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.