Mr Lambert

I must be getting to the age when I appear to be respectable and trustworthy...

Over the past few days I seemed to have been called 'Mr Lambert' quite a lot.

Now, whenever anyone shouts 'Mr Lambert' I look around for my Dad.  I don't really see myself as a Mr Lambert kind of guy but in some ways it's quite nice.  I suppose.

I have to say, though, I'm not one for massive amounts of tradition, such as called someone Mr or Mrs or Miss.  Oh, don't get me wrong; I love a bit of 'real' tradition.  Things like Trooping the Colour, pubs, pomp and ceremony and all that kind of thing.

Other traditions like calling me Mr Lambert or saying - 'we're going to do it that way because we've always done it that way' - doesn't really cut it with me.

Take banking, for example.  In terms of branch banking - a manager who was a pillar of the community, knowing all his or her customers being present at the birth of their children didn't really bother me that much.  I was open to the new way of doing things with sales specialists looking after particular needs and so on.

The thing is, I've had to question my view over the past few days and I'm re-evaluating whether traditional is actually best after all.

I had occasion to call a guy who I thought was our Relationship Manager.  It turns out that he's moved on to a different role and no longer wants anything to do with us.

Okay... no great issue with that; people move jobs all the time.  So who's our new Relationship Manager?

'Ah, well, now, you see, you don't have one... you have something infinitely better.  You have a team of Relationship Managers.  Just call this number... and any one of them can help you!'

So I called the number (and had to go through security which I almost failed) and talked to what sounded like a youngish fella.

When I explained what I wanted he told me that I'd have to speak with a different Relationship Manager, which I did.  When I explained to her what I wanted she told me I'd have to speak with a different Relationship Manager and he'd have to call me... tomorrow.

Which actually turned out to be the day after tomorrow.

Anyway, the fella called me and asked if I was 'Mr Lambert...'  So I explained I preferred Richard  and went on to explain a few plans we have.  Now, do bear in mind we've been a customer of our bank for more than 10 years... halfway through a sentence the fella interrupted me:

'Er, what did you say your business name was?'

'TaxAssist Accountants... now, back to our plans.'

'Sorry... Tax what?'

'Huh?'

'What did you say your name was?'

'Have you actually heard of us?'

'Well, to be honest, no.'  Was his reply, 'Up until a couple of weeks ago I was an Agricultural Relationship Manager.'

'Ah, so you don't know much about accountancy..?'

'I know the basics...'

Hmmm... anyway he promised to send me an email with some follow up questions, which, in all fairness he did.

The email was prefixed with:

'Dear Mr Richard' and his Job Title still says 'Agricultural Relationship Manager'.

You couldn't make this stuff up... I wrote back saying that it didn't fill me with confidence and that LITTLE THINGS = BIG THINGS in the mind of the customer as Tom Peters once wrote.

A lump on me nuts

I come from traditional Suffolk stock... which essentially means that a manly handshake is about as emotional as we get.

Given that the usual answer to the question 'How are you today?'  Is: 'not too bad!'  You can probably see why the following blog has not been very easy to write.

During the first week of October I first noticed what can only be described as a lump on my left ball.  I don't check down there too often but I do check and in some ways I was pleased I'd spotted it because you never quite know if you're looking in the right places.

Being fairly stoic about these sorts of things I put it to the back of my mind but I made an appointment with the doc PDQ.

I'm not quite sure what I was expecting but the doc was a bloke probably about the same age as me.  He asked me what the problem was and, being fairly embarrassed by this time I decided to go all hearty: 'Well, doc, there's no easy way to say this, but I think I've found a lump on my left nut...'

His response took me a little by surprise: 'Hmmm... anything else you want to talk about?'

'Errrr... errrr... no, not really.'  Isn't that enough? I thought to myself.

Next stage was the inspection.  Stand up, drop the ol' trousers and let everything hang free.  Hmmm... a strange little moment of my life; another fella rummaging around amongst my gentleman's area.

AND he was giving me a running commentary, whilst I was standing there with my face flaming red.

'Yes, that's pipework... hmmm... epidermis, one ball higher than the other.  That's normal.  Ah... here it is.  Yes, yes, quite squidgy... hmmm.'

Bloody hell!  What was going on down there?

'Okay,' says the doc, 'You can pull your trousers up.  Listen, you're 46 so nearly too old for testicular cancer but I'm very cautious about things like this.

'I'm almost certain it's a cyst but I want to make sure so I'm going to arrange an urgent appointment with the Ultrasound Department and they'll tell for certain.'

Urgent?  'Are you worried, then?'

'Well, no, but it's best to get seen quickly.'

A couple of days later my appointment came through.  Two weeks time, 9.15am.

That was this morning.

I had successfully put the lump out of my mind until today but I have to say I was nervous as I turned up at the clinic and I was expecting a wait to get the results after today.

I fetched up and 9 and was taken straight into a room.  A nurse (heaven help me and preserve me from a flaming face and more embarrassment) told me to drop me trousers to mid thigh, lay on the bed and use a pad of tissue to keep me old chap out of the way.

'I'd tell you to relax,' says she, 'but I know you won't...'  Damn right I won't.

'I'll go and get Mrs Sharkey, the consultant.'

Urgent appointment?  Consultant?

Now I was getting really worried.

Mrs Sharkey turned out to be about 35 years old and was heavily pregnant.  I don't know why that bothered me, but it did!

So, ultrasound is easy.  A bit of cold gel and about 10 minutes of searching.  But then the consultant wanted to look at my kidneys too.  Why?

The whole thing was over in 15 minutes and the consultant immediately gave me good news:

'Well, your GP was right, it's a small cyst.  No need for any treatment unless it grows or becomes painful.  The veins on the left are a bit prominent but that's nothing and your kidneys are perfect.'

Oh my God, the relief.

It was amazing.  I had such an outpouring of relief that after I came down from it I felt really grumpy!

And so, finally, to the moral of the story:

If someone like me can deal with the embarrassment and uncertainty of going through a diagnosis with a number of different people fiddling with my under carriage, then so can you.

Check your balls and if there's anything untoward, get it checked out.

The embarrassment lasts 5 minutes, the results and relief stay with you forever.

It's Movember.  Here's my Mo and a link to my Just Giving Page.  If you could spare a couple of quid, that would be great.

Richard

Movember

I quite like the concept of growing a moustache but find the process a bit tedious... and then the grief I get from Renee for having what looks like a spare eyebrow on my top lip is even more wearisome.

She does have a point... which she also makes about stubble in general.

I'm very jealous of those blokes who can grow stubble, put on a suit and look fresh and smart and no-one would ever think them scruffy or ungroomed.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

A dark, evenly spread, covering someone between four and five days growth, I think can look good on a bloke... less good on a woman, I grant you.

Take Paul Dempsey for instance.  He's arrived at the six week stage and he has a very full outgrowth... evenly coloured (ginger is a bit unfortunate, but there you go) and he's even started trimming it to get it into fine fettle.

He admitted to me on Saturday night that he's even started to use 'beard oil' on his chin.  Presumably to stop the rustling and squeaking when he eats.

The trouble is my beard doesn't look at all well groomed when it comes through, no matter what I do to help it along.  I suspect that even oiling won't have much of an effect.

I have two issues.

My beard comes through thick enough in most places but it grows at an uneven pace and has what I can only describe as swirls.  You know, hair growing in different directions.  It sounds great but when one is trying to grow consistent coverage it doesn't really help.

The second issue I have is colouring.

I recognise that I'm fortunate enough in hair terms that I both have a decent coverage on top of my head (although my forehead seems to be expanding rapidly) and that I haven't yet turned grey very much.  In fact, my hair is still so dark at 46 years old that my Dad asked me the other day whether I used Just For Men.  (Other hair colouring products are available.

I think I only half convinced him that I don't... and I don't, by the way.

However, the darkness of the hair on my head is not repeated by the darkness of the hair on my face.

It comes through in what I can only describe as patches of light and dark.  Grey on my chin, dark along the jaw line tapering to grey around my side burns.

Piebald is how I would describe it.  I just wish it would come through as one or the other.

Anyway...

This Movember I'm going to have a go at growing a full on gringo moustache.  Last year I managed about 10 days before the hair at the corner of my mouth drove me mad... we'll see how we get on this year.  And here's my day 1 picture (I last shaved Saturday evening).

The bottom line is, of course, it's for a worthy cause amongst many worthy causes.