Fight for the middle: the real political quandary

So Gordon Boring has announced the “worst-kept secret in politics” this week: there is to be an election on 6^th May. The schools which double as polling stations have all been aware they would be closed on that day anyway for some time. 

There has been so much coverage in the media for ages – newsprint, periodicals, television and internet – we would all be forgiven for assuming the date had been announced months ago.

The coverage, with rare exception, has focused on the race for Number 10 being close-run / nail-biting / unpredictable / too close to call etc. and the result being hung / drawn / quartered etc. Bless, we even had that little Cameron spitting image doll who runs the Liberal Democrats hopefully saying yesterday “this isn’t a two-horse race”.

What I haven’t seen anywhere is the truth about Britain and the innate struggle for the voters. It is often hard for political pundits who loiter in the Westminster lobbies to understand that there is life outside the M25, but it is true. The views, fears and concerns of those outside London will decide the election (as they do every time), but millions of people all over the country will only now see politics in action as all parties climb aboard their battlebuses for the first time since… the last general election.

St Tony of Notting Hill had a stroke of genius in the mid-nineties. He worked out – because for all his flaws and subsequent megalomania, he was a clever chap – that the way to steal a march on the incumbent Tories was to move the Labour Party’s ethos to the centre of the debating floor. Not too much, not at first, nothing to scare the die-hard unionists off, and not enough either, to secure a support from dyed-in-the wool conservatives (who felt the Blues were coasting without a rudder since they stabbed poor Maggie in the back). But what he did do was to create a third way - giving Liberals something to vote for.

Now here’s a little exercise in branding, rather than voting. In this country, if you identify with more than one of these statements:

I am well-off
I was privately educated
I will do whatever I need to, to privately educate my own children
I have professional status
I have or crave financial independence
I am concerned about death duties
I prefer my holidays to be a la carte, rather than all-inclusive
I aspire to some of the above 

… then you are probably a Conservative voter

If you identify with these:

I am making ends meet
I have a right to state education
My children have a right to state education
I’m living for the weekend
I want to know that the State will provide for me if needed
I am concerned about death
I don’t care where I go on holiday as long as there’s sun and proper grub
I live with the hand I was dealt with 

… then you are probably a Labour voter.

Whereas if you identify with…

I feel comfortably-off
I am lucky enough to have an education
I believe that with parental support, any school can be brilliant
I have a big mortgage, but a good job
With careful planning, I can have a comfortable retirement
I have planned my funeral and sourced a renewable wood coffin
I am as happy on holiday in Bodmin as I am in Barcelona
You get out of life what you put into it 

… then you might be surprised to discover you are a Liberal Democrat voter.

I would hazard a guess that if you were to break down the UK population based on the above criteria, you would find that 20% are Conservative at heart, 30% are Labour and 50% are Liberals. If I’m right (and there’s absolutely no guarantee I am), then this really should be a two-horse race, and Conservatives should be vying for third place.

The Conservative and Labour parties are so fixed in the national psyche as The Only Two that all the brainy, talented would-be politicians join their ranks. There is such an obvious dearth of policy, impetus and talent in the Liberal Democrats that no one with any ambition, vision or original thought bothers to sign up. They have become the de facto “none of the above” party. Which is a shame.

This country is broadly liberal – a little to the left on some issues (social welfare, housing, environment), a little to the right on others (immigration, family, education), but there is no one to carry the flag for this silent majority.

To say that this election is too close to call is to miss the point entirely. Surely no one in their right mind would want to see Labour voted in for a fourth term – any party outstays its welcome after two, when the focus shifts from wanting to make the country a better place, to clinging on to power and influence. Power corrupts. It slowly erodes moral fibre until all that is left is a paranoid shaking husk where a politician used to be. Equally, the Tories haven’t explained themselves well enough. They do actually have some brilliant policies and ideas, but they are failing to communicate them to the electorate. Because of this, the voters are looking from one party to the other and not seeing a direction.

Largely, the blame for this rests with St Tony. His 1997 election (and it was his, not theirs) was a PR coup of style over substance. It was the first election of celebrity and it changed the way the public viewed the whole process. He knew, unquestionably, that he would be elected for two terms, because he had a group of extremely savvy publicists guiding the party. The third term was a shock for all involved, to be fair. But because he positioned “new” Labour as the centre party, he left the liberals with nothing to add to the debate and caused a dilemma for the Conservatives: they could either move further right to claim their own space (and thus become even less electable, because the further right they moved, the more that percentage would fall), or they could play catch-up on the centre-ground. They chose the latter, the only viable option, but it left them arguing only minutely varied positions for 13 years, which has dissolved their grip, and Labour’s, with the result that no one knows what either party stands for any more. As I said, it was genius, but incredibly short-sighted.

It is because of this that we find ourselves now looking for a third way. Mr Brown’s self-serving cronies must go, but we worry that to hire Mr Cameron’s crew would be to replace one ineffective party with another, because they both seem to stand for the same things. And only naïve idealists will vote for Mr Clegg (I actually had to look his name up – it utterly escaped me for some reason), because why choose a really rubbish Liberal party when you have two other liberal parties to choose from already.

With such a vague choice, it is easy to assume that the electorate are apathetic, beaten into mumbling submission by 13 years of Labour rule, left with no energy to care. But you’d be wrong. The people are desperate to fix our ailing parliament; to buy into the right kind of leadership; to have an impassioned, motivated party show us the way out of recession; out of our broken society and into a bright new dawn.

Which is where the real danger lies in having a General Election right now. Because the people don’t see those qualities in the rotten Labour, in the perky Conservatives, in the indistinguishable Liberal Democrats, there is a risk that marginal groups will increase their grip in Westminster. In such a bland political landscape, a little charisma can go a long way: parties with a bold stance on issues will undoubtedly gain ground with voters happy for a reason to use their ballot cards. The Greens, Plaid Cymru, the SNP, the dreaded BNP, fringe groups like George Galloway’s Respect and even Tamsin Omond’s quirky startup The Commons all stand to increase their footholds on the carpeted corridors of power.

It may be an extreme example, but in 1920s Germany, the people were poor, unhappy and deeply disaffected with their government, much as we are now. When Adolf Hitler joined a fringe group called the German Workers’ Party (DAP), he was only its 55^th member. Within a year, its membership had swelled to over 2000 and he had assumed its leadership. Just seven years later, the Nazis had 12 seats in parliament… now I’m not suggesting the lovely Miss Omond is planning a march on Poland, but there are valuable lessons to be learnt from fairly recent political history.

It is essential that one of the political leaders sticks his head above the parapet to claim to stand for something, to show the courage of his convictions and to demonstrate leadership. Say what needs to be said, do what needs to be done and stop worrying about what we want to hear.

Wow. Soapbox much?

Phobophobia blog (04): The fear of little old ladies

Ageing or aging? Neither one looks right, yet according to my Penguin reference dictionary, both ways of spelling it are technically correct. My theory for this is that even scholars of English and dictionary editors don't want to dwell on the word for long enough to decide on a definitive way of spelling it.

In this piece, I have opted for 'with e', both on account of its phonetic sense of inclusion and because doing so aligns it with positive words like agile instead of the rather more negative aggrieved, aghast or agony (when I want to write a piece about the aggravation or aggression of the elderly, I must remember to revert to 'without e' to drive home the point).

A persistent or uncontrollable fear of ageing is called gerascophobia. Sufferers tend to feel ongoing anxiety about the onslaught of age, regardless of their physical, emotional or economic wellbeing. They may worry about haemorrhaging their independence, beauty or mental stability; inactivity following retirement; reduced control and mobility; increased illness and abandonment in residential care.

Modern society's preoccupation with youth and beauty exacerbates these fears. Television, magazines and movies value dewy skin over dry wisdom at every turn; advertisers still get away with using images of the young to sell to the old(er); and let's not even consider the dull-as-ditchwater BBC ageism row.

Gerasco-stats: The often quoted findings of the CIPD/CMI age discrimination in the workplace survey from 2006 still holds true: while 30-39 year olds have the most opportunities for promotion at work, those over 50 (and therefore, most experienced, one might surmise) have drastically reduced chances of moving any further up the ladder. Meanwhile, BAAPS, the amusingly named trade body for fake boobs and facelifts reports massive year-on-year growth in 'silver surgery', with increasing numbers of patients going under the knife to reverse the ravages of time.

People undergoing cosmetic surgery are not necessarily gerascophobics;  BAAPS also reported a doubling of demand for 'moob' reductions last year, and they note that the majority of men having surgery are trying to fix a feature they don't like. However, there were 4,241 recorded facelifts in the UK last year - clearly many of those were for patients so terrified of being seen as old, that they willingly mutilated the wrinkles off their faces.

This isn't the only age-related fear though: gerontophobia, though often confused with gerascophobia is actually a morbid fear of old people. The roots of such phobia are unclear, though one theory is that it is a knock-on effect of the stories we were told in childhood. The recurring theme of young = good / old = evil has been around for centuries in fairy tales and folklore, and that myth has been visually perpetuated by Disney. It may be that, without a measure of checked reasoning or elderly role-models, some children may grow up truly believing that little old ladies will invite you into their gingerbread houses before cooking you in the oven.

(I have to be honest: when I first came across that reasoning, I thought it was ridiculous. However, having written it down, I can't help thinking it makes more sense than most of the explanations for the other fears I have investigated for Phobophobia.)

Meanwhile, more people seem to be scared of the gangs of hooded youths than of ladies in lavender, no matter how capacious their Agas are. Ephebiphobia and paedophobia both mean a fear of youth and/or adolescents, while pediophobia relates specifically to infants and small children. I won't clutter cyberspace further with unnecessary duplication, but Wikipedia has a thorough and fascinating article tracing the social and political history of the fear of youth, while IPPR's 2006 report into the causes and effects of paedophobia sums it up thus:

"more than 1.5 million Britons thought about moving away from their local area due to young people hanging around and 1.7 million avoided going out after dark as a direct result"

Hefty numbers indeed. And while a politically motivated think-tank's telephone survey will not provide us with the laboratory conditions needed for a clinical study, it is clear from those reactions that this is a growth area in the fear trade. So while we can't yet judge the number of actual paedophobics among us, it will soon become an area of further study and debate.

Meanwhile, draw your curtains, lock the door and hold out for an ASBO.

Phobophobia blog (03): Spaces (small); spaces (big)

Claus and Agora - the two biggies to any phobiawatcher - are as common as playground headlice in May. Graham C L Davey wrote in Phobias: A Handbook of Theory, Research & Treatment that 5-7% of the world's population suffered from a form of claustrophiobia, but that few sought treatment. Estimated percentages of agoraphobia sufferers vary wildly, from 0.8% to 5.4%, but the American National Institute for Mental Health reckons on 2.2% of people in the US between the ages of 18 and 54. The reason for such broad guesstimates surely boils down to the lack of the latter's definition, but more of that later.

As naff as it is to laugh at one's own jokes, I am often reminded of a piece of dialogue from the two ugly sisters in my pantomime Cinderella (2008):

Catastrophe: All my clothes are polyester.

Calamitie: She can't wear wool for medical reasons.

Catastrophe: Yes, I suffer from terrible angorophobia.

Claustrophobia is the pathological fear of being trapped in a tight space you can't escape from, such as lifts, tunnels and my mother's house. First defined in 1879 by Benjamin Ball, it has been explained and explored by theories from some of the most eminent minds of the interceding 130 years, including Sigmund Freud, Melanie Klein, Francois Perrier and Otto Fenichel. Freud, you may not be surprised to discover, thought it was a symptom of fear of castration and repression of oedipal desire, and most other theories are expansions on those themes.

Notable claustrophobes include: Tennessee Williams, Naomi Watts, Dean Martin and of course, Edgar Allen Poe, who wrote many stories with variations on the theme of being trapped or buried alive.

I once rode shotgun to a very good friend who didn't tell me she was claustrophobic until we began accelerating into the Blackwall Tunnell, under the Thames. Her body went rigid, eyes dead ahead, as we hurtled through the hole in the ground. I don't think either of us breathed until we could see daylight again through the windscreen and I was very aware the whole time we were in there, that if a car in front had slammed on the brakes, she wouldn't have been able slow down. The fear in that car was palpable, in the silence, with the surreal neon flashing, as if a hundred Star Wars light sabres were set into the ceiling. And all the time watching for the unthinkable. Drip.

Due to their similarities involving the space we inhabit, Claustrophobia is often considered to be related to Agoraphobia, which is lazily considered to be a fear of open spaces. It is in fact slightly more complex than that, and is recognised now as being the fear of having a panic attack in any space which is unfamiliar, or provides no easy means of escape. It is plausible to feel agoraphobic the middle of a field, but such a panic attack is far more likely to occur in a supermarket. Incidentally, "agora" comes from the Greek for "market", which must make it most likely to occur in husbands and boyfriends. It actually has more in common with socialphobia (see ( blog 01)) than claustrophobia, which is why NIMH categorises it as a social phobia.

The cause of agoraphobia is as yet unknown, hence the flourishing study of the condition in recent years. Patterns emerge, but no concrete conclusions seem to have been drawn.

In a 1997 study by Isaac Marks at London's Insitute of Psychiatry, it was noted that around half of agoraphobia sufferers "had comorbid symptoms: depression (17%), general anxiety (17%), social phobia (6%), specific phobia (4%) and mixed (5%) at baseline. Most (67%) had had past psychiatric treatment, mainly for panic/agoraphobia (58%). Half had had antidepressants or benzodiazepines and 33% psychodynamic psychotherapy."

Noted agoraphobes include Woody Allen, Kim Basinger and Howard Hughes. It is unknown whether any of them sought or received psychodynamic psychotherapy, but I sense there may be a whole screenplay there, just waiting to be written.

Madonna: Critic proof since 1985

My favourite line reads:

"The combination of her unsure pitch and thin, quavery timbre made the held notes at the end of her phrases sound like they were crawling off somewhere to die".

 

Being a critic must be frustrating work, eh?

Phobophobia blog (02): Flying high

Aerophobia is doubtless one of the most common fears. Even for those who enjoy flying, the experience is incredibly stressful. Even the three-flights-a-week sales rep who herself has no issues with soaring at 30,000 feet above an endless expanse of water, must be affected by the hyperventilating phobic in the next seat or the toddler with sore ears and Jacobean powers of vocal projection in front of her. Throw into that stressful mix a maelstrom of both rational and irrational fears and it is no surprise that some passengers never want to set foot on board a 747 again.

My father is a seasoned traveller who has flown on average once or twice a week for thirty years. He is a rational, sensible sort of chap who wouldn't be able to function with aerophobia. And yet he has had enough hairy on-board experiences to turn a lesser man into a wibbly wobbly jelly. On board one Lufthansa flight in the 90s, three months after he gave up smoking, one of the plane's engines stuttered to a halt, the plane lost altitude and passengers were told to adopt the brace position while the pilot navigated a bumpy emergency landing in Salzburg.

There must have been passengers on that flight who have never flown since, who have possibly used their stories to illustrate the dangers of air travel to their children. My dad's reaction? He bought 200 Rothmans. His reasoning being that by the law of averages, and that being on something like his 3000^th flight, it might simply have been his turn to go. Ever the pragmatist, he further reasoned that if he could die on any of his next 1000 flights, there was no point giving up smoking for the good of his health.

In the name of research to support or refute my father's claim that it was about time one of his birds came crashing to the ground, I came across AirDisaster.com, which lists detailed statistics of fatal flights for all the main commercial carriers (broken down by continent) and models of plane, as well as some pretty morbid photos and newsfeeds about disasters. Lufthansa has had three fatal crashes apparently, in 7.3 million journeys. Statistically, it seems dad still has some way to go.

Flying is also one of the better documented celebrity phobias, but this is probably due to the number of people involved in arranging alternative means of transport for those with an entourage: it is likely that more people know Tea With Mussolini star Cher won't fly than know that Mussolini himself was petrified of cats. Other famous aerophobics include Whoopi Goldberg, Ronald Reagan, Muhammad Ali, Florence Henderson, Aretha Franklin and Billy Bob Thornton.

There is a school of thought which suggests that fear of flying is more rational than many other fears: "If God wanted man to fly, He would have given him wings". Flying is not considered by many to be a natural state, but it is really no more miraculous that we have found a way to harness the element of air than that of water for travelling. Different science, same principle.

It must be said that the most common reason for a fear of flying is completely irrational, and borne of ignorance. Most people do not understand how planes stay in the air, and, would rather be scared than find out.

The reason aerophobia is so widespread is thought to be the combination of several different fears. Neuropsychologist Alan Schore has found in his research at UCLA that aerophobia is not the result of a single sensitizing event, but is in fact an "affective disorder" which merely manifests with phobic symptoms.

This may mean that one man's true fear may be deeply rooted in claustrophobia in the confined space of the cabin, or a paralysing fear of heights (acrophobia), while another man's may stem from the more zeitgeisty fear of terrorism or hijack.

Feeling better now?

Hear ye! Hear ye! Peter Moore’s last cry

I was saddened to read today that Peter Moore, the London town crier, passed away just before Christmas. Also terribly disappointed that it took a full lunar cycle for this news to reach me, in The Stage’s obits page. If it was headline news, it must have been the only day I didn’t read a paper, and my Twitter feed definitely failed me. How did it pass me by? The man was an institution, an absolute legend.

For over 30 years he was a global ambassador for London, appearing on talk shows and at trade fairs in Europe, America, the Near, Middle and Far East. His eternally jolly pink face, tricorn hat and full regalia stare out of innumerable leaflets and websites, with copy written in as many languages as it is commercially viable to produce.

Peter was a collector of people. A traditional raconteur, he made it his business to meet and talk to as many people as possible. He was charming, disarmingly brusque, terribly honest and genuinely interested in those he came into contact with him.

I had the good fortune to spend a summer lunching with him on Tower Hill when I was 16. I was working as a pierman at Tower Pier, directing tourists to the relevant boats to take them to Westminster, Kew, Richmond and Charing Cross. He was extolling the delights of the Tower to all and sundry at his customary 110 decibels and vigorously clanging his bell. We struck up an unlikely friendship over burgers and cigarettes while he regaled me with stories of the places he’d been and the people he had met.

It was a wonderful summer, working in the sunshine with money in my pocket but without a care in the world and I looked forward to seeing him and hearing his tales each day. We inevitably lost touch after that summer ended, but every so often I would see his picture, or watch him opening a new attraction on the news, and smile as I recalled that happy, carefree time.

According to the BBC and the Times, Peter died on 20^th December at home, after years fighting cancer and heart problems. He was 70 years old and worked ceaselessly until the end. Bizarrely, I saw him on the morning he died, entertaining the queues outside Hamleys. He looked very busy and I thought it would be inappropriate to interrupt his work and try to remind him who I was after all these years.

I dearly wish I had bothered him!

You touched so many lives, Peter. Rest in peace.

x

BBC wields the axe on established drama

This week in The Stage, Maggie Brown writes that BBC drama boss Ben Stephenson has set the cat among the pigeons by deciding to cut a number of established BBC1 drama series.

Some of the shows which may find themselves on the block are Lark Rise to Candleford, Hotel Babylon, Hustle, New Tricks and even Spooks. So-called "schedule-blockers" (because they must be on at the same time every week so the audience don't get confused) Holby City and Casualty are also under review. Definitely for the chop (according to Ms Brown's insider knowledge) are Ashes to Ashes and Mistresses.

There will no doubt follow a flurry of subjective opinions from many in the media who have personal interests in particular outcomes: agents and actors will be concerned about a drop in the market value of "talent", which can be renegotiated up every time a show is recommissioned; writers and producers who have grown warm and snuggley under the Beeb's blanket will cry murder at the thought of being left out in the cold; BECTU will do what unions do best when they sense threat and run around declaiming the end of civilisation; and an army of "consultants" and "media commentators" will weigh up the pros and cons before siding with whoever pays their fee / buys their lunch.

So how about this for an objective view? I don't think Auntie should cut any of the shows. I think it should sell them. The BBC is an excellent training ground for talent across the board and remains one of the best TV producing houses in the world. Why doesn't it set itself up to devise, create and run, say, two seasons of each show, then sell them on to ITV, C4, Five or any of the phalanx of cable channels available in the majority (estimates vary from 65%-90%) of UK homes?

If it did this, it would not only bring in considerable revenue to the Beeb, but focus its remit in an ever expanding media climate, guarantee the Corporation's place for future licence reviews, benefit commercial TV networks by providing readymade audiences and help to immeasurably raise the standard of drama across the medium.

Commercial networks buy in shows all the time. Instead of trying to compete with quality BBC shows for airtime, they could simply move the audiences across channels. Then their only responsibility would be not breaking proven formats and maintaining standards on established shows.

Regardless of the economic climate, BBC should not be allowed to cut original output; they should be the go-to guy for new work. The Autumn 2009 commissioning round for new drama was the least ambitious it has been in years. If this becomes a trend, it will spell disaster for new TV drama.

Put like this, the BBC has no place, and should have no interest in relying on producing stretched out long running series with less than top-notch writing or acting, which cater for the lowest common denominator audience. Leave that to ITV. Given this freedom, Auntie could pump out more high-quality new drama than ever before. If a show doesn't work, it won't get picked up by another network.

So? Next!

Help needed: Volunteer work in Haiti

Have just received word that NFPjobs.co.uk (not-for-profit, since you ask) are helping to recruit to a number of emergency relief positions for Plan International's work in Haiti:

"Available for immediate travel to Haiti?

Can commit for 1-3 months?

Emergency relief experience?

Speak French?

Yes? Apply on line here:

CV upload and confirm your area of expertise in a short covering letter

Management

• Logistics Manager
• General Manager
• Finance
• Communications
• Admin/Information Officer
• HR Officer

 Specialist

• Earthquake Response Program Manager, Programme Officer
• Education in Emergencies
• Learning and Development
• Child Protection, Child Protection Adviser Emergencies
• Community Based Psychosocial Care and Support x 2
• Health Care x 2

No? Do you know anyone?

If you know of anyone who may be able to help Plan International with its relief effort please forward this message."

Phobophobia blog (01): Establishing boundaries

There are many things in this world to be scared of. In this new, weekly blogpost / column I intend to explore what phobias consist of, how they present themselves and how phobics learn to cope with them (or not, as the case may be).

Everyone has a boundary to what they can tolerate from life. You may not know you have an outer limit, but that's only because you haven't reached it yet. For instance, you might never have considered yourself to be leprophobic (fear of leprosy), but I can't imagine many people relishing the concept of losing a finger every time you open the refrigerator door, or popping out an eyeball during a bump on the dodgems.

There's also pretty good chance you are a closet taphephobic, nurturing a fear of being buried alive, but it may never have crossed your mind. Until now. My mother (who will doubtless warrant more extensive references as this column progresses) has taphephobia near the top of her list. When I was a child of four or five, I remember having to promise her that when she died, I would make sure she was cremated. I needed to be prepared, she told me as her white knuckle grip on my upper arms finally loosened, because daddy would think it was funny to bury mummy, and I had to stop him.

Many actively push against the wall of their tolerance bubbles, usually because if they don't fight against fear, they might crumble into a bubbling mush of insecurities, unable to leave the house. For these people, whatever fears they may suffer (spiders, roads, combine harvesters) are outweighed by their overwhelming socialphobia (fear of others thinking they are a bubbling mush of insecurities, unable to leave the house).

Other phobia sufferers target specific fears and tackle them head-on in an effort to beat them. Alas, this rarely works: in order to conquer my debilitating fear of heights, I climbed to the top of the Whispering Gallery at St Paul's Cathedral, I shimmied up and down the Monument, I scaled the roof of York Minster and I took that stupid bubble-ride high over the Thames. And to be fair, I survived them all, but you couldn't get me to the top of St Paul's again if you paid me and I certainly won't be clocking up any frequent flyer miles on the London Eye. I tackled my fear head on, hoping for something to click inside my head, but all I learnt from these experiences was that they were just as bloody scary as I feared!

Of course, some people do it for a thrill: they chase waves and run from fires, they jump into hurricanes and out of aeroplanes, so what's that all about? I deeply suspect these extreme sports fanatics and adrenaline junkies are merely hiding from their true phobias ~ the most obvious being gerascophobia, the fear of growing old, and hypengyophobia, the fear of settling down like responsible grown ups.

If you look on the internet (unless you are seriously technophobic, in which case you have both my sympathy and my admiration, as I can no longer remember what it was we used to do Before Computers, and I often yearn for a return to the quill and ink, to blotting paper and the Gutenberg press), you will find websites listing hundreds of phobias, but there are so many of my own I cannot find names for: a fear of pop-up adverts; of helicopters; of snagged material; of hang-nails; of hang-nails catching on snagged material (that one may keep me awake tonight); of the taste of metallic substances; of chilled mozzarella; of bleach; of damask curtains; of unwashed cutlery; of other people's spectacles; of Grace Jones.

There is so much to see and read and learn; so many interesting people to talk to; so much research to do. I hope you will join me on this journey of discovery, and I hope I keep you informed and entertained along the way.

Alexander Vail

Making Parkinson's law work in my favour

I have recently found myself with an unexpected amount of time on my hands, thanks to a redundancy which has seen me sign up to half a dozen agencies, while trawling the internet for new jobs to apply for.

I must admit, my initial thought was whoopee! I would have a few weeks to fix my website, edit all my plays, work on some serious marketing and PR, adapt my recently successful Dick Whittington and His Cat to a one-act format and write the new play I've had buzzing through my head for the last few months.

I also thought I would be able to blog daily. On lots of interesting topics, sharing my alternative opinions on all manner of outrageous news stories. But I don't appear to have managed any of the above. Oh, and I am planning to decorate. And don't even get me started on the accursed gym. I fully intend to go to every single day, and yet… and yet I'm averaging twice a week (note: for "averaging", read "on my best week so far").

So what has stood in my way? It can't be laziness, because I seem to be busy all the time. Because my number one priority must be finding a great job, I am (quite sensibly) checking the websites and agencies daily and firing off letters, CVs and pouring hours of my life into application forms (I hate application forms enough to write an entirely separate blog about them!). By the time I've done all that, it's invariably time for a late lunch, so I have my soup, tidy the kitchen, put a wash load on, click send/receive on my inbox every five minutes and then it seems to be dark.

Guilt at the idea of not focusing on finding a new job for a few hours disables my ability to write anything, so I haven't blogged for weeks, or written a play/novel/short story. Which is ridiculous really – I used to hold down a job where I worked minimum 12 hour days, and still found time to write, often through the night. Now, with oodles of time on my hands, my work rate has dropped to zero. THIS MUST CHANGE.

In 1955, Cyril Northcote Parkinson began an article in the Economist with an extraordinary truism, which has since grown to be known as Parkinson's Law: "Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion."

Add to Parkinson's adage the toxic 21^st century double afflictions of Facebook and Twitter and it is quite possible for six or seven hours to pass one by with nothing to show for them, but with the added sense of being voluntarily mugged of valuable time.

Now - as anyone who has ever worked with me will attest – my solution to every problem is a To Do list. However, writing an overly long to do list (as I have done, naturally: it is over two feet long, stuck to the bookcase in front of me and it is judging my every keystroke) can have a totally debilitating effect when twinned with frustration at work not yet achieved, and so I have a new weapon in my armoury against ennui.

I have set myself a target of writing 2000 words a day, on any topic, in any medium. This could (and should) be on my new play, but it could also be the draft of the novel I'm hiding from, the short story collection which has yet to see the light of day, or even just a blog. I am allowed to combine projects to reach my total, but I am not allowed to add together word counts of fewer than 500, so I could for example write a thousand words of the play and a thousand word blog. But little bits such as Twitter updates and longer jobsearch-related chunks (letters of application) don't count.

What it may mean is that I blog more often. What it will definitely mean is that I will be checking the word counts of everything, in my possibly futile attempt to meet each day's target. However, as Parkinson was clearly bang-on in his assessment, I simply must create more work to fill the available time, and self-impose deadlines and targets. I think it may be the only way.

I'll keep you posted!

Word count: 722