News that the major mobile communications companies have begun to collaborate so as to produce a single, universal charger which can handle all makes and models of mobile phone has the makings of one big tick on my short list of 'Things To Do To Create One Genuinely Global Community'.
Other outstanding items include:
• One standard electrical domestic plug and socket set
• Consistent coding of hot and cold water taps
• Universal keyboard notations for all non-alphabetical keys
• Agreed On/Off positions for wall switches
• One shoe size convention
Perhaps if we could get some of these little issues sorted (or crowd sourced?) it would provide the necessary impetus to connect up with the other ninety-eight percent of the world's population who are not in a position to read this and for whom clean water, electricity, new shoes and internet access are dreams deferred.
Or maybe we just live with it?
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Where were you?
"Where were you when you heard of Michael Jackson's death?" is set to join that pantheon of similarly poignant questions - uniquely personal moments spun into a world wide web of connectivity.
My answer to this latest 'meme' is in a conference hotel in Frankfurt where I was helping a group of leaders think about how they could communicate more effectively with their sprawling global organisation.
Amidst all the usual welter of flip charts, pocket cards, powerpoint slides, laminated posters, nifty newsletters, electronic templates, gleaming video-conferencing displays, virtual webinars and even the unreliable glimmerings of holographic beaming, there were eventually just two questions that resonated with me:
'What did you do to delight a customer today?' and 'How can I make it easier for you to do your job?'
Imagine if these were the two standard management enquiries woven into the very fabric of a business, embedded deeply in the DNA of an organisation's discourse, the very yin and yan of your next workshop? They reminded me once again of the power of the open question, the importance of its careful, simple framing and the remarkable energy that it can generate through an honest response.
Because, unlike the 21st century's constellation of global superstars, I suspect that most leaders in large organisations will be remembered for the quality and tone of their questions rather than for the weight and length of their answers - and certainly not for the sublime beauty of their dancing.
Where were you...?
My answer to this latest 'meme' is in a conference hotel in Frankfurt where I was helping a group of leaders think about how they could communicate more effectively with their sprawling global organisation.
Amidst all the usual welter of flip charts, pocket cards, powerpoint slides, laminated posters, nifty newsletters, electronic templates, gleaming video-conferencing displays, virtual webinars and even the unreliable glimmerings of holographic beaming, there were eventually just two questions that resonated with me:
'What did you do to delight a customer today?' and 'How can I make it easier for you to do your job?'
Imagine if these were the two standard management enquiries woven into the very fabric of a business, embedded deeply in the DNA of an organisation's discourse, the very yin and yan of your next workshop? They reminded me once again of the power of the open question, the importance of its careful, simple framing and the remarkable energy that it can generate through an honest response.
Because, unlike the 21st century's constellation of global superstars, I suspect that most leaders in large organisations will be remembered for the quality and tone of their questions rather than for the weight and length of their answers - and certainly not for the sublime beauty of their dancing.
Where were you...?
Monday, 8 June 2009
Dinner in the souk
I've been working here in Kuwait for this past week (the Kuwaiti weekend is Friday/Saturday with work starting again on Sunday) and have managed to find a free internet station at the airport on my way out to Amsterdam via Bahrain tonight.
Last night we were taken on a tour of the old souk downtown in Kuwait City where traders in traditional desert robes and sandals sit comfortably alongside their fruit, fish, dates, nuts, honey, watermelon, spiced tea, carpet and prayer bead stalls and pass the day in animated conversation.
After several hours wandering around admiring this giant Arabian Nights emporium, we were taken by our dutiful hosts to an outdoor restaurant for a traditional Kuwaiti meal drawn directly from the generously laden tables of the souk. After about an hour (and a dozen tiny glass cups of sweet, minty tea) the uneven, rickety trestle tables in front of our party of ten were suddenly swamped with battered tin platters of saffron goat mutton and rice, steaming curried lentil and bean curds, drifts of crisp wild rocket, lemon and coriander salad, a whole shoal of grilled Red Sea prawns, honey and jasmine baked cashews, a small bucket of parsley encrusted houmous, a thicket of moulded, minty lamb koftas impaled on their silver skewers and the incidental matter of six barbequed sea bass caked in caramelised onion and tomato.
"Malesh (no worries)" announced our host, the very generously girthed Hussain, and proceeded to demonstrate just how to attack the nearest pile of food by tearing a corner off a mound of freshly baked, wafer thin, bubbly crusted bread and using it to scoop a portion deftly past his beard and into his maw. We all followed suit politely, gingerly and deliciously. Luckily it is considered good form to leave food on the platter to indicate that one has had an elegant sufficiency.
I'm looking forward to my ham and cheese toasted sandwich for breakfast in The Hague tomorrow!
(22 April 2009)
Last night we were taken on a tour of the old souk downtown in Kuwait City where traders in traditional desert robes and sandals sit comfortably alongside their fruit, fish, dates, nuts, honey, watermelon, spiced tea, carpet and prayer bead stalls and pass the day in animated conversation.
After several hours wandering around admiring this giant Arabian Nights emporium, we were taken by our dutiful hosts to an outdoor restaurant for a traditional Kuwaiti meal drawn directly from the generously laden tables of the souk. After about an hour (and a dozen tiny glass cups of sweet, minty tea) the uneven, rickety trestle tables in front of our party of ten were suddenly swamped with battered tin platters of saffron goat mutton and rice, steaming curried lentil and bean curds, drifts of crisp wild rocket, lemon and coriander salad, a whole shoal of grilled Red Sea prawns, honey and jasmine baked cashews, a small bucket of parsley encrusted houmous, a thicket of moulded, minty lamb koftas impaled on their silver skewers and the incidental matter of six barbequed sea bass caked in caramelised onion and tomato.
"Malesh (no worries)" announced our host, the very generously girthed Hussain, and proceeded to demonstrate just how to attack the nearest pile of food by tearing a corner off a mound of freshly baked, wafer thin, bubbly crusted bread and using it to scoop a portion deftly past his beard and into his maw. We all followed suit politely, gingerly and deliciously. Luckily it is considered good form to leave food on the platter to indicate that one has had an elegant sufficiency.
I'm looking forward to my ham and cheese toasted sandwich for breakfast in The Hague tomorrow!
(22 April 2009)
Rocket science
I made my first batch of wild rocket pesto yesterday. And no, it's not particularly demanding of either my culinary skills nor any weekend intellectual processes. Until I got thinking about the incredibly complex web of supply chains that intersect to emerge as a warmly oily, slightly astringent, livid green paste in a recycled baby food bottle now nestling in the fridge.
There's the olive oil itself which my local supermarket shelf assures me is of Greek origin and the outcome of extra virgin pressing and then the fragrant pine nuts, resinous little seeds first harvested on some North American conifer plantation, freeze dried and container shipped to complement the salty tang of Parmesan cheese, smug behind its EU protected placename. The rocket and garlic heart of the concoction come from my allotment where their rampant seasonal profusion have forced me to go into semi-industrial production. All this simple stuff spiflicated in a German food mixer and poured into a little bottle of unknown origin with its Swiss label scrubbed off.
An idle calculation of the economics of my modest enterprise, suggest that at commercial quantities and prices, this perky little supplement to pasta dishes carries a substantial retail mark-up even taking bottling, distribution and branding into account. Lucrative enough to investigate with my local farm store. Although then again, the food miles tally should really disqualify me from the trade description 'local ingredients'. And I've no idea how to indemnify myself against nut allergic customers...
Maybe it is some form of science after all.
There's the olive oil itself which my local supermarket shelf assures me is of Greek origin and the outcome of extra virgin pressing and then the fragrant pine nuts, resinous little seeds first harvested on some North American conifer plantation, freeze dried and container shipped to complement the salty tang of Parmesan cheese, smug behind its EU protected placename. The rocket and garlic heart of the concoction come from my allotment where their rampant seasonal profusion have forced me to go into semi-industrial production. All this simple stuff spiflicated in a German food mixer and poured into a little bottle of unknown origin with its Swiss label scrubbed off.
An idle calculation of the economics of my modest enterprise, suggest that at commercial quantities and prices, this perky little supplement to pasta dishes carries a substantial retail mark-up even taking bottling, distribution and branding into account. Lucrative enough to investigate with my local farm store. Although then again, the food miles tally should really disqualify me from the trade description 'local ingredients'. And I've no idea how to indemnify myself against nut allergic customers...
Maybe it is some form of science after all.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Pen66
"How many pens do you possess?" It seemed like a slightly quirky but innocent enough question ironically delivered amongst friends around a restaurant table in The Hague a couple of weeks ago. Once we'd scratched around and actually unearthed one between us to help calculate the bill, the original question elicited a whole range of responses from, 'Only ever one at a time' to, 'None - I believe in the collective and universal ownership of all writing materials'. From,'I have at least one special one from every decade I've lived in' to, 'I'm probably in the top one percentile globally' and, 'I couldn't possibly count - the things seem to stick to me like flies'. This last response was mine and led me up a fascinating little cul de sac. This one.
Back home I got out the large shoebox where I have carelessly deposited the sort of pens that I seem to inherit routinely from conferences and corporate workshops, trade shows and training courses, hotel rooms and car hire firms, airport lounges and sponsors' tents. I was amazed not so much by their quantity (660 by a rough count for my more competitive readers) as by their essential similarity despite their apparent diversity from jet black to irridescent party sparkly mauve, from slimline executive silver to orange gel-bloated clown, from click-top Bic to slide and twirl Pentium, from Wal-Mart check-out to Louis Vuitton gift case. I began to wonder just how big the complimentary pen market must be world-wide. Are there any major corporations who have not branded and distributed the humble ball-point pen at some phase in their marketing cycle? Are there conventions for pen designers and if so what on earth do they use as freebie giveaways?
What to do with this accidental and faintly ignominious collection? Thank you for keeping some of your more outrageous suggestions to yourselves. As it happens, an old friend is organising a school trip from the UK to Malawi later this year. Suffice to say their party will be carrying with them bundles of ball-points sufficient for them to be classed as commercial importers although actually intended for distribution amongst rural schoolchildren and households.
Many of 'my' pens will be used long and laboriously for school assignments, marking attendance registers, completing fee records, writing appeal letters. Others will find their way into bakeries, garages, furniture workshops and bottle stores as indispensable tools tucked behind ears or tossed into cash registers. Some will be used meticulously to record anti-retroviral drug taking regimes, some audaciously to bet on football scores. Some may save lives, others witness their disintegration; all will inevitably expire themselves.
If only those pens could write.
Friday, 24 April 2009
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