Another case for new hips

They say that time heals everything.

It has also been been stated that your memory fades as you get older.

On a similar note, we all know that history repeats itself.

Einstein said that "Time is an illusion."

Almost three years ago - when I was a mere slip of a wetsuit and BB was not yet my 'Brand Manager' (more of that in a future post) - I danced the night away at an open air concert to the boppy tunes of Bjorn Again. It was brilliant fun.

Never mind that I was a contender for Tena Lady (as were my other companions at the time, which gave rise to even more laughter) and that the following day my hips creaked so much from all the pogo dancing and jumping about that I could barely walk, let alone get out of my seat.

Did I learn anything?

Did I heck.

Last night was the end-of-season celebration party at our rugby club. Parents only, not a child in sight, phenomenal turn-out, a number of the premiership team players at our tables for added effect, great vibe and - get this - one of the best live bands currently playing in London. Trust me, I booked them.

Cue this morning.

My hips hurt.

My knees ache.

I am still deaf and the ringing in my ears persists.

I am slightly hoarse (singing? shouting? certainly wasn't from talking).

I managed only four and a half hours sleep before another training session with BB beckoned.

Yet amidst all that I recalled a flash of a photograph being taken quite late.
So I sent out a query to the lovely woman who organised the whole event.
And got this.

LCM  attempts to demonstrate the 'dip'
dance move with LW hooker Mr Neil Briggs

Best thing? I was driving, so you do the maths.

Which is why Oscar Wilde stated: "With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone."

Or with a professional rugby player, for that matter.

Things I have learnt this month

• Getting to Australia still takes a bloody long time
• Tweeting from 37,000ft does not give you wings, it just means you are incapable of switching off
• If your client was 'wading through treacle' when you left to go on holiday, you can guarantee they will have made no progress in your absence
• Likewise, spring will also have postponed its appearance until your return
• And even then it will string it out
• Former colleagues whom you admired make great business associates and partners
• They also provide the funniest sound bites

• Twenty-three children under the age of nine make a lot of noise
• Especially in a closed environment
• Like a coach on a rugby tour
• Getting back in to a training regime at 5.30am on a Monday morning is hard work
• Being told your arms look "a bit lazy" when swimming is not offensive
• Because it is probably true
• Blaming leaky goggles will not atone you
• The bike will not ride itself, you have to actually take it out of the garage and get on it
• Undoing forty years' of running style takes a long, long, long time and far too much concentration
• Well, more than five kilometres' worth at any rate

What about you?

Back up from Down Under

How quickly can time fly?

Well, if you take a three-week break away from it all, head to Byron Bay via Brisbane, surf the waves with 'the dudes' (my kids, not the locals), check out the wildlife (pet a 'roo, cuddle a koala, usual stuff), mosey on down to Sydney, take a spin on the harbour on a lovely yacht (family friend, don't kid yourself), do an Easter Sunday ocean swim with an old rowing mate (yes, IN the water as opposed to ON the water), catch up with Uni buddies, revisit the old haunts of the Northern Beaches (Whale, Palmie, anyone?), flit over to Adelaide, climb Mt Lofty to catch the views with repatriated friends, go traipsing round the Barossa, meet a real local (yeah, Cate Pearce, that'd be you), and be enthralled by the Cloud Forest in Singapore en route home, well, then... I guess it does not fly at all.

It it just perfect.

Yee-hah, get me.

Here's a brief pictorial to illustrate further - and just in case you find it easier to 'tell' a story via photos... a bit like Cate and I did after a few glasses of wine.

Chillin' out with the 'in' crowd

Geez mate, not more of that awful grub?

Okay, now wait... wait... wait...
for the right wave to get in

Palm on the left, Pittwater on the right,
and I'm "stuck in the middle with youuuu"

Looks nothing like London

The very phallic Mt Lofty lighthouse -
a trait shared with other similar edifices

Barossa delight

Some strange woman who insisted
on giving me wine

Cloud Forest - simply amazing

Time for a break

Manic times. It never rains but pours: cats, dogs, irate school parents, irrational colleagues, complaining coaches, uncooperative clients, non-compliant committee peers, inconsiderate OHs who go off to attend industry conferences for the best part of a week, touch down for twenty-four hours, and then disappear for another three days on a separate business trip, leaving laundry in their wake.

At least the military regime at home has paid off and the cherubs were relatively well-behaved and helpful.

Either way, it has been exhausting.

But, guess what? It's also time for a well-earned break. 

The kids are oblivious to it all as we attempt to keep it a 'surprise'.

Not sure what OH is expecting them to think (after debates around "What shall we do for Easter?") when we rock up at the airport after leading them to believe that we might "catch a flight to Cornwall and rent a cottage"? Yes, honest.

I can foresee the first question: "Is Brisbane really in England?"

The doctor will see you once more

(c) Charles Schultz

Quite obviously I have been way too busy of late, given that the last edition of Doctor LCM's BADASS consulting sessions was back in October. Good grief, that is just ridiculous. Never mind that real life (work, rugby, kids, training, laundry, clients, business associates, laundry, training, deadlines, rugby, laundry... am I repeating myself?) often gets in the way of blogging.

For those of you who are new here - and think I am just using gratuitous foul language (I do, you have been warned) - the acronym stands for Business Advisory and Select Services.

I had to think long and hard to come up with that. I hope you appreciate it.

So, anyway, I have been extremely busy doling out advice left, right and centre of recent. Both to those who request it and to those who don't. Personally it is far more satisfying to deal with the latter, especially as they look at me like I had suddenly spouted a third ear and had no concern for etiquette and the British notion of 'not making a fuss'.
I like to make a fuss. It is healthy, although OH gets very annoyed, especially when he offers to cook and makes one of his three repertoire dishes and I roll my eyes and say, "Again?" Now, if he did the laundry instead on a regular basis (not just twice a year), that would be a whole other story. I could almost pension off the Laundry Fairy.

I digress, as ever.

Today's letter of choice comes from a regular client who somehow never seems to take on board the advice doled out on previous occasions.

*sigh*

Never mind. One lives in hope.

"Dear Doctor LCM

My boss strives to undermine me. Decisions are made without consulting me, changes are implemented without my views being taken in to consideration, communications are sent out without my input. 
I am supposed to be managing a team and these actions show me up as having no control. 
I have been with my company for many, many years, yet my boss is a relative newcomer whose mandate is to 'transform the business', whatever that means. 
People's feelings need to be taken in to account or the upset will cause disruption. I already am being portrayed as being incompetent and 'out of touch'.

What should I do?

Yours sincerely,
Dejected Leader of Men

p.s. the boss is female - does that make me unreasonable?"

Doctor LCM replies:

Dear Dejected Leader of Men,

Ever heard the saying "Grown some balls"? Yes?
Well, guess what. Time to do just that.
Man up!

You're welcome.

Dr LCM


If you too have a pressing business-related matter that you would like answered or on which to receive valuable advice, please submit to the Doctor and wait patiently in line.

The (ex) banker's bonus bonanza bitch fest

Dear EU

Thanks for the cap on bonuses, well overdue.

I was just saying to my mate Flash (real name Gordon) the other day that we aren't half on to a cushy deal, you know. What with the golden handshakes, the 'who-you-know' network, the smoke and mirror deals, the greasing of palms and mutual back scratching, well, it's all one big jolly, isn't it?
Plus, guess what? We get to gamble on a daily basis with - get this - other people's money! How cool is that? And the more complicated we make the deal, the less anyone understands it (including us, I'll be honest) and the easier to get away with some of those calculation errors that used to catch me out during GCSE maths.

Anyway, enough about all that, let's talk about the readies.

Fact of the matter is that regardless what you put in place to curb our bonuses - which, let's be honest here, is why the majority of us actually choose to a) work in the City, and b) go in to banking - you will be both hard pressed to enforce it as well as destined to more frustration as we find alternative imaginative ways to compensate ourselves for any 'losses'.

In essence, it's a battle you cannot win.

Basic pay levels will just be increased, additional funds will be paid in to escrow accounts, and beneficiary loans will then conveniently find their way in to personal bank accounts on a monthly basis.
In addition, there will be a whole new raft of complex instruments put in place, specifically designed to detract attention from remuneration and re-focus your efforts on capital adequacy and avoiding risk at all costs.

But, hey, good effort anyway. How long did it take you, by the way, to agree on this? Were you able to take advantage of your EU parliamentary privileges or will you be billing the taxpayer for overtime? And were all the perks of the job - first class travel, three-course meals, chauffeurs, etc - laid on for you during this most pressing debate? I hope so. It would be awful if you had been dealt short shrift.

No hard feelings. I get where you are coming from and I can sympathise. It's tough at the top. Or not even at the top, actually. Because, you see, the percentage of individuals you seem to be gunning for is, in reality, quite minuscule compared to the overall numbers employed in the banking sector in the City.
People who are doing their job, being paid a market salary, and looking forward to a bonus (never guaranteed, you also seem to have forgotten that bit) at year end for having done their job well and contributed to the earnings of their institution.

The simple rule is no profit, no pay. Now that is something we can all subscribe to.

But I am not so sure you would understand, given your choice to partake in the EU gravy train and pontificate on matters that - in all honesty - you really do not have a clue about.

Yours, in euros,
LCM
(former investment banker)

A scrum of rugby

This post may appear slightly disjointed. I am going to blame the combination of lovely fit men and Lycra. Bear with me.

So, last Sunday, mini rugby training session completed, I was heading in to the club house with my youngest (Widget) when something someone a renown figure caught my eye.

Yes, it was none other than that perma-tanned (former) bastion of the Welsh national rugby team Gavin Henson, walking straight towards me.
I hesitated for a millisecond and then came to my senses.

"Gav!" I said, in full-on familiar terms. "Got a sec? I have someone who'd love to meet you!"

And before he could gather his thought(s), I hauled Widget out of the club house, crouched down next to him and asked, "Know who this is?"

From the mouths of babes, as they say.

A few days later and I am returning from a business conference in the City, when I spot something someone a renown figure, descending the steps to the tube.

Now how I recognised this (former) bastion of the England national rugby team is a mystery as I was walking behind him, but let's leave it at that.

I alighted the tube, so did he. I sat down. So did he. Opposite me. I became somewhat entranced by the surreal - and loud - conversation two teenage girls were having nearby. So did he. I rolled my eyes. He smiled at me.

And then got off at the next stop.

Never mind. I hope the eye-rolling did not put him off.

And then of course there was the fabulous - and long overdue - Welsh victory over the French at the Stade de France on Saturday. I yelled so loudly at the television, I thought the neighbours would lodge a formal complaint.

One player in particular was worthy of my lung power.

I laid bare my thoughts via Twitter, as you do.

I am following him avidly, am considering adoption, and might even go as far as undertaking laundry fairy services should he take up my offer.

Don't worry. I will come to my senses shortly.

About the laundry, that is.