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.

It's been a while

Ever had one of those periods in your life where you are so busy that it doesn't seem possible to do any more...

...and then the demands get greater and realise you can do more?

My Dad used to say 'I'm so busy I've met meself coming back!'

Never was very sure what he meant but he is from Suffolk after all!

Anyway, that's what's been happening to Renee and me over the passed few weeks.  The business has become very busy (and long may it continue, by the way... don't for one minute think I'm complaining) and it's been a little difficult to lift the ol' head up above the parapet for anything, let alone blog.

We've been working some pretty decent hours, like many people, and I was having a think as to why that might be.

Of course, I've been asking recently if anyone knows of any accountants who might want a change of scenery - we still have a vacancy for a new team member if anyone knows anyone - which means we're short staffed.

But that's not the fundamental reason for the long hours.  No, the reason is because of a thing called the one third rule.

We reckon that a third of our turnover should go on overheads, things like the rent and software and marketing and 'phone bills and... well, you get the picture.  Another third goes on our salary bill (or should do) and the final third ends up as profit (eventually) when we stop growing.

Our salary bill is not 1/3 of our turnover at the moment which means that the slack has to be taken up somewhere...and it's by us (or more accurately, mostly Renee).  As our salary bill falls behind our turnover we always see an increase in Renee's hours.

The secret then should be to have a salary bill that's 1/3 of turnover.  Wehay (said the staff) let's just put all our wages up.

Doesn't quite work like that, of course.  Because increased salary has to equate to increased production and when the team is at capacity that means bringing in new team members.

Although very interesting when I think about it in these terms it all amounts to the same thing.  We need a couple of members of staff.

Ideally we are looking for qualified accountants (or nearly qualified) who have worked in an accountancy practice and want to stay with a business while it expands rapidly.

They need to be customer focussed, efficient and generally wonderful in every way.

In return we'll pay them up to £30,000 and they'll have a stonkingly good time working in a fast paced but friendly environment.

Know anyone?

Please let me know: 0131 202 9888.

I'd love to hear from them.

Blood

I've written before about what a circular thing life is and I had that feeling again yesterday.

Standing looking up at the Kensington Close Hotel, a large nondescript grey brick building just off Kensington High Street, I was immediately transported back 28 years to that exact spot.

It was warm, barmy night 28 years ago, too.  I was working for Midland Bank at the time and I had been sent to London.  I had to attend an assessment centre to see if I was suitable material for the new Management Development Programme.

I should have gone to an assessment centre closer to home but missed out, so it was down to the Smoke with a bunch of other hopefuls who couldn't get to their own regional events.

The travel department of dear old Midland Bank sent me a hotel voucher for the Kensington Close Hotel; so there I was, barely 18 years old, staying in London for the first time, wondering if the receptionist would actually accept my scrappy piece of paper.

Well, they did... I had a room and everything.

It was a hot night so I thought I'd have a bath before getting something to eat.  I had the TV on too... it was a World Cup game from Mexico '86.

When it came time to get out of the bath I stepped on a slippery patch.  My foot went from under me and I sliced the back of my ankle on a sharp edge at the bottom of the bath panel.  It wasn't a bad cut and it didn't hurt when I did it... but I just couldn't stop it bleeding.

I soaked a couple of towels and left bloody footprints across the bathroom floor and on the carpet in the bedroom

Eventually I packed the cut with toilet paper and went out.  I had my first Big Mac on that day, too.

Back in the hotel I peeled off the toilet paper only to find the cut was still bleeding.  Unperturbed I went to bed (having had a couple of drinks, now that I was 18 years old).

And woke up in a scene from a horror movie.

The sheet on my bed was soaked with blood - I must have tossed and turned in the night - and there was blood all over the bathroom towels, too, as well as on the carpets and across the bathroom floor.  Heaven knows what the cleaner would have made of the room.

Anyway, I did the only thing I could think of: I checked out without saying anything, hoping beyond hope the hotel wouldn't call my employer to tell them what an awful chap I was.

And now, 28 years later, here I am again, looking up at that same building.  It hasn't changed from the outside; the sounds, sights and smells are all just as I remember them from 28 years ago.

I even have a pang, wondering whether my name has pinged on their booking system: 'Lambert - charge him for the bloody sheets he ruined last time he was here!'    

Worried

Sometimes I wished I didn't worry quite so much.

It seems to me that sometimes some people are able to breeze through life not worrying about... well, things really.  And I'm very envious of them.

Like the bloke on Bedford Railway Station this morning.  His trousers were very ruffled around his ankles.  That would worry me.  In fact, I worry that my trousers are too ruffled and I worry if they are half mast.

I worry that I'm putting on a bit of weight... and yet most people I see are bigger than me.  At least those of the same age.

And that's another thing.  I've suddenly released that I'm 46.  How did that happen?  It's a worry.

I worry if my 'phone doesn't ring or if it's ringing too much, I worry about what people think and if they don't think at all.  I worry about conflict (which I'm not good at, at all) but it really annoys me when someone throws a cigarette butt on the floor.

Enough already!

So, what's the secret of those people who seem to weave their way through life taking all these things in their stride.  I want some of that.

I bet there's a couple of things going on.

I bet firstly, I worry no more and no less than most people.  Everyone (or at least most people) have worries.  Secondly, I bet those people who seem more worry free worry just as much as everyone else.

The up shot of all that is, of course, that I shouldn't worry so much.

Care, there's a different kettle of fish.

Change the word 'worry' and replace it with 'care' and suddenly it doesn't seem so bad.  I do care about all those things, whether they were said tongue in cheek or not.  But I'd rather care than not.

Caring drives us to do the right things, to be better and think carefully about consequences when we decide on a course of action.  Caring is what differentiates one person from another.

For example, for better or for worse I do care what people think and feel.  That makes me think very carefully before saying or doing things that are going to impact on them.  It can a tricky path to steer and sometimes I think too much about others and not enough about me, but hey ho.

In fact, I think I might do a bit more thinking about others and see what effect it has.

Oh, and I might go on a proper diet, too.

London

As some of you know (because you gave some really good suggestions) I had a Lad and Dad weekend with my son last week.

He's 14 and loves his Xbox.

He also gets out and about with his mates and they do a fair amount of mucking about - which I think is great; just what boys should do, although I'm fairly pleased not to know all the detail of what he gets up to.  For example, a few months ago I asked how his Saturday had been.

'Alright,' he grunted. 'We found an old supermarket trolley in the woods and took it in terms to sit in it while the others pushed as fast they could.  Then we found a dart and tried to see who could throw it closest to someone else's foot without them flinching.'

Hmmm...

Anyway, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I was facing the weekend.  Would he enjoy himself?  Would it just be a chore for him?  Would he be interested in stuff?

I needn't have worried.  We did so much... here it is in order.

We started with a Wetherspoon's breakfast to fortify ourselves for the day.  Then it was up Tower Bridge for the Tower Bridge Experience - including across the walkways 42 metres above the Thames!  Very interesting it was, too.

Then on to HMS Belfast, which was excellent, as well.  We spent 2 hours on the warship.

We took a tube 'up west' to Leicester Square where we bought tickets for a play.  (I thought Adam would want to see a show but he suggested we went to see Jeeves and Wooster... having seen a bit of it on the telly a couple of weeks ago).

From Leicester Square we went to Piccadilly Circus, across to Trafalgar Square, Downing Street, The Palace of Westminster.  We bought a sandwich and sunbathed on St James's Park, walked down the Mall to Buckingham Palace and back up Bird Cage Walk to Horsguards, back on to Whitehall and eventually to Leicester Square for a drink.

Then it was a steakhouse for dinner.  8oz sirloin turned up raw together with a very hot stone and we cooked it ourselves in different flavoured sauces.

Jeeves and Wooster, set in the 1920s and based on the P G Wodehouse characters, was very funny.  I wasn't sure Adam would enjoy it but he certainly seemed to and I know I did.

So back to the hotel for 11.30 - exhausted... or at least I was!

Thank you for all your suggestions... we couldn't do them all so we'll just have to go back for another go!