Getting some work done.

I recently posted on social media that I’d been advised by a recruiter to “get some work done”. This was not, as far as I know, meant as a criticism of my work ethic or performance. No. They were advising me that, if I wanted to be considered for a particular role, I would need to invest in Botox, fillers or even facial cosmetic surgery.

To be clear, I’m not looking for a job, but I am open to non-exec directorships, and this recruiter had messaged me wanting to have an initial conversation about such a role. When we took the step from message to video, they were clearly rather surprised, nay, shocked to see my face.

(*I know how they felt. Whenever I look in the mirror on the morning after one too many glasses of red wine, I wince and reach, without delay, for the tequila.)

I reacted to their suggestion with my customary aggressive politeness, and informed them that, whatever the role, I wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation. Wishing them “a very nice day”, I clicked emphatically on “leave this meeting”. To paraphrase Groucho Marx, I knew immediately that I didn’t want to be a member of a club that will have me only if I conformed to their warped aesthetic.

I found it hard to put words to my reaction, so simply posted this image which summed up how I felt, and stepped back to see if the response from my friends and associates would help me to match that feeling with some kind of logic or reason.   

I grouped the responses into 3 categories (of COURSE I did – after all, I was a researcher for about a hundred years, as is evident by my brain wrinkles) and then drew my conclusions.

Response type 1. “REALLY?!?!? Are you fucking kidding me!!??”

Those who made their responses public tended to share my rage, disappointment and exhaustion that older women still have to play male or play young to be seen. It’s acceptable to be angry about this, hence these replies tended to feed the conversation, rather than popping into my private inbox.

Many of you wanted me to out the recruiter. But I won’t. I won’t because I don’t believe that removing the symptom will change the system. The ageism and sexism may be pushed a little further underground if we silence one or 2 culprits, but the problem won’t be solved that way. The cosmetic surgery and filler industry (much of which is not regulated) is worth an estimated £6bn a year in the UK alone, so I’m pretty confident that there are people out there able to pay whatever it takes to persuade our legislators to protect this expression of ageism.  

Response type 2: “Get real, girlfriend!”

Several private messages were from well-meaning friends who agreed that this shouldn’t be a thing, but nonetheless told me that the recruiter was right; if I ever want to be seen in public again, and taken seriously in the business world, said work has to be done. Some of these friends are themselves filler addicts or have had some kind of cosmetic surgery (in case you don’t know, once you start down the filler route you can expect to need top-up injections every 6 months or so – it’s a very profitable business model). I should also add that most of them have had such subtle work done that you might not even notice until they start to cry when you thought they were smiling. Some of them had already told me that I should join the movement (or lack of movement). They find some interesting ways to express their support for me, “You have such lovely, expressive eyes. It’s a shame to have them hidden by all those wrinkles.”  

Response type 3: “U OK hun?”

The response that surprised me the most, and that really made me think, was the pity response. Variations on; “You poor thing”, “That must be so hurtful”, “Are you OK?”.

You see, it never crossed my mind to be hurt or offended by this. In my (wrinkle shrouded) eyes, this is not about me. It’s about a sexist, ageist society that doesn’t want to know about your skills, talents and ideas unless you pass the looks test. It’s about a world where some people can’t concentrate on what I have to say because they are too distracted by my lines and wrinkles. (In the same way that, when I was a young woman, some people couldn’t be expected to concentrate on what I had to say because I have breasts – even though those were, and still are, barely noticeable.) That’s not my problem, it’s theirs.

In closing, I have a confession to make. I’m a hypocrite. I too am sometimes guilty of allowing someone’s appearance to affect my opinion of them, or to undermine my faith in their expertise. For example, when a privileged, obese, white male looks to camera and tells me how to look after my finances and my health, I admit that I find it hard to take him seriously. So maybe I should get that work done after all.

(*For those of you who don’t know me, I’m kidding. Those of you who do know me know I’m not kidding)

The chef, the vulnerability box and the elder microbiome

Another type of diversity conversation. And a call to action.

Alongside the wonderful Paul Loper, I’ll be heading back this time next year to the beautiful Mexican Pacific coast as guest faculty at the Modern Elder Academy. I’m looking forward to learning more than I teach (as always) and in particular to enjoying the work of the most important faculty member at MEA, the person whose contribution has the potential to make the greatest difference in the lives of those attending…yes, I’m talking about this guy: Tony Peralta. Chef.

But for now, I’m still in London Covid world, with stern warnings everywhere I turn that elders like me are more at risk than younger people of serious illness and even death if we become infected by the virus. The message is one designed to evoke passivity and fear; I’m being told what to avoid and what not to do.

It seems to me to be dangerously superficial as well as offensively ageist to throw all elders into the same box. I’m not alone. A paper in the international journal of the British Geriatrics Society states:

• The public discourse during COVID-19 misrepresents and devalues older adults.
• The ageist attitudes circulating during COVID-19 make some people think that the pandemic is an older person problem. (Ageist attitudes include the belief that ill health is inevitable, intervention ineffective, and improved outcomes inherently not valuable to society).

The same paper goes on to say that it doesn’t have to be this way; that there is substantial untapped potential to modify the relationship between chronological age and health, and to relieve the so-called burden of ageing on individuals, families and society.

One of the fundamental reasons why some older people can be badly affected by Covid is a lack of diversity in the gut microbiome. In case you didn’t know, your microbiome is made up of more bacteria and fungi than you have cells, and diversity in its composition protects us from disease, affects our metabolism and weight, our inflammatory response, cognition, appetite, mood….

Over the age of 40, the diversity of these bacteria in our gut tends to decline. The reasons for this are many and include diet (many people slide into habitual and unhealthy eating patterns), hormone levels, diabetes, use of antibiotics, painkillers, antidepressants, and drugs such as statins which are used to manage blood lipids.

At a time when we are being advised to wash our hands and stay away from other people, the risk of reducing the diversity of our gut bacteria is even greater – cutting down on opportunities for the virus to enter our system also means that we’re preventing bacteria getting in, so we need more than ever to protect and boost the ones already in there. In this necessarily disinfected environment, we need to do even more to sustain the diversity of our microbiome and thus protect ourselves from those dangerous inflammatory infections caused by Covid.

This is where our hero, Tony, comes in. One way to slow the age-related decline in microbiome diversity is by changing our eating habits to something more like a Mediterranean (or what I tend to think of as a Pacific Mexican) diet of the type served up by Tony and his team – plenty of colourful fruit and vegetables, grains, fresh fish, some fermented foods (and, yes, the occasional glass of excellent Baja California wine). It helps also to snack less, taking long pauses between meals to give your gut a break. Exercise has also been shown to support microbiome diversity.

To learn more about this, Prof. Tim Spector is definitely worth a follow, and this article of his on how to boost your gut microbiome is very helpful. I’m looking forward to his upcoming book, Spoonfed, on diet myths which I’ll feature here when it comes out in a couple of months time.

I’d love us to turn Covid19 from a reason to hide away into a reason to act. To take this opportunity to do 2 things:

• as individuals, rather than allow ourselves to be wholly dominated by the vulnerability narrative, take action and start to re-build the diversity of our microbiome so that we improve our resistance. In short, “Cook like Tony.”
• as a movement, start to draw attention to the fact that the medicine business and pharmaceutical trials have historically and shamefully under-represented older people, black people and women.[1] A paper by multiple academics from London, Shanghai and Mexico written in 2014 decried the under-representation of older people in research and healthcare thus, “effective (healthcare) intervention in older people is complicated by ageism, complex multimorbidity, and poor access to age-appropriate care…older people tend to be excluded from clinical trials that would generate specific evidence to inform their treatment, even for drugs that are mainly prescribed in older age.”

Worth reading:

[1] The burden of disease in older people and implications for health policy and practice
Martin J Prince, Fan Wu, Yanfei Guo, Luis M Gutierrez Robledo, Martin O’Donnell, Richard Sullivan, Salim Yusuf

Missing Microbes. How the overuse of antibiotics is fueling our modern plagues. Martin J. Blaser.

 

 

I’ve been gender stereowiping nursery rhymes. You’re welcome.

Please feel free to add your own in the comments below.

In case you are not familiar with ye olde nursery rhymes of the British Isles, the titles in bold are almost identical to the originals, so you can look them up

Jill and Jack,
just for the craic,
went off to climb a mountain.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
and Jill called 911 before administering essential first aid.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
The queen and all her ladies in waiting spent the afternoon rebuilding him,
kintsugi style,
and when they’d finished he looked absolutely beautiful.

Sally Ann Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Drank plenty of fluids on Friday,
Felt better on Saturday,
Went clubbing on Sunday,
That was the end,
Of Sally Ann Grundy’s mild throat infection.

Ride a fine mare to Banbury cross,
to see a cute guy upon a white horse….
….Hmm….
…in spite of his 6-pack and fine biceps,
he has no sense of humour.
So, I’ll just turn this mare around and head back to the pub with my mates.

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly,
this was just the beginning of her PhD in nutritional biology

Doctor Foster went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain;
She stepped in a puddle,
Right up to her middle,
And yet continued to make her way through the flood waters to rescue drowning residents.

Little Ms Muffet
sat on her tuffet,
eating her curds and whey,
when down came a spider,
who sat down beside her,
so she ate him; because she, too, was a nutritional biologist.

Elle MacDonald had a farm,
Ee i ee i o,
And on that farm she grew some weed,
Eei eei o
With a toke toke here and a toke toke there,
Here a toke there a toke everywhere a toke toke…
..Um……
…..Sorry…….
….What was I saying?

Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was white as snow
and everywhere that Mary went
she sold unique handmade organic wool sweaters at an enormous profit.

“Baa baa blacksheep,
have you any wool?”
“Yes ma’am, yes ma’am, 3 bags full!
One for the master and one for the dame and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”
So the dame, Mary, bought the bags intended for the males,
and invested them in her high-end organic wool sweater business.

“Mary, Mary quite contrary,
how does your garden grow?”
“With silver bells and gold bullion and bitcoin all in a row.
All purchased with the profits from my designer woollens business.”

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many architectural awards for designing this unique structure that she found it quite difficult to find space for them all.

“Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea,
Silver buckles at her knee:
She’ll come back and marry me –
Bonny Bobby Shafto!
Bobby Shafto’s bright and fair,
Panning out her yellow hair….”
…..”Forget it mate, she’s not giving up a life of travel for a loser like you!”

“It’s raining, it’s pouring.
Me old man was snoring.
He bumped his head and went to bed
And he couldn’t get up in the morning.
I swear that’s exactly what happened, Your Honour.”

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
And can`t tell where to find them…
I’m fairly sure that bitch Mary has nicked them.

Little Jackie Horner sat in the corner eating her Christmas pie,
Having been told that the pie contained plums, she was not in the least surprised to find one therein, nor did she expect praise for happening upon the obvious.

Old Queen Cole was a merry old soul.
And a merry old soul was she,
She called for her pipe, and she called for her bowl
And she called for her fiddlers three.
All of which explains why she was so merry.

What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
A complex combination of elements,
forming compounds and sub cellular structures.
That’s what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
A complex combination of elements,
forming compounds and sub cellular structures.
That’s what little girls are made of.

Not sure if you’re an immigrant or an expat? Take our simple test to find out.

If you’re one of the *232 million people living in a country that you were not born in, then you’re probably wondering where to draw the line between “ex-pat” and “immigrant”. (Unless you are a British person living anywhere overseas, or a French person living in South Kensington, in which case you have never even considered yourself to be anything other than an ex-pat). So we’ve developed a simple 2-minute quiz to help you out.

First, find photographs of the people running the country you’re currently living in. By this we mean politicians, business leaders and media owners. In reverse order.

Now, take a look at our handy skin colour chart, and find **your skin colour.

If you are the same colour as, or paler than, the ruling elite in the country you are in, CONGRATULATIONS!! You are an ex-pat.

If your skin is darker than that of the ruling elite then you’re an immigrant.

There are a few exceptions to this rule. If your skin is the same colour as or lighter than the ruling elite, AND you speak or attempt to speak the language of the country you are living in, then I’m afraid you’re an immigrant. Ex-pats know that they do not need to learn other languages because they only ever hold conversations with other expats, and don’t all the locals speak English/French/Dutch/Spanish anyway? (It has come to our attention that some expats do make the mistake of learning how to instruct the staff in the local language. This really isn’t necessary, and in our view is a rather vulgar show of sycophancy or condescension.)

There are also some rare instances (for example if you are an Irish person living in England) where you don’t need to decide whether you are an immigrant or an ex-pat, because most people in the country in which you reside don’t realise that the country you come from doesn’t belong to them.

Next week: Not sure if you’re racist or xenophobic? Maybe you are one of those lucky people who are both! Take our simple test to find out.

(*Daily Mail stat., so who knows what the real figure is.)

(** If you are Donald Trump or a member of the Simpson family, we’re sorry but your skin colour does not appear on this chart. We’re still working on the section for fictional characters.)

What not to wear over 60. The ranteuse returns.

It has come to my attention that there are internexperts out there keen to help me to save myself from the utter humiliation of dressing in a manner inappropriate to my advanced years.

According to one of these, “Your main aims are to create stylish, smooth, lines using contemporary clothing styles that flatter your body shape and coloring..”

Strange as it may seem, dear, my main aim is NOT to “create stylish smooth lines using contemporary clothing styles that flatter my body shape and coloring”. Rather, my main aims, in no particular order are a) to smash patriarchy, b) to help develop an alternative to corporate capitalism that enables peace and equality and c) to have witty and charming people enjoy good food and conversation around my dinner table. And, by the way, I believe that the word you were looking for is “colouring”.

Let’s move on to this gem: “Looking at a full-length mirror after 60 is like running a gauntlet filled with emotional traps, irrational comparisons and destructive media messages.”

A gauntlet cannot be “filled”, you twit. The word “gauntlet” used in this context refers to 2 lines of soldiers, not a bloody glove. Poor literacy aside, looking at a full-length mirror after 60 is like, well, looking in a full-length mirror. If you once looked in a full length mirror aged 19 and then didn’t look again until you reached 60, I can imagine that your reflection might come as a bit of a shock. But then I suspect if you’d spent the last 41 years in a place that doesn’t have mirrors you’d have other things on your mind.

Now to these 2 examples, from completely different sources, which give us some insight into the type of person so selflessly giving of their valuable time in order to help those of us who are in real and present danger of committing serious style faux pas:

“(Over 60) ..there is one person in the fashion industry that should be your best friend. ..I’m talking about your tailor.“ and

“The most important thing in my ­wardrobe is my seamstress”.

The latter commentator presumably goes on to say that the most important thing in her kitchen is her cook, and that she has had her carpenter build a simply perfect bijou residence under the sink for her maid.

Unfortunately, my tailor and seamstress appear to have eloped to Narnia through the back of my wardrobe, and thus I find myself pitifully reduced to breaking some of the most fundamental rules of how to dress over 60 (my italics).

WEAR ANKLE BOOTS ONLY WITH TROUSERS. This will ensure that your legs are protected from any unsightly blood splashes resulting from using said ankle boots to kick 7 kinds of shit through anyone who tries to tell you what to wear.

KEEP LEGGINGS FOR THE GYM, and even then, please wear them pulled way down over your head so that the rest of us don’t have to look at your hideous face and neck. We all know that NO-ONE wants to look at the neck of a woman over 60.

STEER CLEAR OF MINI SKIRTS even when worn by other people. In particular, try not to sit next to anyone on the 38 bus who is wearing a mini-skirt.

STICK TO SKINNY BELTS. It doesn’t really matter who is wearing them, but stick to them at all costs. Superglue can be helpful in this regard.

DON’T WEAR T-SHIRTS WITH ANYTHING WRITTEN ON THEM unless the t-shirt says, “don’t you dare fucking tell me what to wear, you supercilious motherfucker.”

DON’T WEAR LEATHER JACKETS unless you are also wearing a motorbike crash helmet so no-one can see your hideous, wrinkled over 60-year-old face and neck. Or wear leggings as advised in point 2.

AVOID BIG JEWELLERY, if tempted to wear your big jewellery, make it easier on yourself by placing it well out of reach, perhaps in a safety deposit box in Hatton Garden. Or not

P.S. There will be an award to the first person to correctly name the chap that should not be illustrating my t-shirt.

You are not your label

I’ve learned from prisoners and former prison inmates through The Prison Phoenix Trust, and through the young people that I’ve met through Teenage Cancer Trust, about the dangers of living by the labels that others give us. How living up (or down) to others’ expectations limits our potential.

This year I decided to raise some money for The Prison Phoenix Trust by tearing off one of those labels. Rather than live up to society’s expectations of a 72-year-old woman – that I should become quieter and more frail – I chose to complete 72 updog/downdogs on my birthday (and if you have nothing better to do with your time for the next 5 minutes, the proof is here!).

This is what PPT does; it gives prisoners the power and flexibility to change, to re-invent themselves and not live their label. What labels might be limiting your growth?

Thanks to everyone who has already given to the cause. Link is here if you’d like to join them.

This party is dead

For those of you who missed SA today and have asked for a spoken rather than the written version of my Death Party spoken word, thank you! And here it is.

This Party’s Dead.

My spoken word and poetry stuff for Sunday Assembly London on Sunday 3rd May 2026.

Here are the 4 poemy type things that I delivered on the topic of “This party’s dead”, following on from a moving and sometimes even humorous talk from Erica Buist.

The first is not a poem and, as it’s about my heritage and ancestry, is best imagined in a Sheffield accent. It comes with images of all the people featured. (I’ve published this one on here before)

Are you still there?

Are you still there, Mum?

With the opening bars of “Summertime” I see her body begin to sway.

At the Drury Lane Theatre her foot is tapping along to every 42nd Street song.

In our living room behind her shop in Holme Lane she’s lost in a novel. As am I.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Dad?”

On Blackpool beach from sand we build a castle with a moat and turrets.

I’ve climbed the wall in our back yard to jump off it into his arms.

Of course he’ll catch me.

Yes, I can use a hammer and a drill: I am my dad’s daughter, after all.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Nanny Alice?”

Toasting pikelets over her front room fire, then watching the butter melting into the holes.

Sliding down her narrow staircase – bump, bump, bump – then running back up to slide again.

“Don’t bother to fight with them posh kids, ducks, they’re not worth it”.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Grandad Sidney?”

Out on the front step with sticks, brown paper and string he shows me how to make a kite.

While I’m ladling and pouring at the kitchen sink, he’s getting his perfect Yorkshire puds out of the oven.

Walking along the Hastings seafront, him and me, no words, just listening.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Granny Lizzie?”

Sitting on her lap, I feel myself sliding towards the floor on the shiny fabric of her dress.

In Trafalgar square feeding the pigeons, then off to a talk by some socialist in Conway Hall.

By her side in the freezing cold at a union protest in a park in Sheffield. 

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Grandad Ernest?”

The white rabbit puppet he’s made from his handkerchief is hopping along his arm.

Balancing the Tetley beermats he brought home from the working men’s club, we build a tower,

Then to play with my Dinky coal lorry – a tiny version of the one he drives for work.

Silence.

I was your first grandchild, grandad Ernest.

The first born of your first born. The only one you lived to play with.

When I am gone, Grandad, are you still here?

Silence.

Somewhere right now there is a grandad making and playing with his first grandchild

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here. Always.”

Next is a new one inspired by the idea of average life expectancy, and it’s called “An Average Life”:

The average life expectancy.

For a woman as old as me

Is 88. That’s 16 more years

of an average life. My greatest fear.

So that’s 16 more years that you’ll have to suffer

My turning up and demanding yet another

Glass of wine, and then you’ll listen to me bitch

Again about the growing gap between poor and rich.

What if I don’t want to live an average life

But rather start a riot, overthrow this system rife

with corruption, injustice, inequality and violence

I’d rather scream than age with grace and silence

I’m done with mediocre stuff,

conformity, obedience. Enough.

I’ve been to work and been a wife,

paid my taxes: now bring on the unexpected life..

..where I finally find the true expression

of what it is to be free from suppression.

To see in the mirror that rebel who knows

that to live an average life means to be closed..

..to the limitless beauty and love that I see out there

if I only take time – as the poet said – to stand and stare.

Whatever time I have left I’m going to use to be weird

kind, dangerous, visible, both loved and feared.

You can take your average life and stick it

I’m so over normality now I’m gonna make you brick it

I’ve had more than my share of your average lifestyle

Turned up for the meetings, given you a smile

Now I don’t care how “they” think that I should live, love or look

I’m over living my life by the patriarchal capitalist playbook

From now on the extraordinary is the least I’ll settle for

Revenge, beauty, giggles, kindness and so much more.

Third, here’s an old one of mine on the tyranny of words: Choros Lexis

In the beginning was not the word. 

I did not thus define the sounds I heard

nor did I elevate sound and speech 

over sight, smell or movement, recoil or reach.

In my unlimited early learning times

I did not differentiate between screams and rhymes.

There was no hierarchy of my many senses.

Top marks not given to your verbal responses.

Words are not my power to survive 

If I speak to the ocean, will I stay alive? 

No. My response to the waves is to swim not to shout. 

If I fall in the pit, I can’t talk myself out

I must climb, reach and pull, not argue or reason.

Can I talk myself warm in this inclement season?

No. Faced with this storm, I must lean, turn, take cover,

seek secure, solid shelter. Perhaps the arms of another.

I feel safe in embrace more than chatter or discourse.

Sense, motion, emotion… and then… the word, forced

In from the outside. This uninvited, dictatorial invader, 

It occupies my supple frame, this movement violator… 

These words that dominate our world are not the answer

they have become weapons in the war against the dancers

the ones who choose through supple, subtle moves

to tell their vital, move-beyond-words truths. 

Now in these urgent elder years I seek 

to fulfil that potential I have not yet reached

to return to my newborn, boundless creativity

I will use first movement, feeling, sensitivity

 Let words come last. And when even loved ones’ names 

escape me, (as they will) as long as movement remains, 

I am still me. But when my sense, response and dance are gone, 

When Choros leaves me, then my time is done. 

And finally, another new one:

Every single thing I do

What if every single thing I do

might become the only thing that you

remember when you think back on me?

How might that change these words that I choose,

my moves, my shoes, how much I booze,

the people I love and call my friends?

Would I still write these awkward verses.

Sprinkle in the usual fucking curses

if you would recite them when I’m gone?

If that bus journey had been my last,

To that smiling young man who let me pass

Would I still say “no, you go first love”

What if every single thing you do

Might become the only thing that we

Remember when we think of you?

Imitation is the sincerest form of impact.

In the last few days I’ve seen 3 of the ideas, models and methods that I developed many years ago pop up in blogs, LinkedIn posts and presentations by other people. My first response was anger: not big anger, but small anger of the “Hey, that’s mine! I said/did that in 1990” type. (These other people are so much younger than me that they probably have no idea that I was putting those ideas out there in 1990. Were they even born then?)

The Oscar Wilde quote “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” began to help me move from anger to acceptance, or even complacency (especially when one knows that full quote is “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness”) and I quickly progressed, because I can, to the realisation that imitation is so much more than flattery or theft: it is impact.

Which brought me on to wonder how I might feel had those ideas, games, tools and practices which I now see being used in the world by others been weapons, poisons and diseases? What if a deadly disease that I had nurtured in a petri dish in some hidden laboratory were being introduced into vulnerable communities? If some tech virus that I had developed were enabling criminals to steal from pensioners?

From now on I am going to ask myself; what if everything I create is to be stolen by others? Would that make the world a better place?  If my ideas adopted and adapted by others do not lead to more creativity, laughter and kindness, I will not put them out there. And so I present to you for your immediate imitation my latest random gift which is:

Rolling luggage – what took us so long?

There is evidence of humans using bags from the 30^th century BC. The earliest evidence of use of a wheel by humans was circa 4000 BC. Wheeled luggage was invented by Bernard Sadow in 1970. Yes, we did put bags in trolleys, but it took us thousands of years to put wheels on bags. For the first years of my business travel life in the 1970s, wheeled luggage was rare and unusual. (By the way, I sometimes wish Sadow hadn’t bothered. As a Londoner, hearing the sound of rolling luggage out on the streets at the crack of dawn can drive me crazy.) But what other things are we failing to bring together to make our lives easier? In what other categories are we so obsessed with linear development (better bags, better wheels) that we are failing to see and realise the opportunities in crashing together very different ideas?

Looking forward to hearing your next rolling luggage ideas.

Who do I think I am?

I was invited by Sunday Assembly London to be the support act for the wonderful Laura Coleman Day. Her story inspired the first of these poems, the rest are closer to the ranty bitching that you may have come to expect from me.

Who do I think I am?

Who do I think I am? To stand up here and share

my poem about love when you are all well aware

that a thousand real writers over hundreds of years

with their well chosen words have moved us to tears

with their love songs.

Well, this is who I am. I am the one who knows

That love doesn’t die with a loved one, but it grows

And with the end of every romance the love that was exchanged

stays both with the receiver and the one who gave

Love does not leave

I know that those old photos where grandad plays with me

Evoke the love I knew was there as I sat upon his knee

And when I hear the opening bars of Ella Fitzgerald’s tunes

I see my parents in warm embrace, dancing around the room

Sights and sounds of love

I picture my head resting on the shoulder of my first love

his gentle hand strokes my face, we gaze at the stars above

a beach in Greece where we played and laughed.

and although our lives took different paths

that love remains.

with the end of each romance the shame, betrayal and rage
are all re-born now as love with the blessing of age

I listen closely for the sighs of love beneath the screams of hate

And I know we have the power in us to co-create

A world of peace

When the ones we loved are gone, we will turn love to tears

When the ones we loved are threatened, we respond with rage and fear,

When the ones we love seem not to love us, we can turn love to blame

I’m learning to turn those lesser feelings back into love again

Will you join me?

Hey, Mr Billionaire

Hey, Mr Billionaire. Do you hear that robin singing?

I do, it lifts my mood and warms my heart

This morning, did your neighbour say “you awright mate”?

Mine did. He gave my day a precious start.

Do you wonder why the kids in school are friends with yours?

I know my boy’s friends love him for himself

And when they’re older, and they bring their partner home

I won’t be questioning that partner’s family’s wealth.

Nice wall you’ve got around your listed London mansion,

Anti-climb spikes and cameras on the gate

But from your bedroom window it’s like looking at a prison fence.

Inside; anxious luxury, outside; threat and hate.

For all my financial insecurity at least I know

That when I’m loved it’s just because I’m me

I’d rather think twice about putting on the heating

Than never walk the streets without security

So hey, Mr Billionaire, if you really want to hear that robin

Trust your neighbour, make the most of every day

If you want your kids to know real friendship

Might I suggest you give it all away?

The pottyminded poet

There are many words that rhyme with luck

But in my head I always get stuck

On the one that I can’t use

Another “easy to” rhyme is hunt

As soon as I hear the word I grunt

With laughter. Just one word I “see”

Walking through the long grass

Words that rhyme with grass are sparse

I murmur to myself.

Quite frankly dears it makes me sick

When I have to write a verse that sticks

With no expletives

The clean words in my vocab bank

Wait patiently in the back up tank

As the rude ones jump the queue

But being here today is bliss
With adorable friends that I hug and kiss

I mean it. I’m not taking the mickey.

Another homage to Dorothy Parker

I’ve got a new word for wrinkles

I choose to call them skin

I’ve had a lot of facelifts

Or as I describe them, grins

I keep my figure looking trim

By buying bigger clothing.

My face shows no expression

‘Cos most of the time I’m dozing

When asked my age, I add 10 years

So people say, “wow you look great!”

And if they don’t, well, f@@£ them

It’s not like I’m looking for a date

To the diet gurus and botox pushers

That fill my newsfeed every day

You keep wasting your money

And I’ll keep being Kay.

I’ve got your back: what an Apple Mac taught me about Allyship in Action

The atmosphere at the recent Allyship in Action event organised and hosted by Publicis Sapient was so kind and positive; conversations were open, constructive and most definitely not performative. The gathering itself demonstrated the very best of what allyship can be (nominative determinism in action!)

In the session, I shared this story from my advertising days: in 1984 the Apple Mac had been launched, and I was super excited to have one on my desk. I was also in my first board role in an ad agency (the only woman in the boardroom, of course). One day, one of my board colleagues came into my office and gently closed the door behind him. He told me that he and the other board members had been talking about the fact that I had a computer on my desk, and wanted me to know that it “made me look like a secretary”. They thought that I should get rid of it if I wanted to be taken seriously in a leadership role. My gut reaction was to tell him that he was a sexist Luddite. Luckily, I managed to bite my lip for once and gave myself time to realise that his intention was to be an ally by inviting me into his world and helping me to be more like the men on the board. I have since come to see this as a classic example of how well-meaning but colonial allyship can not only limit the potential of an individual, but also excludes new ideas and ways of thinking and behaving from positions of power.

Here are a few of the other things that the conversations at the recent event taught and clarified for me:

Allyship is where listening meets adaptability/flexibility. There’s a saying in the world of improvisation, “Listen, and be changed by what you hear”, and this is key to being an ally. We listen to our ally partner and are always prepared to change our opinions and the way that we support them based on what we have learned about them and their circumstances. Too often, “allyship” is well-meaning colonialism as it was in my own example, where the insider tries to help the outsider fit in. True allyship is a 2-way exchange in which both learn from the other, broaden their experience and are prepared to change their point of view and behaviour.

Accountability and togetherness. Allies are dependable and supportive at all times. They have each others’ backs and they deliver on their commitments. (My workplay buddy Paul Loper is a fine example of someone who always has my back, as the photo below of us taken when we were facilitating sessions at Modern Elder Academy in BCS Mexico sweetly illustrates!)

Take time and pause. In a world which can seem chaotic and over stimulating, one of the greatest gifts an ally can give is space. Allies don’t rush to give advice, they give each other time and space to talk, to work things out and to come up with new interpretations and solutions.

Motivation. “The humble ally”. Allies are motivated by supporting the other and seeing their ally partner thrive and develop. They’re not in it to feed their own ego or to be a hero or a saviour.

Thrive, not just perform. Allies are not only there to help each other tick boxes and fulfil external (work, family, social) demands, they are there to help each other fill gaps in their knowledge and experience, express their needs and passions, and thrive on their own terms.

Courage. True allies have the courage to talk about stuff that might be difficult and that we don’t usually talk about. When, as an ally we find ourselves not asking a question because “It’s not my business”, perhaps this is where we are really needed. Sometimes we need to take courage and ask our ally partner’s permission to step into that difficult space.

The allyship chain reaction. In conversation towards the end of our session we heard, “allyship begins at home” which can be an inspiration for all of us to:

• Think back to our family and upbringing; who were our allies, what did we learn from them and what did we need more of?
• Apply allyship not only in the workplace, but at home and with our friends.

A few words of support from the matriarchy

I’m going to tell you, little sister (cos I love you) what I’ve learned:

You can be yourself, girl, because fuck that, you know you’ve earned it

You don’t have to look the way the patriarchy dictates

Don’t have to be cruel to be a boss, you can be their mate

And still lead the world to a better place

With empathy and kindness, creativity and grace

Rise up my little sisters, break the habit of war

Rise up my little sisters, the future should be yours.

(NB no men were harmed in the writing of this rant) 
(Image is a still from some TV show about 40 years ago)

Closing our borders.

(Is this a poem? I don’t know. I don’t know anything….)

On screen I see the emaciated arm of a child.
But this is not happening on my street.
Not yet

Does that child have the right to food, to safety, to a home?
Yes, in my version of humanity.
Always.

Its people forced by hunger, war and occupation from
the only land they’ve ever known, their home,
To… where?

My country makes the weapons, funds war, creates starvation
and has no mercy or compassion for
that child

My country makes, sells, gifts the armaments that will destroy
the hopes and dreams their parents had for them.
I cry

Then my country makes laws that forbid my tearful protest,
bans my use of certain words and symbols.
Silence

Surely that child has the right to live in peace and safety?
To grow, play, learn, farm, create, laugh, care, eat...
Like me.  

One day their devastated cities, farms will be restored.
But not for them. For expat profiteers
Like us.

Wrinkles are skin

(Another homage to Dorothy Parker)

I’ve got a new word for wrinkles

I choose to call them skin

I’ve had a lot of facelifts

Or as I describe them, grins

I keep my figure looking trim

By buying bigger clothing.

My face shows no expression

Cos most of the time I’m dozing

When asked my age, I add 10 years

So people say, “wow you look great!”

And if they don’t, well, fuck them

It’s not like I’m looking for a date

To the diet gurus and botox pushers

That fill my newsfeed every day

You keep wasting your money

And I’ll keep being Kay.

The dolphin day poems: deadline as inspiration

I was called up as the emergency, last minute poet by my lovely friends at Sunday Assembly, our booked poet having had to pull out at the last minute. I was going to dig through my poem cupboards and find something I’d already written, but then decided to challenge myself to write new ones, even though I had only 24 hours, 11 of which were spent socialising. (Yes, of course wine was involved! Duh!)

The main topic for the day was “Dolphins, their world and ours” a fascinating talk delivered by Pavan Kaur Virdee. I soon realised that dolphin is one of the hardest-to-rhyme words in the English language, so huge thanks to my lovely friend Carol Noakes who, as well as providing winespiration co-created the “ation” poetry game with me, using the most rhyme-ey of words to write one of the poems below.

Dolphin difficult

I tried to find a word to rhyme with dolphin

And in the end I just gave up and went out golfin’

Boomers are dolphins

I am of that despised generation

That doesn’t need an application

To reach my destination

And find my true vocation.

Influencers are not my inspiration

All I need is to notice nature and sensation

Resist the pressure to succumb to polarisation

And overcome my superpower – which is procrastination

So thank you all for giving me just yesterday the motivation

To sit with my dear friend in co-creation

And write this nonsensical celebration

Of language, fun and playfulness.

Said dolphin A to dolphin B

Said dolphin A to dolphin B

You’re trespassing on my stretch of sea.

Said dolphin B to dolphin A

Our sea rights just don’t work that way.

But dolphin A has learned from man

That by driving others out he can

Control the waves and keep his ocean free

from invaders that look like dolphin B

So dolphin A patrols his borders

Recruits soldier dolphins, gives them orders

While dolphin B plays near the shore

With seagrass, baby sharks and wants for nothing more.

I have no power

I have no power to stop your wars

To clean the oceans, feed the poor

I see injustice growing as I age

My lack of power feeds my rage

Those with nothing can only rise

if the rich make some sacrifice

And can those wealthy people say they’re free

When from their window, bars and guards is all they see.

Unlike the rich man I am free to walk the streets

To chat to the neighbours that I meet

Not fearing that they want what is mine

They know that all I can give them is my time

And I have the power to look at all of you,

Appreciate those small things that you do;

The cakes you bake, the tunes you play,

The smiles that truly make my day.

The joy you give me makes me strong.

The only power I need is the power to belong

In a place with no judgment, no taking sides,

A place to be myself, no need to hide.

Listening for Equality.

In recent weeks I’ve been fortunate to continue my lifelong learning journey through conversations with and about people whose life experience has been very different from mine. These enriching encounters have been made possible by, amongst others, my faculty buddies on the LBC2 Programme, Publicis Sapient, PrideWide, Marieke Bigg, PhD, Majken Askeland and of course, my work, play and performance partner Paul Loper, PhD.
As I prepare for my sessions at Byline Festival in July and on the LBC2programme in September/October, I am updating my research on the timeline of equality legislation, and the disappointing lack of impact of that legislation on real equality. For example, the 2022 report by the International Bar Association reported that while over 51% of lawyers identified as female, females made up only 32% of those in senior roles.
On that research journey, I am also hearing about and seeing a worrying drift towards polarisation, and the re-emergence of prejudice and assumption in both the public and private sectors, even among those who might traditionally be seen as supporters of equality.
This has all raised the question for me of who should be in the room for conversations on how to accelerate equality. There is no question that many people who feel that they are “other” welcome the opportunity to share their stories in a safe space with others who have similar lived experience. The women-only event recently hosted by Publicis Sapient was a shining example of this, and I know that as someone who was often the only woman in the room back in the 1980s, I would have given anything to have some sisters to share with.  Equally (pun intended) the PrideWide Summit demonstrated the value of bringing together the establishment with those labelled “other” to listen to one another and form a united movement for change.
In spite of the gender imbalance at senior levels in the legal profession, the LBC2 leadership course that I’ve been involved with for over 10 years has tended to attract a gender balanced cohort: perhaps because of our emphasis on individualised and personally sustainable leadership practices. As our next LBC gathering approaches and I think about applying my recent learning, I am even more convinced that solutions to inequality and reversing recent worrying trends towards polarisation lie in the power of bringing people together – both with those like them and those unlike them – to really listen to one another. This allows every individual to learn about the others, to find common ground, and to learn how to support each other and ask for help. It is in the sharing of personal stories, hopes and dreams that we will begin to build the much-needed movement towards equality at senior levels.

Are you still there?

“Are you still there, Mum?”

With the opening bars of “Summertime” I see her body begin to sway.

At the Drury Lane Theatre her foot is tapping along to every 42^nd Street song.

In our living room behind her shop in Holme Lane she’s lost in a novel. As am I.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Dad?”

On Blackpool beach from sand we build a castle with a moat and turrets.

I’ve climbed the wall in our back yard to jump off it into his arms. Of course he’ll catch me.

Yes, I can use a hammer and a drill: I am my dad’s daughter, after all.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Nanny Alice?”

Toasting pikelets over her front room fire, then watching the butter melting into the holes.

Sliding down her narrow staircase – bump, bump, bump – then running back up to slide again.

“Don’t bother to fight with them posh kids, ducks, they’re not worth it”.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Grandad Sidney?”

Out on the front step with sticks, brown paper and string he shows me how to make a kite.

While I’m ladling and pouring at the kitchen sink, he’s getting his perfect Yorkshire puds out of the oven.

Walking along the Hastings seafront, him and me, no words, just listening.

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Granny Lizzie?”

Sitting on her lap, I feel myself sliding towards the floor on the shiny fabric of her dress.

In Trafalgar square feeding the pigeons, then off to a talk by some socialist in Conway Hall.

By her side in the freezing cold at a union protest in a park in Sheffield. 

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here.”

“Are you still there, Grandad Ernest?”

The white rabbit puppet he’s made from his handkerchief is hopping along his arm.

Balancing the Tetley beermats he brought home from the working men’s club, we build a tower,

Then to play with my Dinky coal lorry – a tiny version of the one he drives for work.

Silence.

I was your first grandchild, grandad Ernest.

The first born of your first born. The only one you lived to play with.

When I am gone, Grandad, are you still here?

Silence.

Somewhere right now there is a grandad making and playing with his first grandchild

“Yes, our Kay, I’m still here. Always.”

SprinkleBathing

Health warning: This piece has a joyful outcome – for me, at least – but in order to take you there I’m going to share some dark stuff about myself that you may not wish to read. So, if you prefer to continue to know me as an outer-directed, humourously raging, potty-mouthed elder woman, then please skip this piece. Come back next time when I’ll put something more “classic Kay” on here; sharing my rage and/or trying to make you laugh. Here goes.

For the first 60 years of my life, I would never have described myself as stressed or anxious. I was hard working, active, even hyper, but underneath calm and capable. Of course there was the occasional minor, short term stress: taxis to the airport arriving late, pacing backstage as the audience arrived and before the show (theatrical or corporate) began. But that stress was an energy; it helped me to focus and get things done. It was exciting. It fed me.

Then, about 10 years ago, anxiety crashed into my life. I doubted the wisdom of every decision that I had ever made, I no longer trusted even my closest friends and family members. I was stuck, powerless and depressed. Tasks that I would have completed in a few hours remained incomplete days after they were due. I had pulled back from work because of all this, and following some poor financial advice and an expensive divorce, financial insecurity added to the burden. On the darkest of days, in my classic OCD science-nerd way, I researched ways to kill myself which would make the least mess and cause me minimal pain.

I had all the things that the mental health gurus tell us that we need in order to overcome depression and anxiety; the company and support of wise and witty friends and family, a cosy little home in the city that I love, access to open space and culture. I am truly grateful for those things now, but in the dark days I was logically grateful for them but could not translate that into emotional, existential peace.

The 2 things that have allowed me to begin to defeat anxiety and depression are perhaps not what you would expect, neither are they what mental health professionals recommend. My unexpected saviours, the villains that became my heroes have been physical pain and grief.

Here’s how.

Running was one of the things that was supposed to soothe my depression. And it did. Temporarily. About 2 years ago I sustained a knee injury that left me in almost constant pain and put an end to running. I was distraught. Running was the drug, and I was forced to go cold turkey.

Then, a year ago, our mum died. All that stuff about mum having a great innings (she was 94) is true, but let me tell you, becoming an orphan at 70 is hard. I had carried, even embraced, the “Joyce’s daughter” identity for 70 years.

No longer a runner or a daughter, and finally having the courage to describe myself as retired.. What was I? Who was I?

This crisis prompted me to reach, unconsciously at first, into my hippy dippy years in London in the early 70s when our mantra was “tune in, turn on, drop out”.

In spite of the knee injury I could still walk. And walking is free so didn’t feed my financial anxiety. I began to tune in on my walks, not allowing my inner voice to dominate but instead noticing what was happening around me. More and more I found tiny moments that I began to call joy sprinkles: a child imitating a duck on the canal path, a dog crashing into a tree as it chased a squirrel, a neighbour greeting me with “Awright, love? Lovely day, innit?”

When I shared the concept of sprinkles with others (gratitude in particular to the Protean crew in San Francisco with whom I first shared the concept) it began to spread into other parts of my life; movement sprinkles, awe sprinkles, taste sprinkles…

But I needed to go further. A couple of months ago, after the San Francisco sharing of sprinkles, I realised that sprinkle hunting had become yet another addiction, and I was constantly looking for the next one. Sprinkles had become like cocaine, work contracts or social media likes. I knew that if I were really to fix my anxiety sprinkles could not be yet another addiction.

Cue sprinkle bathing.

I remember the very first example of sprinkle bathing began with birdsong in Clissold Park. I allowed myself to feel the momentary joy that the sound gave to me, and to let it continue to wash over me even after I had walked on. Yes, the next joy sprinkle did come along (sunlight creating a rainbow in the fountain in the park) but there was no hungry gap between birdsong and rainbow. I didn’t leave birdsong looking out anxiously for the dealer that would sell me the rainbow. I realised that even if the birdsong was the final sprinkle, I had the power to make it last a lifetime.

As I write this, sitting on the sofa in our late mum’s living room, rainbow and birdsong are joybathing me. I have spent the day here in the beautiful Peak District distancing myself from the world, as I now feel so free to do. Tuning in and dropping out allows me to notice and bathe in joysprinkles.

So there you are. This is not advice. I’m just letting you know that I am now a full-on hippy dippy nutcase bathing in joysprinkles.

(Please note that I will not be marketing workshops on joysprinkles and sprinklebathing any time soon, I am not working on the joysprinkles book and I haven’t even copyrighted the words.)

The San Fran Sprinkle Crew.

Vultures

A naïve young pelican

smashed to death on the shore by an unexpected wave.

The vultures circle above

politely taking turns to rip into the carcass

__________

The constructed tribes go to war

crushed and broken bodies lie among the flattened buildings.

The vultures circle above

patiently awaiting their turn to feast on the remains

__________

As the tribes that they have created go to war-

the crushed and broken bodies lying among the flattened buildings –

billionaire arms traders count their gains,

drooling. Greedily awaiting their reward.

This is a reworked version of the piece previously published as “Hawks”

Turning the tide

It was almost time for the tide to turn;

The young waves threw themselves violently at the sandy ridge

Only to be turned away by the power of gravity.

The elder waves said, “Save your energy, kids

Wait until enough of us has gathered here

And together we will rise above the sandbanks and the dunes

To reclaim the beach”

But the young waves did not heed them

And continued to throw themselves onto the shore

Some of them sinking away into the dry sand, never to return.

The older waves mourned their passing, and yet

Continued to gather their power until the time was right.