I'd like to move it move it

Sometimes, when Mr B is away and I'm feeling lonely, or when I need a little fantasy, I guiltily go to the website that's guaranteed to start me dreaming of the exotic, get me a little excited as I imagine another, more decadent, lifestyle. It offers photo after photo to admire, and tempting descriptions of what's on offer at prices I could never afford.

I do love Rightmove.

What did you think I was talking about?

I tell myself I'm tracking the house prices and gauging which local buyers might be most desperate to sell at the point we want to buy. And that is true - I'm ever practical. But we won't be moving any time soon, what with me being shakily self-employed and all. So what is it that's so compelling in particular about looking at house particulars?

Isn't it obvious? Well, let's choose two things.

Aspiration
This one near me has a floorplan that would cover most of my street, slightly incongruous decor, 1.4 acres and, apparently, a horse thrown into the deal. This one has (count 'em) 11 bedrooms, 7 acres and an indoor swimming pool. You can do any random search in any town and come up with examples of beautiful houses in stunning settings that one day, maybe, if you obey the capitalist imperative or win the lottery, might be yours. It's a dream, at least until you visit someone new (as I did last week) whose utility room is the size of my kitchen and their kitchen is the size of my ground floor. And next door's too. And then you wonder why you don't have that. And you conveniently forget that you haven't spent two years, as they did, living in a caravan while a barn was painstakingly converted around them. But the final result is something to aspire to. One day, you say, it will all be mine.

Descriptions
Some estate agents are straight-down-the-line - pure descriptions with no frills (although unnecessarily updating their content every couple of days - well, unnecessary if you take optimising search results out of the equation). But there are only so many ways you can describe a fitted bathroom so others let their poetic side come to the fore. Take this description of an unexceptional overpriced bungalow: "A beech tree stands sentry to welcome you in to this house in the country, a new life can begin. The land folds around you so fertile and rich, to grow your own food and enjoy this fine pitch. Standing though centuries, built between wars, High Trees is just ready and waiting to be yours." I would do a little editing on the contradictory prose if I didn't suspect it's tongue-in-cheek. This is clearly targeting the "up from London" market of vulnerable, redundant and repetent bankers taking their payouts to fund a rural idyll for a couple of years until they can't bear the Starbucks withdrawal symptoms and go back to Highgate. One estate agent in a town I know well takes the personal touch a little too far by always including an "Our view " paragraph in its descriptions. Of course, this is always a gushing view, never a "over-decorated, damp problem" view, while still not avoiding thorny questions likely to be asked by discerning buyers. Choice (unedited) examples: "It doesn't have a swimming pool or tennis court ... nothing like that... but it has got something much more important than all those things...Location". Also try: "Describing this magnificent property as simply four bedroom detached is belittling it beyond measure." It's unsophisticated stuff but it easy to warm to the enthusiasm of the writer - I'm not one for passion but I can see why she stands out from the crowd. Marketing copywriters have a lot to learn from estate agents.

Having said all that, I actually go straight for the floorplan and the photos, which I suppose is odd for a words person. But houses, like relationships, are an emotional investment, selected and rejected on the smallest whim. We saw 22 houses before seeing the one we bought. Almost all were bigger, newer, didn't back onto a car park - but we saw it and we loved it and we bought it. Of course, we're paying the price now - both literally as its value has dropped back down to what we bought it for, despite years of renovation, and metaphorically as it gets smaller every day. I am currently typing at a tiny uncomfortable desk beside Mr B's in our bedroom, wishing for a study. See what I mean about aspiration? I don't really want an 11 bedroom house - too much cleaning - but I'd settle for an extra room.

And a kitchen the size of a sports hall.

Getting down with da kids

Monkeyrina was three last week. Bex kindly wished me a happy third labour day and indeed it seems that, as with the actual birth, children's birthdays cost mothers all the stress and expense, with only the reward of a happy little girl with a chocolatey mouth. And that, it cannot be denied, is a fine reward.

As our house is the size of most people's garden sheds, we hired the local community centre for a nominal amount and took all our junk over there for the party. When I was three, parties were regimental affairs, with party games at set times whose winners tended to be the kids who my mother felt deserved it the most. These days, kids' parties are at playbarns, where they can climb and swing and slide and scream until the food is served and they continue to climb and swing and slide and scream at the table. Monkeyrina's party was a cross between the two - we had a small bouncy castle (which took an hour to inflate with a lilo pump) and Mr B threw caution to the wind by upgrading to Spotify Premium so that we could play nursery rhymes offline from his laptop (anyone remember CDs?). I filled paper plates with junk food that was eagerly devoured by children and parents alike (even those who claimed to spurn cocktail sausages) and the remains of which now sit temptingly in the kitchen as yet another reason to boot me off to the gym. Anna, my ever-generous sort-of-step-mother-in-law, who told me she sometimes reads this blog (hello!), created her usual artistic triumph of a birthday cake, along with a full set of spectacular cupcakes, and in the end I didn't need all five of the bottles of cider I'd bought to self-medicate with afterwards.

I didn't know much about children before Monkeyrina came along. I still don't know much about children but I do know that people make allowances for your behaviour. Here are some snapshots of things I'd love to do but, for mysterious and disappointing social reasons, could never get away with at 35.

• Monkeyrina running round and round the long kids' table before the guests arrived, giggling uncontrollably.
• Kids jumping and twisting to catch glimmering bubbles.
• One little boy refusing to sit at the table to eat with the others, because, his mother said, he was afraid of the adults.
• One girl refusing to leave the food table until every cake had been eaten. Um, that was, in fact, my daughter. Family resemblance, anyone?
• Continously turning around and shaking random limbs all about and then wandering off to play with balloons during the Hokey Cokey.
• All the kids locating the duck whistles in their party bags and gravely honking away when their parents tried to take them home.
• Pretending to be tired at the end of the party just to get a hug.

Grown up parties are fine - sometimes you want to get a little tipsy on alcopops and argue about government policy with someone you don't know quite well enough to say what you really think - but children's parties are so much freer. Kids really can shake it all about and the photos on Facebook the next day will be captioned "Aaah!" rather than "Aaargh!"

Children learn from us and we learn from them. I hope that, as well as contributing to their educational development and nagging them into submission, they learn that sometimes - given the right circumstances - it's OK to do you really want to do.

Relax - don't do it

As I get older, I've come to accept that I'm good at some things and bad at some things and absolutely, hopelessly awful at others. I'm no good at pool, for example - if you tried to lose against me, you would win (and thus lose). My attempt at a Scottish accent is terrible - not a great problem in Norfolk but it would have been useful to sound like a local when I lived in Stirling and the SNP cornered me pre-election. Drawing recognisable pictures of, well, anything, is also beyond me: Monkeyrina leans over the paper, shakes her head sorrowfully and tells me they're "not very good". But the thing I'm worst at of all is relaxing.

I've realised that, while they're lying on the massage couch, other people close their eyes and dream. They don't want to ask their beauty therapists questions about their typical customers or how they can possibly bear to touch strangers' bodies. The last time I had a pamper day, I noticed that my therapist was left-handed and it took all my self-control not to ask her whether she had to learn all the treatments in reverse. (I'm left handed too - it means that guitar playing and crochet are included in the "bad at" category - or really in the "never tried it because it's easier for right handers so why make work for myself when there are books to be read instead?" category).

Clearly, I am too tightly wound, or have too strong a sense of self-preservation, to fall asleep in public, and in any case, that would require my mind to be still for a moment. During a recent facial (at the pamper day - I don't want to suggest that my life is one long spa experience), my thoughts went like this:

"She's putting something on my face. It's cold. She's wiping my face with something soft and cold. Is it a dead mouse? Should I shut my eyes? There's a bulb gone in that ceiling light. Eyes open or closed? She might stick her finger in my eye if it's open, so closed. No more broken ceiling lights. What is she wiping on me? Could be anything. It's been years since I've had a facial. Probably Debbie's hen weekend in 1999. My mum was there. What was my mum doing at Debbie's hen weekend? Don't know. Wasn't it in Wales? What was my Mum doing in Wales? That facial had a massage too. I wonder if I'll get one now. Massages are usually good. That one at that hotel that time, with work. Oh no, I had a St Tropez then, not a massage. The therapist said she'd treated someone out of that girl band, what was it, All Saints, and she was the only person she'd ever come across with no cellulite. I always think of that. Whatever happened to All Saints? When were they famous, mid-90s, I was at uni. What were they called? Shaznay was one, Shaznay Lewis. How do I remember that? You don't get many Shaznays. Appleton. Nicole Appleton and her sister, now what was her name? And the other one. Didn't Nicole Appleton marry a Gallagher brother? I expect they're all married to other people now. Oh. Itchy nose. Oooh, itchy nose! Shall I scratch it? No, can't do that. Oooh, itchy itchy! Maybe she'll massage it away. If she does any massage with that dead mouse."

From what other people say, their thoughts in the same situation are more like this:

"Mmm. Nice. Zzzzz."

So what does relax me? Reading a book, surfing the net, chatting to friends... hmm, there's a pattern there. My mind just doesn't like resting - lying on a sun-bright Seychelles beach and snoozing the day away is great in its way (so I imagine - the chances of it actually happening are even more remote than the Seychelles) but isn't very constructive. I have to be realistic about myself: I like to think. I like to reflect. I like to get things done. And then I can... relax.

How I got myself branded

No, I've not undermined my mini-rant in my last post and got a tattoo - I have a new logo and it is beautiful. It is so close to what I wanted that it's as if it's always been there and has simply been delivered, swaddled and sleeping peacefully, by the branding stork. Which is odd because at the start of the process, I had no idea of what it should look like - I work with words, not pictures. I just knew what it should represent.

In the beginning
The process of designing your own brand is rather strange. Although I was branding WordFire Communications (the company), and not Julia Sandford-Cooke (the person), it still represents Julia Sandford-Cooke because I am the company. I could, of course, saved myself a heap of money and designed it myself. But then I would have lost a heap of money because potential clients would have taken one look at my primitive Wordart (probably in Arial with some smoke-like wiggles emanating from FIRE) and gone off to find a communications specialist who could present themselves professionally.

The agony of choice
So I spoke to some designers I know (I know a lot of designers) and one or two that I didn't. It soon became clear that it's cringingly awkward to engage someone with whom you have previously had a non-work relationship to perform this rather personal job for you. What if I didn't like what a friend produced? Would I have to be polite and put up with a brand ID I hated for the next 10 years, or would I be direct (as I normally am) and find I no longer had that friend?

Airing my briefs
I've written a lot of briefs in my time, and I know how I like to be briefed - in detail, with all expectations made clear, but with enough flexibility to allow creativity. My brief was 5 pages long, which, admittedly, is likely to send any recipient running for cover, but I thought it was important to include:

• What I wanted (logo, letterheads, business cards but not web design)
• What WordFire does
• Who my potential clients are
• More about me
• My brand challenges (issues that might prevent me from getting across what WordFire Communications can offer customers)
• Words I associate with my brand (professional, quirky, creative and so on)
• Logos I like
• Required formats for the final files.

Quote... unquote
In the end, I got three quotes: one from a newly established local designer who I sourced via Twitter, one from a friend who works with Mr B and one from an agency I'd used and respected in my old job. All three of them said they were pleased to get a decent brief for a change, so they didn't run for cover after all. All three quoted at least 50% more than I'd budgeted for. But the agency was the cheapest and also offered the best value (6 logo options, 4 sets of changes and a full stationery package). There was also the advantage of a pre-existing working relationship without the difficulties of a personal relationship. Turning down my friend and the keen young local designer was the worst part of the entire process but they were both very nice about it. At least to my face.

Starting work
So the agency sent me their logo options. All 13 of them - they couldn't decide which to leave out. Of these, about three were along the lines I was thinking of, but only one stood out as a good fit. This is in no way a criticism of the agency - quite the opposite as they demonstrated their creativity - but it does show how much personal preference influences design choices.

Adding a little colour
We went backwards and forwards for a while, tweaking the typeface and the visuals, trying a few minor changes and then changing them back. The draft logo was in black and white so the agency asked me what colour palette I wanted to use. I didn't know. My underdeveloped visual imagination suggested, well, fire of course: red, yellow, orange. They also happen to be the colours that either don't print properly or can't be seen by 10% of the population. So I went over to trusty Colour Lovers, which is a fine place to visit even if you're not designing a logo. People who are good at that sort of thing compile palettes and patterns, so those of us who are not blessed in such skills can see what's trendy and what's attractive. After a happy browse, Ocean Five caught my eye - bright, engaging, kinda retro and, most importantly, popular among the site users. I sent over a link to this and a couple of others and suddenly there was my logo, fully formed and confident, on a files for business cards, comp slips, letter headings and alone an proud. Even better, with or without a strapline that has somehow came along for the ride.

Oh, you want to see it, do you? Wait a minute. First I want to reflect on what I've learned from branding myself.

1. Designers like clear briefs. OK, so I knew that already. But they really do produce good work on clear briefs. I know from hard experience that vague briefs are of no use to client or supplier.
2. Would I have got a different result from a different designer? Of course, but this one seems so right that, ironically, it's hard not to assume that every designer would have come up with it. The agency, by the way, was Zuluspice. Branding isn't even something they market but maybe they should.
3. When I posted the logo on Facebook, an unprecedented 15 people "liked" it. That's a good sign.
4. Was the cost and time worth it? Undoubtedly. Take a look (this is the slogan version):

Related PS: I went to the bank today wearing my "cute ninja" T-shirt and gym hoody, which I like to pretend makes me look young, hip 'n' trendy (three things I was never very good at being). The snooty lady behind the counter was mighty surprised when I told her that the business advisor had asked for some of my business cards and that here was a bundle for her to give to clients. Funny how quickly people jump to conclusions. Let's hope they jump to some positive conclusions about my new brand.

It's all uphill from here

It's been a while. Well, a week. That's a long long while in the virtual world. It's not that I've not been inspired - I've just been busy. Does being busy limit inspirational opportunities or is it in fact one long inspirational experience? I suppose it depends on what you're doing. At this moment, I appear to be having a fancily named "opthalmic migraine", which shimmers prettily before my left eye and at least makes a change from my regular "brain crusher migraine". Did it appear because I was busy? Or because I went to Body Combat for the first time and my poor body is subtly complaining about all this strange exercise business that I'm suddenly forcing it to do?

I don't want your sympathy; I just want to find a way of linking all this to Things I've Noticed About the Gym.

1. Some people might go the gym for fitness and health. But most people go to be thin and/or muscled. My worst suspicions are true: young men really do stand in front of the mirror admiring their own biceps; women (young and not so young) really do think skinny looks good. It doesn't.
2. Another suspicion fulfilled: everyone compares themselves with everyone else. They pretend they don't. But they do. An example. Yesterday, a particularly scrawny elderly woman was chatting flirtatiously with the man beside me. He said something like, "You can't hurt me - you're the smallest person in this room." The woman glanced over at me. "She's smaller than me," she said. The man looked me up and down. "Well, she's shorter than you," he said.
3. Once people get past their obligatory 4 week induction programme, they just go on the cross-trainer or treadmill for half an hour and leave. They don't even do a hill setting. Why not just go for a jog in the fresh air if you're not going to use the more challenging (and interesting) equipment?
4. Mr B and I are the only adults in town without tattoos. Possibly the only adults in the country. Which seems strange, considering that tattoos are, without exception, horrifically ugly mutiliations of beautful natural skin. Several gym-peers (male and female) have fabulous figures that have been completely ruined by an indelible pattern that they inexplicably show off via skimpy clothing. In the words of Monkeyrina, why? Why? Why?
5. The personal trainers are a certain personality type. In my previous weekly visits, I'd thought them cliquey, judgemental, intimidating. My class instructor didn't speak to me at all for a year until I joined the gym and started going more often. Now she chats whenever we meet. But it takes one to know one and I know that people often think me judgemental and intimidating. There's another word for it: shy. You need to have something in common with people to avoid the sort of dorky conversations full of misunderstandings in which I excel. Knowledge is power - or, at least, confidence.
6. Breakfast TV subtitles are a rich source of amusing typos. In the past week, I've seen "Maria Callous", "Andrea Cor", and "performing with my banned" (I'm still mentally filling in the blank for that one).
7. There's nothing worth watching on the main channels at 9 o'clock in the morning - movie news on BBC1, CBeebies on BBC2 (I get enough of that at home) and Lorraine Kelly on ITV1. Unless she's interviewing Rufus Wainwright - then I extend my virtual hill climb.

It's all a strange artifical world that presumably wasn't required 200 years ago when our ancestors worked in the fields all day. It's not a world I'm comfortable in - physically or emotionally. I like reading books and complaining about how the BBC website has started hyphenating adverbs. But it's a world that builds strength - and inspiration - of a kind. Where does life leave you if you never leave your comfort zone?

Why my daughter should be a lawyer

Dr Seuss, now there's some inspiration for the cynical. Unless you're trying to read "Green Eggs and Ham" to an almost-three-year-old without going insane.

Me: "I am Sam... Sam I am."
Monkeyrina (pointing at the other character.) What's his name?
Me: He doesn't have a name.
Her: Why not?
Me: It's not important to the story.
Her: Why not?
Me: Well, it doesn't really come up. I call him Grumpy Grouch.
Her: Why?
Me: Because he's grumpy.
Her: Why is he grumpy?
Me: Let's read it and find out? "That Sam-I-am. That Sam-I-am! I do not like that Sam-I-am!"
Her: Why not?
Me: Because he's annoying. He keeps trying to make him eat green eggs and ham.
Her: Why?
Me: Because Sam-I-am thinks it's something nice to eat, and wants the Grumpy Grouch to eat it too.
Her: Why?
Me: Because when you eat something yummy, you want to share it with people. Let's get on with the story, shall we? "Do you like green eggs and ham? I do not like-"
Her: Is that his fat tummy?
Me: He's not very fat. He's more furry.
Her: Why? Is he an animal?
Me: No, well, not really. He's just a pretend person.
Her: Why is he furry if he's a person?
Me: (regretting mentioning the fur): It's his clothes. He's wearing a furry suit.
Her: Why is he wearing a furry suit?
Me: Come on, now. We've only read 3 pages and there are lots more to go.
Her: What's that in the ham?
Me: It's a fork to eat it with.
Her: Why?
Me: So they can eat the green eggs and ham. "I do not like green eggs and-"
Her: Why's it in the ham?
Me: (slightly hysterical) So it doesn't fall out. They're moving around a lot and they don't want to lose it. "Would you like them here or there? I would not like them here or there. I would not like them-"
Her: "ANYWHERE! I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-aAm."
Me: (relieved): "Would you like them in a house? Would you like them with a mouse?"
Her: 'Mouse' and 'house' are very similar, aren't they?
Me: (impressed she knows the word 'similar'): Yes, they rhyme.
Her: Why? Why do they mime?
Me: They rhyme. They sound nice together.
Her: Why?
Me: (glancing at my watch): Because rhymes do. "I do not like them in a house, I do not like them-"
Her: Why's he furry?
Me: I told you. He's wearing a furry suit. Come on, now. "-with a mouse. I do not-"
Her: It looks like 'The Cat in the Hat', doesn't it, mummy?
Me: Yes. It's by the same person. Dr Seuss.
Her: Why is it by Dr Who?
Me: Not Dr Who. Dr Seuss. Those words sound similar too, don't they? (Desperately skipping several lines) "Would you eat them in a box?"
Her: Why's the box hanging in a tree?
Me: (Starting to giggle hysterically) Because it is! Because it is! Because that's what's in the picture!
Her: Why are you laughing, mummy?
Me: Because you won't let me read the book!
Her: Why won't I?
Me: Because you keep asking why!
Her: (with a smirk): Why?

My advice to government: use a toddler to interrogate suspects. They'd be broken in less than 10 minutes.

It's the winning that counts

Exercise and I have never seen eye-to-eye. Actually, I don't see eye-to-eye with very much at all, because 1) I'm 4 foot 11 (150cm, metric fans) and 2) I can only use one eye at a time. And those are two reasons why I'm not a sporty type. I can't play racquet sports, as it's a distinct advantage to have depth perception. I'm not keen on team games because I'll get crushed in the scrum and can't get very far very quickly on my miniature legs.

There are plenty of other reasons why I'm not a sporty type: lack of time, too academic and, here's the clincher, I can't be bothered. Not when there are books to read and blogs to write and the web to explore. Not when I see so little of my husband and daughter. Not when it's raining or cold or hot or windy. It's not that I'm lazy - it's just that there are better things to do.

And then there's the legacy of horror from school. I'm sure these days there are no winners or losers, teams are chosen randomly and all participants are praised equally. I'm sure it's not at all as it was 20 years ago, when PE teachers had their favourite team captains and ignored the less physically gifted, except to shout how useless you were across a wind-blown hockey pitch and then make you take a communal shower (we often showered wearing our full sports kit rather than strip off and display our pubescent bodies to our peers). My friends and I were clever but not cool, so we were chosen last for teams and had no reason to be motivated other than for the opportunity for the four of us to wear our matching "disco" socks to our Wednesday PE lesson as some sort of anti-sports solidarity movement. It got a bit better as we got older, when the PE teachers left us pretty much to ourselves so that they could concentrate on the ones who had been nurtured, so we would pretend to play table tennis and sneak off to do our homework early (yes, I really was that studious). 

None of which helped to build any sort of interest in, or appreciation for, physical exercise. My family, by contrast, were all pretty sporty, but that was something they did - it didn't apply to me.

But then, for reasons I can't quite recall, in the third year of university I discovered jogging. I would get up at 7 each morning, do a lap or two of Christ Church Meadow, shower, breakfast and be at the library for opening time (yes, I really was that studious; talk about a mispent youth). It was fabulous. I was fit, I was energised and I could pack away an extra biscuit or two without it going on my hips. For a year or so, I revised my view of physical exercise, if not PE, and embraced it.

And then I started work, abruptly ran out of leisure time and, for the past 15 years, have sporadically done a little yoga, a little dancing, gone for the occasional very slow run. It was OK. I could have been a little fitter, a little thinner, but I was hardly stationary and obese.

But when you (one, I, we) enter our 30s, a switch flicks somewhere inside us. Suddenly that pint, that cake, that delicious greasy pile of fish and chips start to haunt you. They linger, ghostlike at first but increasingly tangibly, until one day you look in the mirror and see a flabby body that isn't as young as it used to be. And ahead of you stretches a tedious lifetime of the cursed PE.

When I see people with good figures, male or female, my first thought is, "Lucky them". My second thought is, "They've cheated. I bet they have to do lots of exercise to look like that." And then I glare at them for a while, or maybe eat a piece of cake to make myself feel better.

About 18 months ago, I took my extra tummy and me down to the gym for a class or two. I did some step aerobics but co-ordination is not my storng point and I couldn't get the hang of staying upright. As it turned out, the class that I've been going to ever since is the class that, given a long list of options and a slight knowledge of my personality, you (and I) would have put on the bottom of that list. It involves lifting weights to music and is called BodyPump. It is fantastic - definitely one for the checklist of inspirational things that I haven't got round to compiling for this site. To paraphrase Kate Bush, I love it and I hate it too. I now look like this - Wonderwoman with a barbell. 

Well, actually, I don't, and I'm very surprised she looks like that either, lifting pathetic 1.25s, by the look of it - you'll never get decent biceps that way. Mine are looking pretty good under the flab. But you need to do a lot more than an hour's intensive weightlifting every week to get truly fit and toned. So now, at last, I've cheated too - I've joined the gym itself and will, from now on, be found most mornings running up imaginary hills while watching Jeremy Kyle berate truculant layabouts via subtitles on the big screen.

And my point is? There are several - take your pick. The glib one is that you have to put effort into anything for it to pay off. The stern one is that you have to get over your childhood hangups once you're old enough to make your own decisions. The realistic one is that it's hard to do what needs to be done, but do it anyway. And the inspiration for the cynical? Try something new. You never know, you might find you enjoy heaving a good proportion of your own body weight around on a stick to cover versions of beat-heavy hits. And even if you don't enjoy it, try things until you do: it means you can fit a few more slices of cake into your accommodating body.

The limits of communication

My phone rings. I don't recognise the number. It might be a potential client so I answer.
"Hello, Julia Sandford-Cooke."

"Is that Stuart?" asks a man.

"No," I say. "I think you've got the wrong number."

"Is Stuart there?" asks the man.

"I don't know any Stuarts," I say, "You must have the wrong number."

Slight pause. "Is Richenda around?"

"You have the wrong number."

Slight pause. "Is this 078XXXXXX?"

"No," I say, "You've definitely got the wrong number. Try again."

Slight pause. "I must have the wrong number. Sorry."

We hang up.

No matter how many times you tell them, some people just have to work it out for themselves.

It's not just me...

You might say this is a lazy post, and I might agree with you, but David Mitchell says it so well. Although technically he's not just talking about standards of spelling.

Getting possessive about proofreading

So I was at a party last weekend - and please don't get distracted by your amazement at such an unusual way for me to spend my leisure time - where I knew nobody except the hosts. A woman was telling her friends about how, when shopping, her daughter had picked out a slab of chocolate with the iced message "Worlds best brother" on it. Naturally, the woman asked the shop assistant to add the missing apostrophe but this being Thorntons, which, like Barclays, has decided that ugly possessive punctuation clutters the brand, her request was met with incomprehension. The woman sensibly left without the chocolate. So far so unsurprising. But then... "Of course it needs an apostrophe," her friend responded, "Otherwise it's as if he's the whole world's brother." The first woman (who turned out to be a copywriter) paused and blinked. "It's a possessive apostrophe," she said. "Oh yes," agreed woman three, "It's the same as putting an apostrophe in "its". That really winds me up. The rule is simple. You should never do it." The first woman paused and blinked again, and I considered wading in to back her up but, being British and never having met these people before, well, to my shame, I didn't. Fortunately the conversation turned to misspellings (or possibly mispellings), to general relief.

When I tell people what I do, they tend to nod and agree that proofreading is very important and that correct spelling and punctuation and removing typos is essential for a professional reputation. But they never seem to think it applies to them. It's other people, those uneducated masses, who get it wrong. If you're in the know, you can proofread your own work. Well, yes, up to a point. My knowledge of grammar and spelling and punctuation is accurate enough to know when to break the rules and when the rules are fluid (editors like nothing better than to endlessly debate the relative merits of different style manuals - that's one reason I don't get invited to many parties). But I'm not ashamed to admit - because it's obvious - that I don't always pick up all the errors in my terrible typing. Sometimes it's late, sometimes I'm busy, usually I'm just plain lazy. I know how it is, how there always seems to be something better to do. But proofreading your own work is only the first level of defence. The second level is to find someone who will look at it objectively; being free from creative baggage, I have no difficulty in correcting other people's work. A fresh eye - a fresh perspective - will tidy and polish the text, and replace it gleaming on the mantlepiece of public opinion. Even if the public isn't all that sure what that opinion ought to be.

To shamelessly overload on the metaphors, adding an extra squeeze of icing is so much easier, and so much cheaper, than melting it all down and starting again.

I've just blown in from Windy Castle

You've got to respect the evil genius who came up with the idea for Peppa Pig World. You've also got to respect the evil genius who came up with Peppa Pig, but that's for a different post that I won't be writing. I have seen enough of the winsome adenoidal juvenile piggie participating in a variety of unthreatening yet knowingly ironic humorous activities with her eccentric middle-class family and colourful cast of alliterating animals. Usually I check my emails on my phone while Monkeyrina has her daily fix. Once she asked for the same episode 8 times in succession. It wasn't even one of the classics (the "Who is Miss Rabbit?" one, for example, or the funfair episode that has led to a family catchphrase of "A pound?!" every time we have waste cash on some useless child-related frippery.) No, it was the obscure tooth fairy episode, which Monkeyrina seems to have regarded as training for her future career of sneaking into people's homes at night to rummage under their pillows. It's not a typical way for dentists to behave but, who knows, perhaps the NHS cuts and the public's unwillingness to pay for private treatment are having an effect.

So one day this evil genius strode into a boardroom with an evil proposal to unite the popular toddler religion of Peppadom with new and imaginative ways of extracting money from their parents ("A pound?!"). Take one obscure and slightly shabby Hampshire theme park, mix with an expensively procured licence, spend £6 million on design and build, invest in a frankly ubiquitous marketing campaign, await pester power and sit back and enjoy the profits.

Happy exicted toddlers, happy revitalised Paulton's Park, happy A1 Entertainment shareholders.

And the parents?

We got there at opening time on a Tuesday in June and it was absolutely heaving. Batallions of pushchairs and purposeful striding towards the comparatively small corner of the park in which Peppa resides. The queues for each ride were half an hour or more - just what you need when potty training. I've never seen so many tantrums, and that was just the mums.

But I have to admit it was well done. It's new, of course, so not yet covered in kiddie sick and chewed gum. It was clever and colourful and lovingly created - just like the TV series. The rides were well judged for the riders' ages, and the playground was one of the best I've seen (and, believe me, I've seen a lot). All the main characters were there, and even some quite obscure ones, which Mr B (who doesn't always have his phone handy when reruns are on) was able to identify for us. There were even people (I assume they were people) in Peppa and George suits, greeting their loyal subjects. Monkeyrina wasn't fooled, however - she knows the real Peppa is made of stone and can be accessed via a hole in the TV.

So what? Well, the fact of it being a promotional triumph, a case study in creating and fulfilling a demand, should be enough. But some other points struck me:

• The pricing structure was unique in my experience - no children's discounts - anyone under a metre is free and anyone over a metre pays £21. ("21 pounds?! That's a lot of pocket money"). 
• There was an overpriced snack bar, of course but we, in a rare moment of proper parenthood, had brought our sandwiches. Our ironic bacon sandwiches. There were no obvious picnic tables, at least none I spotted until after perching on a bench munching Peppa's relatives. Bringing your own food rather than purchasing it from the park did not seem to be encouraged.
• The rest of the park, and there was quite a lot of it, was virtually deserted. This probably tells you something about why Paultons and Peppa were united but is also a good tip if you don't want to queue for what Monkeyrina called the adult roundabout.
• I hear there's a Dolly Parton World. I wonder if it's similar?

Nothing we could offer for the rest of the holiday quite lived up to such toddler heaven. Even the Isle of Wight ferry, although it was a close-run thing. Now we're back in Home World (so to speak) and, after spending all that money, we have our photos to remind us of the day, and they're free. Apart from the official portrait of Moneyrina in Madam Gazelle's classroom. That was £8 ("8 pounds?!") but she looks so happy to be meeting her heroes, even if they were not made of stone, that we we were happy to spend it. 

So there's some inspiration for the cynical for you, right there.

One step beyond

Last day of corporate life - goodbyes said, thank you cards read, tears shed. Now on to greater things, or at least a barbecue and a few glasses of cider.

People keep asking me how I feel. I feel busy. Or buzzy, as Mr B puts it. As much as I enjoy a chargrilled burger, a cool drink and a small child smearing me in damp rose petals ("Do you like my perfume, mummy? Why don't you want it on your tights?"), I can't relax if I'm not buzzing around making plans and compiling lists and writing web copy and creating design briefs for WordFire's visual identity. I'm not exactly going to be sitting around watching Jeremy Kyle and eating doughnuts.

But why not? This is my big chance to do nothing of any particular value for as long as I like. How fantastic!

How tedious. Now I won't be wasting my days working for someone else, there is so much I can do to fill my time:

1. I will read a novel every week.
2. I will meet a friend for lunch every Wednesday.
3. I will...

Hang on, Buzzy Ju. This is real life now. Why set targets for things that are supposed to be fun? Make a list, by all means, but make it aspirational. Hell, make it inspirational. Find the river. How do I really want to spend my time?

1. I want to read as many novels as I can. My Kindle will be loved.
2. I want to gossip over morning coffee, have long leisurely lunches and chatty teatimes and candlelit dinners. Maybe all on the same day.
3. In order to sustain Point 2, I want to join the gym,stay upright in Zumba classes, raise my weights in Body Pump, jog in the early morning mists, lose half a stone and feel brighter, fresher, fitter.
4. I want to say, "Yes, why not?" more often to Monkeyrina and Mr B. Even if it means what I'd planned to do that moment isn't done until later.
5. I want to keep in better touch with my friends, via whatever medium they prefer. Even if it's by phone.
6. I want to make new friends. The world is full of fascinating people.
7. I want to watch TV shows I've never seen before. Jeremy Kyle excepted.
8. I want to make time for Mr B. Parallel laptops is nice, but so is actually speaking to each other.
9. I want to do things I don't want to do. It's usually for the best.
10. I want to stay passionate and excited and committed to WordFire, so that I can stand up and say "This is mine. This is what I made. This is what I am."

 That seems like a life worth living to me.

More sales for the cynical

It is late. I am tired. I have spent my Saturday night writing (gasp, cynical readers) sales letters. Steel yourself. I like spending my Saturday night writing sales letters. I also like spending my Saturday night dining at a Michelin-starred restaurant in a designer dress - but that doesn't happen very often. Well, OK. It doesn't happen at all. So I spend my Saturday night writing sales letters.

And (gasp again, cynical reader, and shake your head in despair) I like writing sales letters.

Is that wrong? Is it unethical? Should I have spent the evening bandaging the broken legs of badgers or lobbying parliament to make chocolate fudge brownies illegal for the sake of an overweight nation?

Some people would say that I should. A retired friend hinted the other day that her career as a primary school teacher was a far nobler vocation than advertising and communications consultancy. I could have argued (but didn't) that there's a good pinch of copywriting (reports) and copy-editing (stories) in that job too. I could have argued (but didn't) that I too am unlocking the potential of hundreds of minds.

Where is the greater good after all? There are very few completely useless jobs out there - professional footballer and It girl are the only ones that spring to my mind. I want to help people using the skills I happen to have - creating clear text means clear messaging means a clear route to sales. Whether those sales are of Clinique or textbooks or park benches, they are sales to someone who wants the item being sold. So they get want they want - or need - and the company thrives.

I couldn't have been a doctor, as I don't like blood. Or pain. Or ill people. And my mum told me never to be a teacher. She was a teacher. I could have been a lawyer but there's a career that's not exactly short on ethical dilemmas. So here I am, writing sales letters, and worrying about punctuation, and promoting the power of the written word to make the world a better place. And I like it.

Sales for the cynical

Acne gets all the attention because it is far more spectacular than dry skin. It's colourful, for a start, whereas flakiness is just grey and a bit drab. It's more satisfying to squeeze a spot than to scratch at scaliness. But dry skin's no fun either, and you're less likely to grow out of it.

My face has always been a skin Sahara.

One day, on a shopping trip in the great metropolis of Norwich, I went into Boots to get some foundation from the Clinique booth. I asked the skincare advisor whether it was better to get foundation for dry skin or the new tinted moisturiser I'd seen in a magazine. She dabbed at me with both but couldn't get a colour match so changed tack.

"Your skin is very dry," she said. Tell me something I don't know, I thought. "It's your skincare routine," she added. Now, that was something I didn't know and didn't believe. "What do you use to cleanse your face?"

"I don't know," I said, naming a high street brand at random. She looked at me and shook her head, pity in her black-ringed eyes.

"At Clinique, we're dermatologists as well as beauticians," she said. "Try our 3 step routine. Cleanse, tone and moisturise. Come back in 2 weeks and you'll see a difference."

"I don't live in Norwich," I said. I looked at the bottles. I looked at my cracked face in the mirror. And I paid £42 for the 3 step skincare routine.

Now, wake up, here's your chance to be interactive. Circle on your screen the examples of marketing in my story about master salesmanship. While you're at it, circle the sucker who paid more than the cost of a day at her child's nursery in return for glorified soap and lard.

Let me help: I went to Boots because I can get points on my loyalty card, which I can exchange for free products - though I rarely do. I went to Clinique because I like its no-nonsense brand identity (but not its dreary packaging). I'd seen a product advertised and it had made enough impact for me to find out more. I spoke to the skincare advisor because she could give me a personal service. I listened to her because she had a dash of scientific authority. And because I wanted to listen to her. I was on a shopping trip, spending money, looking for quick fixes, impulse buys, a moment of decadent pleasure. I fell for the sales pitch.

And you know what? Within two days of using the magic bottles, my dry patches had gone and, 6 weeks later, my skin is soft and smooth. The product was worth the money I spent.

This isn't an advert for Clinique (although if they'd like to send me some samples, I wouldn't send them back). It's just a little liberating inspiration: selling isn't bad. Not if the product is good. But you still need to create the right conditions to make that sale.

Why I should have been a lawyer

I'm going to go off on a tangent before I've even established a straight line, but time spent trying to get the hang of Twitter does make you want to luxuriously expand into the endless space of the Blogger edit box. I went into the bank to sign up for a business account but rather than HSBC holding open their welcoming arms for me to run giggling into, they took some notes, made me play telephone pingpong with their business advisor and then made me commit to spending my lunch hour next week driving into town to meet her for what will probably be a sales chat. And it won't be me selling to her. Although that nicely brings me back to my straight line.

When the cashier noted the nature of my business, she wrote that I was planning to be a "copyrighter". The point at which I realised that publishing is the realm of the underpaid, the under-appreciated and the over-educated happened to coincide with the point at which I realised that my college peers with their law conversions were wisely trying to eliminate the underpaid aspect of their careers. I like the sound of being a copyrighter - "Do you have permission to plagiarise that hackneyed old quote, Mr Higginbottom? Dd you even bother to give it a little creative spin? I thought not. Copyright application dismissed!"

Most people just don't know what copywriting and copy editing are. And worse, most people think they know. It's not law - there are no years of intense study or overuse of technical jargon... oh, hang on. There are. It must be complicated because my conversations with my mother go like this:

[In the interests of family unity, I've self-censored my paraphrase of a typical phonecall with my mother. Which is a pity, because it was funny. Let's just say that she is concerned that copy editing is not a good use of my education and intelligence. And that her friends all look blank when she tells them how I'll be earning a living. And then casually adds that her friends' kids are all high powered lawyers. Probably dealing with copyright cases.]

Well, she's right. Not about copy editing wasting my talents, obviously - as we all know, clear communications will save the world, and even I would forgive a misplaced comma in return for universal peace. But people still won't know what it means, or what it's for, or why it's needed. Just look at my redundant publishing team, all trained up and no place to edit.

Demonstrating the value - and complexity - of written communications is hard in this age of txt spk and hash tags. The nature of quality can be argued forever, but when it comes down to it, clear, accurate prose in books, on the web, on the back of smoothie Tetrapaks (love that Innocent brand identity) will not only save the world but also, more importantly for small businesses, will convert into sales and maintain and even enhance their reputation. And that's a great way to earn a living.

Apart from the being underpaid, under-appreciated and over-educated part, of course.

What's the buzz? Tell me what's a-happening

To avoid writing my business plan, I've signed up to Twitter. It's certainly an effective distraction. Is it Superman who hears all the voices in the world clamouring for his attention? Or, perhaps a more Ju-like analogy is from the safe haven of 1970s musical theatre - that temple scene in "Jesus Christ Superstar" where the heaving, rotting masses crawl over Lord J until he breaks off from his multi-register falsetto to shout ungrammatically: "There's too many of you...Don't push me. There's too little of me...Don't crowd me." Not that I'm comparing myself to Lord J (my initials are almost the same but I could never get the beard right), but Twitter makes you feel as if the whole world is having a party on your computer screen.

It's my fault, I suppose - in a frenzy of enthusiasm at the novelty of it all, I seem to be following 45 different people (are they "people" on Twitter? Accounts? Voices? Twits?), only a few of whom I'd actually heard of before this morning. And 3 people were following me before I'd even (brace yourself for the jargon) tweeted. They're obviously fans of Bayberry Moonrise [insert winking emoticon in the spirit of social networking memes].

Look what it's gone and made me done! I've used the words "Tweeted", "emoticon" and "memes" in the space of two lines. I am being sucked in! I'm simultaeously checking my Facebook updates and my LinkedIn connections. And my new WordFire Communications email account. And Gmail for personal messages. And Hotmail for diverting e-newsletters. Oh yeah, and writing this blog post

And yet... and yet... it's fascinating. And liberating. And really rather wonderful. There are millions of people all over the world with something to say and a platform to say it. I read an article recently by a curmudgeonly editor (in SfEP Editing Matters, where else?) who scorned the use of social media and its tedious, self-obsessed fixation on our own tedious, self-obsessed lives. But the reality is that other people are interested in our tedious, self-obsessed lives, especially if those lives are a little like our own - or not like our own at all. I think it's a glorious thing that we can learn from each other, learn with each other, build relationships, do business, laugh and share and affirm our humanity as social beings.

Already I have found a blog, via Twitter, which was of such immediate appeal that I've added it to my blog roll. Norfolk Kitchen has lovely photos and tells of "foraging, growing and cooking fresh, local, seasonal food" fairly near to where I live. It's the sort of lifestyle many people aspire to but few have the courage to get out there and actually do it.

Mr B and I are sitting side by side on the sofa with our his 'n' hers matching laptops. It is nearly half past ten in the evening of Mr B's birthday. Here's a novel idea - let's power down and do what they used to do in the olden days: have a chat.

After a long and difficult labour, I am pleased to announce the birth of...

WORDFIRE COMMUNICATIONS

Thanks to everyone for their encouragement.

I'm just having a little lie down with some gas and air before the hard work begins.

The road to Jutopia

When I was pregnant, I bought a book called "101,000 Great Baby Names" and methodically noted all the names I was willing to inflict on my child. I ended up with a list of about 20. Let's not get distracted by what that says about me. One day, Mr Bryn said, "What about Monkeyrina?", which happened to be one of my choices, and, lo, a name was born. (I won't go into how the child was born. Just think about one of those horror films with a very slow build-up to the spectacular bloodbath at the end.) (And obviously her name isn't actually Monkeyrina, so don't call the authorities just yet).

Naming a company seems to be the opposite process. You think of the perfect name, you check its URL and the Companies House database, and if it doesn't already exist, nab it and start designing your logo, humming smugly to yourself. The catch, of course is the "if it doesn't already exist" part. Think of a name and chances are it's already in the "101,000 Great Company Names" directory, and if it's not, chances are someone claimed that URL five years ago in order to design the worst website in the world and take away your theoretical customers.

If you've been missing me on the blog (hey, thanks, guys!), it's because I've spent a week complaining to anyone who can't run away fast enough that I can't think of a company name. Well, that's not entirely true. I can think of several. It's just that other people thought of them first.

What would you name a small business specialising in writing, editing and communications consultancy? One that is marketing itself towards ethereal publishers as well as straight-talking local companies. And bearing in mind SEO keywords. Word Up? Done. Word Nerd? Done. My Word? Done (fortunately). More than Words? Done. Word Perfect? Done. Words Words Words? Done done done. How about something more memorable, perhaps a metaphor for clarifying the message? Glimmer? Done. Sparkle? Done. Oomph? Done. Something more energising - Zest, Refresh, Revitalise? No? Then how about something off the wall - Pink Faced Monkey? Not done, but racial undertones. Jutopia? Ah, now we're talking. "In Jutopia, communications are always clear. In Jutopia, customers always get the message. In Jutopia..." "Isn't Jewtopia Israel?" said my brother. Back to those racial undertones.

So what am I left with? The prosaic: Bayberry Communications. Whimsical but not particularly memorable. The professional: Sandford-Cooke Communications. Probably too posh for small enterprises intimidated by creative agencies. And the quirky: Text Tamer, with that pesky double T that will look wrong in a URL - not ideal for an editor.

If I don't get the name right, I could end up with something entirely inappropriate. My company could grow up to be the business equivalent of Daisy Boo, the high court judge, or Ethel Blenkinsop, the Hollywood actress.

You may be asking yourself why I'm worrying about the company name when I should be worrying about writing the business plan. And you'd be right - of course it's a delaying tactic to avoid having to calculate my 5 year projected forecasts. But it's also a pretty important thing - without a name, I can't register the business, which means I can't (legally) be paid. I can't build my website or set up an email address from which to contact potential customers.

What to do?

Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we edit

A cafe in town has been refurbished. Its vulgar lighting, hard chairs and clinical green decor have been transformed into a softly lit maroon-and-buttermilk oasis dotted with curvaceous sofas. It looks like my sort of place. But what is this? A sign etched across the window reads:

Salads and sandwiches made fresh

What a revolutionary idea! Bring your droopy lettuce and mouldering sarnies and they too will be refurbished - look, good as new!

Oh, do you think they just mean "Freshly made salads and sandwiches"? How disappointing.

Will the error directly affect their income? Will potential customers think, "I don't drink coffee in cafes with ungrammatical signage"? Unlikely. But, actually, ambiguous advertising can provoke detrimental responses. If they can't clearly describe what they do, can they really do it? If their attention to detail is lacking, what else have they forgotten? Well, who am I to criticise? It is easily done - dashing off a blog late at night, my own attention to detail isn't what it could be (as you rightly point out, Andrew, and I do appreciate it!) and I'm an editor. Cafes should get on with what they're good at, whether it's making fresh food or making food fresh, but all businesses need to be aware of the impact on their reputation - and possible impact on their profits - if they get it wrong.

So today's inspiration? That there is a place in the world for us poor underrated editors. To check your work before making it public [Julia gives her post a second read-through]. Oh, and to invent a food freshener, if that cafe hasn't done so already.

A place in the world

Scene 3: Redundant Manager finishes her work and parental duties for the evening and sits down to read her emails. She has a message from a librarian friend responding to the Seth Grobin link she sent him earlier. She also has messages about her reading group and the deputy chair of the community committee she's involved with, about an event she's helping with next weekend. She's a little surprised that the mayor hasn't sent her regular email about local initiatives. She has a text from a guy she knows from the gym who might have some work for her. She considers a colleague's suggestion for her company name, at once so obvious and so effective. Then she goes to the pub for a gossip with her friend, and asks after the barman's kids. She goes home and does the washing up with her husband.

Redundant Manager realises that she might be redundant as a manager but not as a person.

The Art of the Blog, Part 1

Seth Godin is stalking me. Or maybe I'm stalking him. Actually, I think a good proportion of those in creative and techy industries are stalking him. In my case, several factors combined to bring him to my attention.

First, Amanda [Julia waves] sent me links to his pithy blog. Then Mike [Julia waves again] recommended his work. And, having his name in my subconscious, I came across him online and, well, there's inspiration for the cynical right there.

The main reason I remembered his name was due to its similarity to reedy-voiced tousle-haired tenor, Josh Groban, most famous for the scarf-waving anthem "You Raise Me Up", which is also inspirational, but not for the cynical, at least not for those who are irritated by its shameless similarity to "Danny Boy" and those with a low tolerance for songs with a single verse and 327 repetitions of the chorus. ("Get me the screwdriver, Mavis, the CD is stuck again.") And, while I'm on the subject, how can you raise me up to more than I can be? I'd like to see you try. You can raise me up to more than I should, in a fair and just world, be, or to more than I would be if I wasn't so short, but more than I can be? Never.

Anyway, to Seth. He is effortlessly wise, and extraordinarily prolific. Not only has he written more accessible, quirkily named books about marketing, culture and personal development than should by rights be physically possible, but he also manages to produce a perfectly honed diamond every day in his blog. His concise, perfectly targeted, posts are everything a blog should be (at least, a marketing blog. Bex's Reasons To Be Cheefuller is everything a personal blog should be). Perhaps what he says isn't new - what is? - but the way he says it, with the authority of a clear, confident and accessible communicator, is why his name comes up wherever a little inspiration is in order.

Although a rousing rendition of "You Raise Me Up" will do the trick under certain circumstances too.

Taking on a silent role

Work is strange when your role is redundant and you're biding your time. It’s a little like being in a play.

Scene 1: a group of managers is meeting to discuss strategy. Enter Redundant Manager One. This is a silent role. The discussion continues.

In some ways, it’s liberating. Management information? Delete! Business plans? Delete! Any email headed “Implementation plan”? Transfer to the junk folder. Remove my name from all circulation lists because soon I won’t be here.

But when won’t I be here? That uncertainty is not liberating at all. There are procedures and negotiations and consultations. There are handovers and meetings and occasional communications. There is gossip and sadness and hollow emptiness. Everyone likes to feel useful, to have a place in the world, to make a contribution, and to suddenly have no contribution to make – or at least to have a contribution that is not required or appreciated – well, it’s a little demoralising.

But we’re here for inspiration, are we not? We must rouse ourselves and swim down the river before we are dragged beneath its choppy waters and make our mascara run and our artfully blowdried hair go flat.

And so, into our institutionalised corporate lives comes some exciting news – one corner of the canteen is becoming a Costa coffee bar and the site shop will close for a few days and reopen as a Londis. (What else can be privatised? Desks, sponsored by Ikea. Loos, sponsored by DynoRod.) This really does count as exciting on a campus where Explorer 6 is cutting edge technology. A sign on the shop door explains that stock will be temporarily relocated and ends:

“We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused”

And here, from this awkwardly phrased statement, came my inspiration for the day. Attempts to sound official rarely communicate any more clearly than if the writer had just expressed it as they would say it. Do we need all these words? (Don't answer that, reader.) If I had the job of writing the sign, how would I have expressed it? My critic’s mind clicked into position and off it went:

• "We sincerely and unreservedly extend our apologies for any inconvenience that our actions might cause, directly or indirectly, to you or your associates at any time, either at the present time or at an as-yet unspecified future point."
• “Sorry about this.”
• "We apologise if you don't like these changes. We're not too keen on them either but sometimes you just have to put up or shut up."

So many apologies, so much to be sorry for. Is it an empty, automatic stock phrase or are companies so afraid of their customers that they have to make excuses for improvements to their service?

• "Why should we apologise for bringing you filtered coffee and a proper newsagent?" 

But, on the other hand, acknowledging potential difficulties is strong reputation management. But some methods are better than others. There's really only one solution:

• "We're sorry if you find these changes inconvenient, but we're confident that our great new facilities will make up for it."

Which takes me back to the start. 

Scene 2: Redundant Manager One is in a meeting with Big Boss.

Big Boss: We're sorry if you find these changes inconvenient, but we're confident that our great new structure will more than make up for it.

Redundant Manager One remains silent. She has a lot to say.

Editing: a quiet revolution

I told my brother about this blog today. He responded:
I debated about which of my email favourite folders to keep the link in and decided against 'Rovers', 'Roleplaying', 'Buying', 'Jobs' or 'Other' and in the end felt that it could only really fit into 'Art'.
Which I'll take as an endorsement. Of course, if he became a follower (hint, dear reader) then he wouldn't need to bookmark it at all. Blogging As Art will be the subject of a future post (I bet you'll be lying awake waiting for that one) but today my thoughts run less to writing and more to editing.

If there's one editorial error that makes me suck in my breath through gritted teeth (and, let's face it, there isn't one; there are thousands), it's this:-

Aha, you were waiting for some text then, weren't you? But it really was this:-

Or, more frequently, this :-

It's the dog's bollocks. Which these days means something positive but (apparently) typesetters coined the phrase to describe such a wanton misuse of punctuation. I have no idea if this story is true but, oh, I do hope so - what a fine description it is. Although the family-friendly description, half a smiley, is almost as evocative.

People seem to be afraid of the poor wide-eyed colon, teaming it up with hyphens or (equally horrifyingly) replacing it with the lewd winking semi-colon, as if to draw attention to its ugliness, its innate wrongness.

Am I a petty pedant? Of course. Does it really matter? Of course. Am I shouting into a void? Of course. My organisation has decided that publishing services are dispensible in a forward-thinking, streamlined (cash-strapped) non-departmental public body. After all, anyone can proofread. All you need is a dictionary and Track Changes enabled in Word. Who cares whether you use a semi-colon to introduce a bullet list? It's just punctuation, right? Surely forward-thinking, streamlined (cash-strapped) NDPBs have better things to do than ensure their communications are clear, consistent, forward-thinking and, er, streamlined... right?

It's always seemed to me that a sign of good editing is its invisibility. 99% of errors may have been picked up, and nobody notices, but that tiny overlooked typo is the one that makes the reader question the authority of the text. Perhaps it's due to the proliferation of blogs like this one - even I don't proofread my own copy very thoroughly, and have to edit my posts later for those embarrassing misspellings (mispellings? mis-spellings?) that I've left behind. But, to an extent, that's fine - this is an informal medium and some level of flexibility is acceptable. But in a health and safety manual, that additional zero might cause a death. In an exam paper, that ambiguous question might rob a student of their profession. That grammatical error in a direct mail leaflet might stop a potential customer from parting with their cash. The editor smooths the way for the reader, quietly removes the thorns that might prick them. It's silent work, and us editors are self-effacing types on the whole, and that's our downfall. Without us, perhaps the text works. But does it live? Does it dream? Does it fly?


Editing. It's the dog's bollocks.

A little too taxing for me

What a revelation! HMRC giveth - it does not take away! For the first three quarters of today's training course (cunningly entitled "Newly Self Employed - The Basics" - no reference to tax, you notice), I was amazed that I'd not been aware of this secret. Specifically: if you're self-employed, you can claim 45 pence a mile for business-related driving. It's just the same as claiming mileage as an employee, said the trainer; simply note the purpose of the journey and you'll get reimbursed. At least, that's what my eager brain thought he said. How could I combine editorial services with long distance driving? Surely there was potential for a very lucrative income stream. Best add it to my business plan.

Then I listened a bit harder to the trainer telling us how to deduct taxable expenses from profits. Oh. It is at least to the sole trader's advantage but only terms of reducing the tax bill. HMRC doesn't giveth after all.

And so you will conclude, as I did, that I was right to suspect last week that I need all the help I can get on matters of finance. The course was actually fairly useful, if only to highlight how to get things right. Other, non-tax related, points of information were:

• Public sector cuts have not only reduced the number of courses available but also stopped the serving of coffee and tea altogether. Such rationing does not seem to extend to Business Link, which offered rather tasty traybakes at the racecourse last week.
• Two of the delegates (a couple) run a mobile petting zoo, providing rabbits to after school clubs and lizards to wedding receptions. They said they're training a barn owl to fly down church aisles with the rings. I suppose that's a more reliable courier than some of the best men I've heard of.
• HMRC Norwich is cleverly disguised as a Premier Inn and can only be accessed via a secret door. There must be a metaphor about tax returns in there somewhere.

You are on your own. Just do it. Better

If someone lends you a book, they're also lending you a little piece of themselves. Not just because there might be a hair or a fingernail trapped between the pages but because they're bridging a gap for you: they're saying, "Here, I have something that I think you need". I'm touched as much by the act of lending as by the item itself, the fact that the lender has rummaged through boxes and bookshelves with me in mind.

So Suzanne at work lent me a little manual with a big title. I've reproduced the cover here (Ju's Reviews-style), partly because I haven't put enough pictures in this blog, and partly because it sums up the book - audacious, clever, subversive. The self-consciously retro style continues throughout, so that I was surprised to find the book was first published in 2003 rather than the 1973 that the typeface and page layout suggests.

But that's just it - that and the outrageous subtitle, "The world's best-selling book" combine to summarise its contents - how to get ahead in advertising (yourself). Be different ("It's wrong to be right"), be generous ("Do not covet your own ideas"), be creative ("If you get stuck, draw with a different pen"), be brave ("Getting fired can be a positive career move" - that's good to hear). Yes, it is a book of platitudes but they are presented with such an arrogant self-confidence that becomes the epitomy of inspiration for the cynical - use that cynicism to make a difference by being different. That's my sort of advice... now, how can I put it into practice?

Of love, life and art

Even I can't be entirely cynical about yesterday's royal wedding. It may have been overhyped and a transparent attempt to distract us plebs from real issues but I was just happy to see my taxes spent on promoting love instead of war. Fabulous dresses, outrageous headgear and we got an extra day off work - what's not to like? I might as well appreciate holidays while I can still take them - once I'm self-employed, a day off will mean a day of lost income or an all-nighter to follow. Going to task in the city (look it up) has the sort of advantages you don't appreciate until they're gone.

So we spent our day off (and indeed the wedding itself, much to my mother's horror) driving up to Sheffield to see our friend Mike, who has a barbeque for every occasion and specialises in tender brisket (which at least sounds wedding-related). A couple of friends were there who happen to be self-employed, so of course I took the opportunity to ask them about tax and accountants (I know how to get a party swinging). One does consultancy work via an agency; the other is a designer who has diversified. Neither is particularly inclined to return to the life of a corporate minion - and both evidently took the day off, so perhaps I shouldn't be so concerned. The key message was to take it all seriously - get the right insurance and pay the right tax. I think I can manage that.

Further inspiration followed today at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, which I had never heard of and was slightly anxious about visiting, as it was 40 minutes in the wrong direction from home. But, as usual, submitting to The New was definitely the best choice and one that had already been made by everyone else as it seemed that the whole county had turned out to frolic in the art-strewn countryside. For us East Anglians lowlanders, even the hills were a revelation, sprinkled with the fresh greens of spring, and enhanced with the double pleasure of art.

That's not to say my cynicism was entirely smothered - while I'm happy to revel in the many metaphors of a meshwork viewing pavillion, I'm less inclined to call 71 wooden steps art, even if they were fashioned of burnished oak. That's just expensive landscaping. But I am still inspired: we only tackled a small proportion of the riches on offer so we will now be demanding a trip to sculptureland after every barbeque at Mike's. Every sense needs feeding after all.

Business planning for beginners

I'd pay my taxes for Business Link and the NHS alone. Unfortunately, both are shortly to be massacred in the public services cuts, but this isn't a political blog and I don't want to make any more enemies that I need to so I won't continue down that route. I've just come back from a Business Link business planning course - 6 hours of valuable advice for no direct cost at all (direct costs - you can see I was paying attention to the financial forecasting section). I am almost sufficiently inspired to stop entering competitions and get down to writing my business plan, to take my leap seriously and start swimming down the river instead of floating amongst the debris.

I admit that I'm wary of finance. I'd rather devise a brand and sign up to Twitter than compile profit and loss sheets - but if that's what it takes, I shall do it and so it willingly. I'm an advocate for admin and processes (or a bit geeky, as some people call it) so, once the numerical mists have cleared, I will no doubt channel my inner accountant and calculate my forecast net profit to the nearest penny. And I have a tax workshop at HMRC next week - happy days!

The best part of attending a course, though, even better than the free coffee and homemade cake, is meeting other delegates. Today they ranged from a florist to landscape gardeners to a funky designer to a man who wants to use horses for logging. Disparate businesses with a common goal - to make a go of it, to trust in ourselves to do what we want to do. Given that the government want to encourage enterprise (and what a meaningless term that is), it's odd that the funding to encourage us should be cut, forcing us online without the benefit of networking. Oops, I'm getting political again.

A final, and slightly depressing point. The course was good but the PowerPoint slides and handouts were badly produced. Poor punctuation, strange formatting, random capitalisation, all the usual things that I am convinced obstruct communication but, in reality, most people don't seem to notice. We were encouraged to research the market, not to make assumptions about what customers want - but what if they don't care about clear copy and consistent use of language? What if other businesses and their clients are quite happy to accept sub-standard communications that I feel undermine their message? How do I promote the benefits of my service to people who don't feel the benefits are worthwhile? Perhaps it's the case for every business - market yourself, push your USP - but in my field it seems to be particularly difficult to sell yourself.

The prize that's just around the corner

I read on a forum about someone who entered 17,000 competitions last year and won 83 prizes. First of all - 17,000?! When did they eat, sleep, look up, grey-faced and twitching from their laptop keyboard to acknowledge the real world? But we'll callously gloss over the addiction issues to consider the point that struck me even harder: where's the ROI on that? It's around a 0.5% success rate, hours and hours of completing online forms with personal details you wouldn't normally dream of handing out to a global conglomerate in order to receive a load of junk mail, just because of the slim chance you might win a whale-watching trip to Ireland or a gas-fuelled barbeque or bust-firming cream. Not that these are freebies that I'd turn down, and thus a few months ago I joined the comping ranks and can exclusively report that I too have a 0.5% success rate. I've entered around 400 competitions and won some cereal and a book of poetry. And before you scoff, it was a box of organic ginger flakes and the collected works of Seamus Heaney. A cut above, I'm sure you'll agree... but, yes, hardly a £5000 vintage bed (my personal favourite prize) or a brand new car. I'm working up to that.

And there's the problem. I call them competitions but the vast majority are prize draws (and I include in this category those that ask you to "answer the question below that we've already answered for you"). No skill is required, only luck and luck is just statistics. My marketing friends (who got me obsessed in the first place) assure me that not as many people enter competitions as you might expect, but clearly every other competitor reduces your own chances - and there are a lot of other obsessives out there (as the 17,000-a-year habit demonstrates). My husband tells me it's a mug's game, and of course it is - but one that plays on your dreams and aspirations, so is therefore one that gets you while you're down at the expense of promises to friends and associates, the business research I should be doing, the constructive ways of spending my spare time that are waiting for me. But it doesn't stop me - just one more, just until I win, just until I win again.

Choose your own cliche: Life is a gamble, you're always striving for the prize that never comes, enjoy what you've got, use your time wisely. All true, all wise, all easy to say and hard - so hard - to apply.

That difficult second post

So I've customised my template and downloaded an attractive yet metaphorical background. It had to be metaphorical because if you type "moon" or "twilight" into any given search engine, all you get is images of rather peaky teenagers taking themselves too seriously. So the vintage look was somewhat unplanned - like all the best discoveries.

My medium is words, not pictures. If, in typical blog style, I were to pass on a taste of my extensive homespun wisdom, it would be "accept your limitations but don't let them limit you." Which is less immediately useful than my other great life lessons ("When on a train, take the first free seat you see" and "The best things in life make your fingers smell") but it means I won't waste my time trying to develop a sophisticated design when it will take far longer than the 10,000 hours you're supposed to spend practising to become an expert at something. Yes, practise and practise until your fingers are numb, keep going, keep trying, keep on - but choose wisely. There are only so many hours in the day, and some of them need to be used eating and sleeping. As the mother of a toddler, sleeping doesn't feature particularly highly in my day, and eating featyuresprobably too highly, but once you deduct those, and working and driving and cooking and cleaning , there isn't all that much time for living. OK, so sleeping and eating and working and driving and cooking and cleaning are living, and can be enlightening and educational - but wouldn't you rather be doing something you've chosen to do?

Inspiration for the cynical

Hey there, little speedyheads. Join me in the river flow - come on in, it's warm in here.

Let's start with the basics. This blog's name is adapted from the REM song, "Find the River" (the last, glorious track on 1992's Automatic for the People, and therefore the last decent song they recorded). Google the lyrics and interpret them as you will, but I see it as a call to freedom, to escape from self-imposed rules , from the restrictions imposed by work or by society, to find your own way, to go with your own flow. 

Incidentally, my first choice of name for this blog was "Find the River" but it was claimed in 2003 by someone who made two entries in a language I can't read and never updated it again. Which turned out to be a fitting opportunity for me, not being blessed with any particular creative powers, to think a little laterally and find what turns out to be a far more inspirational name. 

And that's what I'll try to share. Calls to freedom are not my speciality. I'm pretty straight-laced, down-the-line, more train track than meandering stream. Cute husband (Mr B), cute daughter (Monkeyrina), house, car, job, blah. As my occasional C of E tendencies suggest, I'm not particularly spiritual, and I'm not inclined to warble on about chakras. I am cursed - blessed - cursed with an enquiring mind - I'm the sort of person who can't relax during a massage because I'm wondering why salons always assume you want to listen to pan-pipes while a stranger rubs your back. My idea of spontaneous is going to Morrisons instead of Tesco. My idea of daring is not typing an apostrophe before the S in Morrisons even though the omission is their brand style. My idea of a fun Saturday night is sitting beside Mr B, each with our laptops, as I write my blog.

So when the opportunity presented itself to look for new challenges (that's LinkedIn speak for being at risk of redundancy) I surprised myself with my enthusiasm for seizing them. The redundancy process is long and torturous, and I may not even manage to escape, but life is suddenly full of possibility, of painting and writing and dancing and being somewhere other than a badly lit office for 8 hours a day while the world spins on. 

More prosaically, I also have to pay the mortgage, so self-employment as a freelance proofreader / copy editor / copywriter / enquiring minder seems to be an option for at least some of my time.

So where does the inspiration come in? Once you start to look,  it is there in every imaginable form (remember, my imagination is a little, well, little). Sometimes it comes to you, as song, a phrase, a person. Sometimes it is brought to you, by a friend with a book or a blog. And sometimes you have to go out and find it.

So share the journey with me. Let's find the river and cast our dreams into the flowing water.

This is where I should insert an arty photo of a rising moon. But that would be too predictable. And I don't have one. So here's another wonder of nature - the inside of a tulip. It's included not just a shameless excuse for showing a photo I'm proud of taking (it's in focus and everything) but, close up, tulips don't look quite as you'd expect them to, do they? Rawer, more exposed. Hmm, I feel a metaphor coming on.