Toasty

Last week I made my first speech at Toastmasters. I joined this speakers’ club to develop my communications skills, after meeting someone who had been terrified of public speaking and for whom Toastmasters was the cure. I wasn’t terrified, but it sounded like something that would be good for me, so I joined up.

The idea is everyone goes along, people have a go at speaking, everyone else provides a supportive atmosphere, and gives feedback, and the whole thing’s a lovely, benevolent cycle of personal development.

I have booked in my first prepared speech for January, as all the slots for this year were gone, but I was impatient to give it a go. I had a vague feeling I might be alright at it, but I really wanted to know. So much so that it overcame the nerves and I did an unprepared speech.

There’s a section in the Toastmaster meeting format which allows people to speak for two minutes on something that’s been sprung on them. On my first outing to the Watford meeting (I’m being a little promiscuous and sharing my time between St Albans and Watford), I was asked if I was up for it, and I was.

The general subject area was motivation and inspiration, and my particular area for speaking was ‘something that inspires me’. The preparation period is the time it takes to say ‘Melissa’s going to talk to us about something that inspires her’, and for me to walk up to the front. Slowly, obviously. I chatted on about a project a friend of mine’s running in Madagascar, eyeballed the audience and showed off a bit. I made them all gasp at one point. It was great. And I got lots of very positive feedback, and came away feeling thoroughly pleased with myself.

A fellow newbie sitting next to me in the audience said she was amazed I had the courage to do it. She’s the brave one, as she’s properly terrified of public speaking. And had driven all the way down from Luton on a school night to deal with it.

I think being relatively unfazed about playing music to an audience helps, as I can do the whole ‘adrenalin is your friend’ trick in these situations. We’ll see if I’m quite so cocksure come January.

Coachy

Last night I went to an event for coaches. I’ve never been in a room so chock full of enthusiasm. The room exuded positivity and great communication skills. Every caught eye resulted in a smile. I emerged with a pile of business cards, a better idea of my coaching niche, and a whole wodge of good ideas. Now I just need to apply a big dollop of thinking and some action and I’ll be on my way.

I then met an old friend and practised some coaching on her. With permission of course. I was quite tough, but apparently it hit the spot, so more smiles for me.

Real paper

I have been published on real paper. The e-version of the local mag isn’t out yet, so I can’t post a link, but here’s the column anyway. Think village.

You know what I think….

“There’s a load of kids hanging around”, my tennis partner frowns as we meet at Manor House playing fields. And there are. ASBO fodder, or so I think. About two dozen of them, kicking things, swearing loudly, cycling in small circles. Some are lying on the floor and rolling roll-ups with levels of self-conscious sophistication only attainable by teenagers. A couple of them are playing tennis halfheartedly, rackets hitting the ground as often as hitting the ball. Eventually they get fed up and dispense with the rackets. We seize our chance and take possession of the court.

Tennis is a tricky sport. One day I can be playing like Venus (I have a good imagination) and the next, my racket becomes a random direction generator. Today is a good day, despite the distraction of the unruly youths. I hit the ball cleanly and it goes in. I don’t ask for more than that. Except maybe that people don’t cycle over the court.

The kids have abandoned their policy of studiously ignoring us and are now ‘pushing their luck’, to use the universal terminology of the disgruntled adult. The bolder members of the herd stray onto the tramlines (the edge bits of the court, only used for doubles, but close enough to put a girl off her swing). I give them the look usually reserved for aggressive salesmen and others who need putting back in their boxes. Then one of the cyclists rides straight across the court.

There’s a sign on the Tube urging people not to put their feet on the seats, or play their music too loudly. It also suggests people try to remember what it was like to be fourteen, which I think is a fair point to apply to many social interactions. But when I was fourteen I wouldn’t have ridden my bike across someone else’s (rather skilful) game of tennis. Dispensing with thoughts of my well-spent youth, I quickly decide against throwing a strop at this gangly young boy with a cocky grin and a shiny new BMX. Instead I smile at him, tell him to watch himself and hit the ball over to my partner, narrowly missing the kid’s head. He thinks this is really funny, but takes my territorial point.

We carry on playing, the conspicuously bored kids taking mounting interest after my show of strength. They sense we are worthy of some sport, and as one of their friends turns up with some waterballoons, my heart sinks. I’m not opposed to waterballoons, and they generally provide a harmless source of amusement. But when they’re filled with cherry cola I’m less enthusiastic, and my game is now being disrupted more significantly. Luck is being pushed that little bit too far, and it’s becoming uncomfortable.

My partner wants to ditch the whole thing and go home, but I’m obstinate and like a challenge. I suggest we invite some of the kids to play with us, and it’s pointed out to me that I’m not a social worker. After embarking on a short lecture on the importance of taking social responsibility, I win out and we offer to share the court. The previously cocky bunch of adolescents suddenly turns shy.

One of them, smaller and quieter than the others, has been watching us attentively and I can tell he’s keen to have ago. He accepts my offer, picks up his racket and we form an unlikely doubles pairing. His mates tease him and I goad one of them into joining him. The power balance has shifted and I’m enjoying myself.

We knock about and the kids are quite good despite their nicotine addiction and short tennis rackets. As our audience jeers from the tramlines, I fire some sarcasm in reply and heap praise on the court. Before long, the audience joins in. “Good shot”, “well played!” they shout, and it’s beginning to feel less like a youth detention centre and more like Wimbledon.

Within 20 minutes they all want a go, and the atmosphere shifts from uneasy truce to jovial, happy community.

While living in the US, I once stumbled across a high school American football game, complete with professional looking kit, cheerleaders, local press, school band and a stadium full of supporters. The players strutted around proudly, displaying their athletic prowess, and revelling in their sportsmanship . They were the same age as the kids at Manor House, but someone had given them a chance.

Inspire

It was the Royal Geographical Society’s Explore conference last weekend. It reminded me that a year has passed since last year’s breakthrough-laden November, which was strewn with potential, possibility, realisation and excitement.

This year I didn’t go to Explore, as I was modestly exploring elsewhere, but I did make it to the opening lecture, given by Paul Rose and colleagues from the BBC’s Oceans series. These superb films are available online for those being smug without a TV (those licensing people don’t seem to accept that someone can decide not to have a TV, and I’m being bombarded with threatening letters warning of detector vans in my area). http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00fpy59/Oceans_Southern_Ocean/

The films make me want to overcome my longstanding fear of SCUBA, and it may well come to that. For now though I enjoyed hearing tales of geology, ecology, snorkelling with randy sperm whales and the challenges of underwater filming. Rather than approaching the documentary with the notion of staking out sites for months waiting for the right shot, the team planned an expedition style filming process. If it happened, it happened, and if it didn’t work they moved on. They did some serious science, and managed to explain it to the lay audience with humour, intelligence and without resorting to flashy graphics (although they did at one point resort to a fantastically flashy remote controlled helicopter).

I enjoyed the dive safety officer’s description of how the team filmed a six-gilled shark, lurking at a depths which get seriously risky for human divers. Apparently most sharks only have five gill slits, so this was an important mission.

The chap explained he had serious misgivings about the deep, deep dive, with a new team. At night. In strong currents. In a shipping channel. And, as an old hand with the BBC’s natural history unit, he related his doubt that the six-gilled shark would even turn up to be filmed. He was told that that wouldn’t be a problem as Paul Rose was going to tie half a tuna to himself to act as a lure. They addressed the safety issues, took the plunge and got the shots.

The lecture reminded me that while it’s easy to say ‘no’ to taking risks, the rewards of saying ‘yes’ can be unimaginable. Note to self.

Chocolat chaud

I was chilled to the core after exploring Montmatre cemetery in the snow, failing to find Berlioz’s grave in amongst the maze of telephone box sized chapels. The quiet beauty of the stone carvings and illuminated shrines clashed with a smattering of seriously kitsch and violently colourful angels perching on grave stones. An alarming number of cats prowled, unblinkingly guarding the resting place of Montmatre’s artists and composers.

A hot chocolate was in order. Settled into the dark warmth of a cafe, I was presented with a steaming jug of milk and a tall white mug. It was DIY hot chocolate, requiring the drinker to stir the hot milk into the black puddle of liquid chocolate sitting at the bottom of the cup. Delicious.

Suitably warmed, it was time to leave, and the snow had turned to torrents of rain. Sheltering with a few hardy smokers’ at the front of the cafe, I pondered the the best escape route, when a bathful of icy water slipped down from the awning. I yelped as the splash of cold took my breath away, but the only significant casualty were the tips of my fabulous boots.

An example of standing in the right place at the right time. Being in Paris often seems to be a good start.

Beauty

The task of getting through yesterday was lubricated by three beautiful things.

Firstly, the last piano lesson of the day was interrupted by my landlord knocking on the door to show me the sunset. We made an unlikely trio, standing on the backdoor steps, hugging our arms around ourselves – my 12 year-old-pupil, my octogenarian landlord, and I, all sharing a moment as we absorbed the colours silhouetting the naked trees.

Secondly, was a trip with mum to the Cadogan Hall in Sloanes-ville. We were delayed in traffic for long enough to turn me to minor road rage, which is a long time. And we’d missed the start of the concert. But marching around Cadogan Place looking for the venue, I softened as I was struck by the plane trees lining the streets of Georgian town houses.

In an area where Ferraris, Aston Martins and Porsches dominated the underground car park, the Christmas tree decorations had of course been executed with eye-wateringly good taste. Pale blue floodlights uplit the trees, which were carefully adorned with a few…. ‘baubles’ is not the right word. The bauble concept had been transformed into spherical clouds of tiny white lights, with each swarm large enough to be in proportion to the size of the huge trees. The overall effect was mesmerising.

Thirdly, was the concert of Purcell and Handel which the word sublime could’ve been invented for.

So as I edged the Corsa out from a maze of other high performance vehicles I felt very pleased I’d made the effort, and rejected the alternative of sitting on the sofa and feeling sorry for myself all evening.

Shadow chaser

I write this to the accompaniment of occassional, dull thuds. Let me explain.

Every workplace should have a border collie. Cara has kept me company today working at James’ office. She welcomed me with a bit of a jump around, sniffled me to my chair, wandered around under my desk for a bit and then left me to it.

We took a walk at lunchtime, using a LAN cable fashioned into a lead with the cunning use of some sailing knots.

Cara is my kind of dog. Her breath doesn’t smell, she doesn’t crave constant attention and she’s very willing to amuse herself. She understands many human words, and her favourite hobby is chasing shadows, pouncing on them from a great height in a most feline manner. But only a dog would do this under my desk, a rich hunting ground for lively shadows, where there’s not a lot of headroom for leaping.