Archives for August 2024

We’re in Wales for the weekend, and on our way out of London there was a huge traffic jam on the motorway. The cars were backed up for what seemed like a few kilometres at least.

Thankfully, we won the coin flip and the jam was on the other side of the road.

It got me thinking about how if I was caught in the multi-hour jam, I’d likely be complaining during, and for many hours after.

However, because I was on the side with free flowing traffic, I was grateful for a few minutes but quickly moved on.

It reminded me of one of our human tendencies to feel loss more acutely than we feel gain. It’s an instinct worth fighting against.

The recent Oasis announcement—the reunion of the famous, feuding Gallagher brothers to play seventeen shows together in the UK and Ireland in 2025—has sent music fans around the world into a frenzy. It will be their first show in 16 years since splitting in 2009.

Since Maru and I met in 2010, she’s been ever consistent about her favourite band: Oasis. I couldn’t believe it when she showed me the official live concert video of Oasis at River Plate Stadium in Buenos Aires where during Wonderwall the camera zooms in on Maru waving her arms and singing along.

Coincidentally, we were at a local Italian restaurant in Kentish Town about three months ago when Noel Gallagher sat down at the table next to us. Maru told Noel how much she appreciated his music, and after her being called “one of the most polite fans he’s ever met’, he insisted they take a photo. She was over the moon.

All this to say, we’ll be hoping for some good luck this Saturday at 9am when tickets come on sale.

I learned recently that a dog’s sense of smell is more than 10,000 times more acute than humans’. That’s order of magnitude difference is hard to fathom.

We have about 6 million olfactory receptors, whereas a dog has over 300 million. I thought this would imply that their sense of smell would only be 50x better, but when I asked Claude AI it told me, “The number of olfactory receptors alone doesn’t directly translate to the overall sensitivity of smell. It’s an oversimplification to assume a linear relationship between receptor count and smell acuity.”

A dog can tell so many things through its nose. It can identify individual humans and dogs; including their gender. They can detect health conditions, like if someone has low blood sugar. They can smell emotions and pregnancy. They can tell when there’s a change in the weather, and how long it has been since someone or something has been in the area. It’s really quite mind-blowing.

So next time you’re out on a walk with your furry friend, remember to let em smell.

The idea always sounds better in our head.

And there’s a temptation to leave it there; to let it remain a dream, a vision, and a possibility. That’s because when it stays in our head, we still get the joy of thinking it’s good idea, but we don’t have to deal with any of the criticism.

However, when we put the idea down on paper or share it with others, we’re inviting challenge, criticism, and rejection. And that’s precisely what’s needed to turn a dud idea into a gem.

I enjoy Celtic music, in particular the bagpipes. There’s something intriguing and captivating about low drone and the melody that sings over the top.

A friend recently recommended Brighde Chaimbeul’s album ‘Carry them with Us’, and I was struck by the fourth song: Banish The Giant of Doubt & Despair.

It’s a bold name that feels like it has a textured and complex story behind it. The mystery is part of the magic too.

If you enjoy Celtic music too, give the album a listen!

On his podcast, Steven Bartlett asked Jimmy Carr, the British-Irish comedian, what was his top piece of advice to become a better speaker.

Carr replied, “Speak at 92 beats per minute.”

There’s a rhythm to the words when they come out at 92 bpm. Carr is such a believer in it that he listens to playlists with only songs at 92 bpm prior to going out on stage to do his set.

There isn’t an exact science here, but Carr is a fantastic orator, and I think there’s something here.

There’s a baseline set of things we do every day to stay healthy and feel our best.

We sleep, we eat, we brush our teeth, we floss, we shower, we change our clothes.

Fitness—or some form of physical activity—should be on the list too. But it’s all too easy to skip, to find an excuse, or to push it to tomorrow.

And don’t think I’m on my high horse here. Most of the musings on this blog are lessons I need to hear. I didn’t want to run today, nor did I want to lift.

But then I thought: fitness and flossing.

Yesterday I went to a Death Cafe. I know it sounds morbid, but it really isn’t.

I discovered the Death Cafe movement via a Frank Ostaseski’s seminar ‘What the Dying Teach the Living’ that he presented at the Long Now Foundation. He spoke about the value of the movement, and it piqued my interest.

In their own words, “At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death. Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’. A Death Cafe is a group directed discussion of death with no agenda, objectives or themes. It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.”

I had a hunch London would have a Death Cafe, and sure enough, the wonderful Blackfriars Settlement charity in the borough of Southwark hosts one every two months.

I went by myself and was a bit nervous, but the experience ended up being profound. The facilitators from Blackfriars Settlement stuck true to the ethos of the Death Cafe movement. There was no agenda, they established a clear set of ground rules, and they encouraged open, vulnerable, and honest conversation.

It’s rare in London to talk to strangers, and even rarer to talk about something as personal as death, but over the course of two hours, I spoke with six people ranging from their mid-thirties to their late-seventies, about practical, emotional, and philosophical aspects of death.

Most of all I was impressed by the level of respect, dignity, curiosity, and thoughtfulness that each participant brought to the conversation. There was no topic that was off the table, and no perspective that was shunned. Everyone approached the evening with an intention to understand.

I’m glad I went, and I’ll likely go again.

The estimate, guess, correlation, forecast, plan, and hedge are all attempts at achieving certainty in uncertain situations.

Isn’t it odd then how we act surprised when things don’t go to plan?

I’m trying to rewire my expectations a little. I still plan, forecast, and estimate. But I’m trying to worry less when things don’t go to plan, and am trying to spend more energy on my response.

I can’t tell if the shift has been slow and subtle or abrupt and immediate, but I’m now planning my food intake much more carefully around my workouts, as well as stretching deliberately before and after.

All I know is that I never used to time my fuel, or bother with recovery. It just never felt necessary. Or more accurately, my body never told me it was necessary.

But now it has become second nature. I’ll start feeling lethargic if I’m underfed, or my muscles will feel tight without proper mobility and recovery.

I don’t want to call it an age thing. But it’s an age thing.

As I’ve written about before, my goal is to train in a way that I can turn up tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, ad infinitum.

When we moved flats earlier this year, Maru and I signed up to a gym in our neighbourhood. It’s actually a school that makes their gym, sports hall, swimming pool, studios, and tennis courts available to residents outside of school hours and term times. If you’re comfortable working out in the evening, it’s a great deal!

They’re a retro gym in the sense that most of their processes are analog. Their signup is a paper form. The class timetables are printed out on A4 sheets that you pick up from reception. And you need to call or email to book a class or tennis court. Some information like class timetables are downloadable PDFs on their website, but you can’t take any action like pausing your membership or booking a class.

And I like it. It’s less convenient compared to the digital-first gyms out there, but the team members are helpful and always have a smile on their face. It feels less slick, but they make up for it in warmth and character.

Most projects take longer than planned. They’re often more complex than anticipated. And there’s usually something that surprises the team, something that goes wrong, or something that was forgotten in planning.

Despite having seen the above play out dozens of times, most teams default to optimism and think, “This time will be different”.

The laws of physics don’t change too often though.

So one way to avoid a headache on complex projects is to deliberately add a multiplier. It could be a complexity multiplier, or a we’re-going-to-discover-new-problems multiplier, or a just-to-be-safe multiplier. You choose.

The multiplier gives a bit of breathing room for things to go wrong, because they almost always do.

Maru and I have been getting into tennis this summer. The good weather and a convenient court have made all the difference.

When I watch the pros on TV, they hit with such power and accuracy, and it’s tempting to want to do as they do. However, as a beginner, almost all my focus has been on placement, because I’m not yet ready to put any power behind my shots.

If I get too excited or greedy in a point, and I try to play with power, I’m humbled quickly. My shot hits the net or I end up hitting the ball too long.

The metaphor of power and placement in tennis applies to most learning endeavours. Our first priority should be placement; coupled with getting into flow and the right level of consistency. Only when we have those nailed should we allow ourselves to begin adding power.

When a student wrote to C.S. Lewis in 1959 asking for writing advice, he replied with a pithy list.

What strikes me is how, even after 65 years, the basics of good writing remain largely the same.

I’m pasting the eight tips below exactly as written.

1. Turn off the radio.
2. Read all the good books you can, and avoid nearly all magazines.
3. Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. You should hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.
4. Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about . . .)
5. Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something that he needs to know—the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.’
6. When you give up a bit of work don’t (unless it is hopelessly bad) throw it away. Put it in a drawer. It may come in useful later. Much of my best work, or what I think my best, is the re-writing of things begun and abandoned years earlier.
7. Don’t use a typewriter. The noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training.
8. Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.

I was running home from work today, the sun was setting, and the summer air was cool. I was travelling at a leisurely pace; careful and deliberate with my form.

A family with two young boys—between the ages of 8-12—were heading towards me on the same footpath. The boys, full of energy, were running ahead of their parents. The youngest was galloping. He had great big strides, and threw himself forward with boundless energy. He bounced along the pavement with a big smile, and with complete confidence that his feet would catch him.

And here I was, carefully maintaining a short stride to reduce the impact on my knees, consciously aligning my feet and knees to ensure optimal mechanics, and keeping an upright posture whilst breathing through my nose.

When did I become so uptight? When did I lose the effortlessness?

I’m not complaining though. My goal is not to gallop, but to be able to run tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It was, however, interesting to study the difference between me and the galloping kid.