changed.
My father may have seen me as “average”, but Mr. Stevenson saw something else, and soon I was promoted through the ranks, so to speak. I was made a cashier and then assistant manager. The role of Assistant Manager had both good and bad aspects. On the plus side I was a City gentleman with the authority to approve loans up to £100, a large sum in those days. On the downside, my name took pride of place on the rota to open the bank at the start of day and close it at the end.
With the position of Assistant Manager came an office and a large mahogany desk with a green leather inlaid top. I felt very important and satisfied with my success and it was at that time my mother gave me an aspidistra plant. It had long leaves and sat in an ugly Victorian aspidistra pot placed on matching dish. My mother advised me to water it regularly, wipe its leaves once a month and make sure it was well drained.
At the time, the advice sounded much like, “Always wear clean underpants, never wear brown shoes in the City and mind your manners.” That is, it was good common sense advice that works, so much so that it was the very same plant I brought home almost 50 years later.
While my elevated position was one of trust it also meant many early mornings. In the middle of winter I would pick my way across Bank junction, walk up the side of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street (the Bank of England, if you don’t know) and up to Greenfield’s large bronze doors that looked out onto Moorgate. There I would meet a messenger, usually the Head Messenger, and together we would open up. I did this right up to the robbery of ‘69. That was a turning point for the bank and for me personally, but more of that later.
Back to today.
My retirement day had been perfectly pleasant. That is the best and only term for it. I had lunch with the Chairman in the Boardroom. The faces of old Greenfields’ bankers looked down on the two of us from their gilt frames on the wall. The best silver was out for use along with the fine crested china. A decanter of good wine, just good, accompanied a traditional meal of roast beef followed by apple pie and custard. It was very pleasant though after 50 years, I might have expected more.
In the afternoon, there had been the obligatory speeches, leaving cards and presentation from the proceeds of a collection among the staff. I am not sure that I needed another clock for my mantelpiece, but that is what I was given.
In his speech, Mr. Spencer, the Head of Risk, made mention of my long service, my immaculate dress sense and my great patience. He said all the nice things one might expect without really saying anything and certainly without any genuine warmth. As I also expected he did not talk about “the robbery”; no-one talks about the robbery when I am around.
So let me tell you what happened.
As per usual, on the morning of Monday 6th October 1969 I was due to meet Alf Bennett at Greenfields front door at 7:00am. The process demanded that it was always two people who entered the bank first even though there was only one, very large lock on the front door; a lock that had been there over 100 years and whose key I carried. My key was one of only three known to exist. Why was there just one lock with one key? Well, the thinking at the time was that everything of value was locked inside the vault at night. Even if someone could break in then they would also have to breach the large steel door or 3 feet of stone wall to find anything of value. In light of this, the Greenfield family liked the impression of confidence that the old bronze doors gave and accepted the single lock.
By 7:40, Alf had not arrived, and I knew I would need to decide what to do. As one would expect there were a few people passing like shadows in the street as I pondered my options. I noticed that the doors were not quite closed, there was a small crack between them that was not usually visible. Tentatively, I pushed against the right door and to my surprise it moved, just a fraction, but it moved.
On reflection and as was pointed out to me many times by the police, the insurers and my manager, I should have called for help or found a policeman. Remember this was long before mobile phones so there was no possibility of just standing there and phoning for help. What I actually did was push the door wider and entered cautiously. I saw the banking hall was a mess with desks and chairs upturned. The door to the teller’s counter was open and so was the wooden door leading to the basement ….and the vault.
They say that it was just after 7:45am that Florence and Agnes, the two cleaners, found me out cold lying on my back in the banking hall. I understand that I was then taken to St Barts Hospital, and it was there that I awoke the next day with my head swathed in bandages and a policeman sitting beside the bed. Not surprisingly they were keen on questioning me, but I was not much help. I told them that I had no memory after first entering the Bank. I had no idea how I came to be out cold and really was not much help.
It seems that the Police think that someone had hidden in the ceiling above the vault and looking down through a small peephole had watched the vault being opened and made a note of the combination. They had then emerged at the weekend, opened the vault and had plenty of time to rummage both the Bank’s valuables, including a stash of gold bullion, mostly smaller bars, and the safety deposit boxes.
The criminal then left the Bank through the front door. The lock I mentioned earlier could be opened from the inside without a key. It had not been designed to stop people breaking out, only those breaking in.
The Police found a mess in the vault. Mostly, the interesting, but only personally valuable items from safety deposit boxes. You may not believe me, but this list included one left plimsole, an old banana skin and the signed photograph of twin sisters, stars of the Hammer Horror films, dressed in diaphanous nightgowns.
For some reason no one was ever able to explain there were also a number of pieces of jewelry and gold coins scattered around. Whether the criminal was limited in what he could carry, a bag burst or maybe he was interrupted - by me possibly – we never found out, but the fact was a small number of valuable items were recovered from the floor of the vault.
Another interesting fact is that Alf Bennett was never seen again. This of course cast suspicion on him or at least on his involvement, but it could never be proved. Unfortunately, it also cast a shadow of suspicion over me. I could see in their eyes that the Police and my managers suspected that my amnesia was convenient, wondering if maybe I had been part of the gang and possibly the subject of a double cross that left me on the floor.
I believe that the insurance claim was for well over a £1million, but no one ever truly new how much had been taken as not all clients wanted to own up to what they had kept safe from prying eyes.
No matter how I protested my innocence the taint was there. To many people I was thought a hero or at least a victim of the robbery and the Bank would have appeared churlish had they sacked me, but my promotions stopped. I also knew any reference I received would include some coded elements that another employer would understand. Thank goodness for the unspoken debt owed to my father.
Initially I was angry and frustrated, but in the end I decided to be patient and work my time at Greenfields. At various points, I was put in charge of Office Services, the Charity Committee, disaster-recovery planning and other safe, but unexciting roles. I was never given the keys to the Bank again nor was I given access to the vault. The public argument was that I had done my bit and the Bank would ask no more of me, but I knew I was marked, as did everyone else.
All through this I would smile and perform my duties such that there were no grounds for complaint. Wherever I went - oh yes, I never had an office again – my aspidistra went with me. I watered it, wiped it and checked the drainage. It even flowered once in a while, just as it was doing today.
I know many questioned why I stayed at Greenfields, on what was increasingly a modest salary. I just told them that I knew better days were ahead, and that I was comfortable being where I was.
But as always, good things come to an end, and my retirement day approached. I could put off leaving Greenfields no longer. I sorted my fully funded, final salary pension scheme. Ask any banker and they will tell you that you don’t see many of those these days. I sorted my other affairs and just this afternoon I walked out of the Bank and into a taxi. While I carried my plant, two colleagues carried my box of personal effects and the mantle clock. I know I had a smile on my face, but few would or even could guess why.
And here I am now. My house was paid for long ago and my pension means I will never go without food and heat. It also allows for the occasional bottle of good scotch and one holiday a year.
As I said the flames of the open fire flicker on my whisky and I start to dream of a house on one of the Greek Isles. The gentle waves lap on the beach to the back and the sun beats down on the front while a housekeeper looks after my still modest, though very comfortable needs.
It is time to draw upon my real pension, the one that has kept me smiling all these years. It helped me put up with being overlooked for promotion. I can now admit to myself that I do, in fact, know most of what happened that fateful day in October 1969, well until I was knocked unconscious.
I entered the Bank carefully listening for any sound. It did not appear that anyone was there as I stepped over scattered pencils and broken crockery. I had moved towards the vault and found it was also ransacked. The safety deposit boxes hung out of their holes, lids open and contents either scattered or ignored.
I did notice that the usual small pile of gold ingots was gone, but was surprised that a number of small bars lay on one of the inspection tables. I noticed the sparkle from a handful of necklaces and earrings that seemed pushed to the edges and corners of the floor. To sparkle in that way they had to be diamonds, mostly set in gold fittings. My banker’s eye could not help estimating the value I could see and judged it to be about equivalent to 20 years’ salary.
I was never shown the inventory of what was recovered by the Police, but I know that many of the pieces I saw would have been missing.
How I ended up out cold is the memory I have genuinely lost. I think that as I went for help, I must have trodden on those scattered pencils and lost my footing, falling backwards heavily, but I can't be sure. But then, neither can anyone else.
With this self-confession over I pick up a hammer and swung it at the aspidistra. If the flower could yell it would do so for as the china breaks into a hundred pieces the plant collapses in a heap. I have not watered it for a week or so, and it is very dry. As I reach for a handful of dirt the glint of wealth winks at me from the base of the pile. My Greek home becomes real as a handful of gold and diamonds appear in my fingers after the remaining soil has fallen away.
As my mother once said, one should never doubt the value of good drainage.
This entry received an honourable mention in its group, so not too shabby for a first attempt. I will consider entering next year and see if I can improve.
I have entered the NYCMidnight annual short story competition that kicked off this week. With 963 entrants from around the world though largely from the obviously English speaking work I was given an assignment last week and submitted my entry today.
Entrants have been split into 40 "heats", with 23 other writers (am I writer?) in mine. Last Friday midnight we were given the following brief
Genre: Drama
Subject: Stealing
Character: Retiree
and a limit of 2,500 words.
My entry is called "The Value Of Good Advice"
and it can be found below. Please do let me know what you think? On the off chance that I get through to the next round (five of us will) I need to take every opportunity to improve.
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
I can see the flames of the open fire dancing through the golden liquid that swirls around the glass in my hand. I have just subsided into my favourite chair in the small house that has been home for more years than I can remember. The two up, two down terrace house is not the sort of home many expect a bank manager to have, but it has suited me until now. In the corner is an archive box with the contents of my desk drawers and on the table is my longtime companion, an aspidistra plant. Flowers on an aspidistra are quite rare and pretty ugly, but for some reason, the plant chose to flower today.
Maybe it is a portent that things are changing.
My name is Archibald James. I am 65 years old and today was my last day at Greenfields. I worked there for fifty years, literally man and boy. I joined from school on the 1st September 1963 as an office junior. Greenfields is one of the last of the old-style London Banks. It offers banking services, safe keeping and utter discretion. In 1963, it was the epitome of pinstripe suit, rolled-up umbrella and bowler hat.
I soon acquired all three even though my first job was mostly about making tea and running messages. In truth, I think I was only offered the position because my father knew the manager, Mr. Stevenson, from their service days. The Bank Manager had been a navigator while my father was a pilot. There was a bond between them that was never discussed, but when my father asked if there was a job for his “average” son, there was no hesitation. That is how I became a city “gent”, well clerk initially, but that soon changed.
My father may have seen me as “average”, but Mr. Stevenson saw something else, and soon I was promoted through the ranks, so to speak. I was made a cashier and then assistant manager. The role of Assistant Manager had both good and bad aspects. On the plus side I was a City gentleman with the authority to approve loans up to £100, a large sum in those days. On the downside, my name took pride of place on the rota to open the bank at the start of day and close it at the end.
With the position of Assistant Manager came an office and a large mahogany desk with a green leather inlaid top. I felt very important and satisfied with my success and it was at that time my mother gave me an aspidistra plant. It had long leaves and sat in an ugly Victorian aspidistra pot placed on matching dish. My mother advised me to water it regularly, wipe its leaves once a month and make sure it was well drained.
At the time, the advice sounded much like, “Always wear clean underpants, never wear brown shoes in the City and mind your manners.” That is, it was good common sense advice that works, so much so that it was the very same plant I brought home almost 50 years later.
While my elevated position was one of trust it also meant many early mornings. In the middle of winter I would pick my way across Bank junction, walk up the side of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street (the Bank of England, if you don’t know) and up to Greenfield’s large bronze doors that looked out onto Moorgate. There I would meet a messenger, usually the Head Messenger, and together we would open up. I did this right up to the robbery of ‘69. That was a turning point for the bank and for me personally, but more of that later.
Back to today.
My retirement day had been perfectly pleasant. That is the best and only term for it. I had lunch with the Chairman in the Boardroom. The faces of old Greenfields’ bankers looked down on the two of us from their gilt frames on the wall. The best silver was out for use along with the fine crested china. A decanter of good wine, just good, accompanied a traditional meal of roast beef followed by apple pie and custard. It was very pleasant though after 50 years, I might have expected more.
In the afternoon, there had been the obligatory speeches, leaving cards and presentation from the proceeds of a collection among the staff. I am not sure that I needed another clock for my mantelpiece, but that is what I was given.
In his speech, Mr. Spencer, the Head of Risk, made mention of my long service, my immaculate dress sense and my great patience. He said all the nice things one might expect without really saying anything and certainly without any genuine warmth. As I also expected he did not talk about “the robbery”; no-one talks about the robbery when I am around.
So let me tell you what happened.
As per usual, on the morning of Monday 6th October 1969 I was due to meet Alf Bennett at Greenfields front door at 7:00am. The process demanded that it was always two people who entered the bank first even though there was only one, very large lock on the front door; a lock that had been there over 100 years and whose key I carried. My key was one of only three known to exist. Why was there just one lock with one key? Well, the thinking at the time was that everything of value was locked inside the vault at night. Even if someone could break in then they would also have to breach the large steel door or 3 feet of stone wall to find anything of value. In light of this, the Greenfield family liked the impression of confidence that the old bronze doors gave and accepted the single lock.
By 7:40, Alf had not arrived, and I knew I would need to decide what to do. As one would expect there were a few people passing like shadows in the street as I pondered my options. I noticed that the doors were not quite closed, there was a small crack between them that was not usually visible. Tentatively, I pushed against the right door and to my surprise it moved, just a fraction, but it moved.
On reflection and as was pointed out to me many times by the police, the insurers and my manager, I should have called for help or found a policeman. Remember this was long before mobile phones so there was no possibility of just standing there and phoning for help. What I actually did was push the door wider and entered cautiously. I saw the banking hall was a mess with desks and chairs upturned. The door to the teller’s counter was open and so was the wooden door leading to the basement ….and the vault.
They say that it was just after 7:45am that Florence and Agnes, the two cleaners, found me out cold lying on my back in the banking hall. I understand that I was then taken to St Barts Hospital, and it was there that I awoke the next day with my head swathed in bandages and a policeman sitting beside the bed. Not surprisingly they were keen on questioning me, but I was not much help. I told them that I had no memory after first entering the Bank. I had no idea how I came to be out cold and really was not much help.
It seems that the Police think that someone had hidden in the ceiling above the vault and looking down through a small peephole had watched the vault being opened and made a note of the combination. They had then emerged at the weekend, opened the vault and had plenty of time to rummage both the Bank’s valuables, including a stash of gold bullion, mostly smaller bars, and the safety deposit boxes.
The criminal then left the Bank through the front door. The lock I mentioned earlier could be opened from the inside without a key. It had not been designed to stop people breaking out, only those breaking in.
The Police found a mess in the vault. Mostly, the interesting, but only personally valuable items from safety deposit boxes. You may not believe me, but this list included one left plimsole, an old banana skin and the signed photograph of twin sisters, stars of the Hammer Horror films, dressed in diaphanous nightgowns.
For some reason no one was ever able to explain there were also a number of pieces of jewelry and gold coins scattered around. Whether the criminal was limited in what he could carry, a bag burst or maybe he was interrupted - by me possibly – we never found out, but the fact was a small number of valuable items were recovered from the floor of the vault.
Another interesting fact is that Alf Bennett was never seen again. This of course cast suspicion on him or at least on his involvement, but it could never be proved. Unfortunately, it also cast a shadow of suspicion over me. I could see in their eyes that the Police and my managers suspected that my amnesia was convenient, wondering if maybe I had been part of the gang and possibly the subject of a double cross that left me on the floor.
I believe that the insurance claim was for well over a £1million, but no one ever truly new how much had been taken as not all clients wanted to own up to what they had kept safe from prying eyes.
No matter how I protested my innocence the taint was there. To many people I was thought a hero or at least a victim of the robbery and the Bank would have appeared churlish had they sacked me, but my promotions stopped. I also knew any reference I received would include some coded elements that another employer would understand. Thank goodness for the unspoken debt owed to my father.
Initially I was angry and frustrated, but in the end I decided to be patient and work my time at Greenfields. At various points, I was put in charge of Office Services, the Charity Committee, disaster-recovery planning and other safe, but unexciting roles. I was never given the keys to the Bank again nor was I given access to the vault. The public argument was that I had done my bit and the Bank would ask no more of me, but I knew I was marked, as did everyone else.
All through this I would smile and perform my duties such that there were no grounds for complaint. Wherever I went - oh yes, I never had an office again – my aspidistra went with me. I watered it, wiped it and checked the drainage. It even flowered once in a while, just as it was doing today.
I know many questioned why I stayed at Greenfields, on what was increasingly a modest salary. I just told them that I knew better days were ahead, and that I was comfortable being where I was.
But as always, good things come to an end, and my retirement day approached. I could put off leaving Greenfields no longer. I sorted my fully funded, final salary pension scheme. Ask any banker and they will tell you that you don’t see many of those these days. I sorted my other affairs and just this afternoon I walked out of the Bank and into a taxi. While I carried my plant, two colleagues carried my box of personal effects and the mantle clock. I know I had a smile on my face, but few would or even could guess why.
And here I am now. My house was paid for long ago and my pension means I will never go without food and heat. It also allows for the occasional bottle of good scotch and one holiday a year.
As I said the flames of the open fire flicker on my whisky and I start to dream of a house on one of the Greek Isles. The gentle waves lap on the beach to the back and the sun beats down on the front while a housekeeper looks after my still modest, though very comfortable needs.
It is time to draw upon my real pension, the one that has kept me smiling all these years. It helped me put up with being overlooked for promotion. I can now admit to myself that I do, in fact, know most of what happened that fateful day in October 1969, well until I was knocked unconscious.
I entered the Bank carefully listening for any sound. It did not appear that anyone was there as I stepped over scattered pencils and broken crockery. I had moved towards the vault and found it was also ransacked. The safety deposit boxes hung out of their holes, lids open and contents either scattered or ignored.
I did notice that the usual small pile of gold ingots was gone, but was surprised that a number of small bars lay on one of the inspection tables. I noticed the sparkle from a handful of necklaces and earrings that seemed pushed to the edges and corners of the floor. To sparkle in that way they had to be diamonds, mostly set in gold fittings. My banker’s eye could not help estimating the value I could see and judged it to be about equivalent to 20 years’ salary.
I was never shown the inventory of what was recovered by the Police, but I know that many of the pieces I saw would have been missing.
How I ended up out cold is the memory I have genuinely lost. I think that as I went for help, I must have trodden on those scattered pencils and lost my footing, falling backwards heavily, but I can't be sure. But then, neither can anyone else.
With this self-confession over I pick up a hammer and swung it at the aspidistra. If the flower could yell it would do so for as the china breaks into a hundred pieces the plant collapses in a heap. I have not watered it for a week or so, and it is very dry. As I reach for a handful of dirt the glint of wealth winks at me from the base of the pile. My Greek home becomes real as a handful of gold and diamonds appear in my fingers after the remaining soil has fallen away.
As my mother once said, one should never doubt the value of good drainage.
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PostScriptThis entry received an honourable mention in its group, so not too shabby for a first attempt. I will consider entering next year and see if I can improve.
Wednesday 5 February 2014
The 5 C's of leadership
I have just had an enjoyable evening at the first MAG-net City event of 2014. The main talk of the night was given by Benny Higgins, CEO of Tesco Bank. In this how explained his vision and pride that was not just another bank doing what the rest do but one where decisions were based on what was right for the customer, something learned from Sir Terry Leahy, the then CEO of Tesco's the retailer.
What I found interesting was the framework he laid down for effective leadership. This was what I will call the 5 C's.
Competency related to the skills and knowledge for the particular role. He spoke about the fashion to look for transferable skills from another industry, but advocated that leaders should know the business they are in, putting. Job they lack the competence for is a recipe for disaster.
Curiosity was about not only an interest to look at new things, but to be able to assess, prioritise and act upon what has been found.
Creativity was about doing the right thing, stirring things up when they are calm and calming things down when they are manic.
Communication is about the ability to listen rather than shout. To understand and be understood, something that is needed every day in so many ways.
Lastly courage was about being ready and able to make the decisions that are needed, big and small.
Benny is clearly proud of what he has achieved with Tesco Bank and excited about what he is still building. I wonder how many other "leaders" in banking can come cross as well and if they would stand up to the 5 C scrutiny?
What I found interesting was the framework he laid down for effective leadership. This was what I will call the 5 C's.
- Competency
- Curiosity
- Creativity
- Communication; and
- Courage
Competency related to the skills and knowledge for the particular role. He spoke about the fashion to look for transferable skills from another industry, but advocated that leaders should know the business they are in, putting. Job they lack the competence for is a recipe for disaster.
Curiosity was about not only an interest to look at new things, but to be able to assess, prioritise and act upon what has been found.
Creativity was about doing the right thing, stirring things up when they are calm and calming things down when they are manic.
Communication is about the ability to listen rather than shout. To understand and be understood, something that is needed every day in so many ways.
Lastly courage was about being ready and able to make the decisions that are needed, big and small.
Benny is clearly proud of what he has achieved with Tesco Bank and excited about what he is still building. I wonder how many other "leaders" in banking can come cross as well and if they would stand up to the 5 C scrutiny?
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