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21 November 2011
Phobias, fate and embarrassing things happening in
lifts
This week's
blog is sensible. I'm pointing this out for the
benefit of new readers. Actually it always veers
on the less-than-completely-bonkers side as I'm mindful
of my known audience, which includes clients and
sometimes family. I'm also painfully aware that on any
given week it may be read by no one. Not no one in
particular, but no one at all. So now you're
probably thinking that I should find more effective ways
to spend my time than writing to potentially no one, but
there we have it. The substance of things hoped
for and the evidence of things not seen.
I’m over my
train phobia now. For years I couldn’t travel into town
without arriving in a state fit only for a strong Jack
Daniels and a very large cream cake. It seemed a shame
at the time to give up an every-girl’s-dream job in
fashion buying because of it, but there you go. That
paranoia began after my close call on the evening of the
Kings Cross disaster, travelling through the station
maybe 15 minutes before the fire broke out. Someone Dale
knew (he of Songbird fame) was holding a fundraising
event in aid of Cancer Research and we were meeting in
north London. I managed to get out of work a bit early,
which was unusual in those days. After that night I
gradually deteriorated into a walking wreck and quit my
job a few months later. I mention this because this
week marked the 24th anniversary of that
disaster and it reminds me that life is fragile… but
we’re always where we’re meant to be. Of course I travel into central London all the
time now – for meetings, dinners, lectures, to run
training courses, management consulting, art gallery
visiting, lunch – especially if you’re buying!
So all fine
now on the visiting London front, but still slightly
wary of getting in lifts. Not because I’m scared you
understand, but more due to a history of embarrassing
myself and then being stuck for a minute or two in
shamed silence. The worst case was starting a
conversation with, as I thought he was called, Sheargal
Farkey. As you can imagine, that went down great! Gill
and I still shriek with laughter about our elevator
encounter with Paul McCartney – can’t even begin to tell
you about that! And Chrissie Hynde was much nicer in
real life in a London lift than when I’ve seen her interviewed on TV –
not sure if she’d remember me all these years later. I
can only hope not…
As well as
talking about London, may I quickly say that I haven't
been to Paris for a while, so if anyone fancies taking
me to lunch there...? Last time was also a bit
embarrassing actually, not in a lift, but ripping back
the bedroom curtains - stark naked - to view the
Seine dappled in morning sunlight, and instead coming
face-to-face with French workmen on scaffolding...
Enough said
about Paris! With music
being the cognitive soundtrack to our lives, it’s
natural that songs remind us of people, places, lost
loves and almost forgotten dreams. (Don't you
agree, Bro-Lo?) This week I've been playing Aztec Camera’s still
fantastic High Land Hard Rain album; its best song was ‘We could send
letters.’ And back then, we did. Now we
email, tweet, text, Skype, and everything else. So
whether you're in London, Paris, Chicago or wherever
else you may be,
what’s your reason for not keeping in touch? Email me:
Ren@imaginativetraining.com.
Or tweet: @WeekendWitch.
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