Author: alistair50

Skills worth having

Over a period of about eight months, I learned a skill which has been a great asset ever since. I was just 17 and studying journalism, which included a course on shorthand and typing. For those two subjects, I was added to a class of about 20 young ladies, each destined to become medical secretaries. I never learned much about those young ladies (I didn’t date or marry any of them). But I did learn how to touch type. I’ll explain touch typing in a moment, because that skill has made everything about my work and studies more efficient and enjoyable ever since I was 17.

This blog post is about skills which are well worth having. Some will seem important; others perhaps more trivial. But, as I see it, any skill that significantly improves the quality and usefulness of our lives is worth having. You may want to master the skills I’ve learned, or become expert in other things. Learning any skill is a good thing (well, not pickpocketing!). All skills require work, but effort now reaps huge dividends later.

Here we go.

Touch typing  The young ladies learning shorthand and typing alongside me would later become medical secretaries. Their work would include making notes in a hospital or surgery meeting, or taking down details from a doctor about a patient. Then the secretary would transcribe her notes into a formal minute, letter or report by typing them out. That second stage is when touch typing skills mattered. An untrained secretary might place her notepad alongside the typewriter, then swivel her head from notes to keyboard, back to the notes and then to the typewriter, over and over again. For two reasons that would be unwise: a) she might get a strained neck; b) the back and forth method is an easy way to miss words, or even restart from the wrong line. Thankfully any of the medical secretaries I studied with would do something different. She’d still lay her notes beside the typewriter, but then look only at her notes while simultaneously typing what she was reading. There would be no head swivelling, and no looking at the typewriter keyboard, just reading the notes while typing perfectly. That’s touch typing. It’s what I learned to do too.

Here’s how touch typing works. First you put your index fingers on the home keys. What are they? If you look at your keyboard, it’s 99 per cent certain you’ll find a raised dot or line on the f and j keys. Those are the home keys, and the tiny marks are to guide your index fingers to them. Your other fingers fall into place on adjacent keys. From there, your fingers can stretch out to every key on the keyboard, even the numbers.

These days there are online exercises and games to train you to touch type, but I would encourage you to concentrate on drills. It’s mundane but it works. So, back when I was 17, I’d look at my tutorial book, and type the letters printed there. Lesson one began with just fjfjfjfjfj… over and over again. Lesson 2 moved me to fjkfjkfjkfjk… and then dfjkdfjkdfjk…. And so it went on through the chapters until I’d covered every key and risen to typing real words, all without looking at my fingers. That’s not exciting, but it is efficient, and over time I learned how to hit every key correctly and type quickly.

Why has this mattered? For me the main gain has been the ease of making notes from books. I did that for years, and still do it now. I’ll lay the book to the left of my laptop, and type what I need without lifting my eyes from the book. That way I never lose my place, or jump a line. Touch typing has been useful too with my professional work. Using information from several sources, I could flip from one to another with near-continuous typing. These days laptops are in use during lectures and business meetings, so a touch typist can keep their focus on the speaker while making notes on their laptop. And there’s a bonus: touch typing impresses everyone around you.

Touch typing is also the fastest way to type since you never have to look for the right key. I watched fellow-journalists, who’d never been taught typing, plonk away with two fingers. Their method was awkward, inaccurate, and very slow compared to a touch typist. The world record typing speed is 225 words per minute (wpm), but that was done in 2005 on a simplified keyboard. Normal speeds are much less, mostly not much above 40 wpm. But I’ve watched a friend touch type at about twice that speed, and it was awesome. Typing exams, I should add, take account of errors, and not many of those are allowed.

There is just one way you can go spectacularly wrong while touch typing: fail to place your index fingers on the home keys. Suppose I want to write about touch typing that “it’s really useful” but accidentally put my fingers one place to the right of where they should be. Then, instead of “it’s really useful” I’ll have typed “oy#d trs;;u idrgi;”. No spell-checker can fix that. Fortunately, even a moderately good touch typist senses quickly if they’re pressing the wrong keys, so drastic errors are rare.

Learn to touch type. It’s so worth the effort.[1]

Spelling  One of my former colleagues was a graduate of great ability with a sparkling personality, but I had to ban her from making PowerPoint presentations unless others had proofread her work. Her spelling wasn’t just bad; it was awful. Her mistakes diminished what people thought of her and how they viewed our organisation. I suspect she’d never been taught spelling. It was very different for me. Almost every day through my early school years my class learned the right way to spell words. Later in life, I developed the habit of checking any word when I was uncertain about its spelling.[2] Therefore I’ve never been embarrassed by writing wierd instead of weird, or biassed instead of biased, or independant instead of independent, or useage instead of usage.[3] Don’t rely on a spell-checker. Learn to spell!

Writing an essay, exam answer, or report (or any other short paper)  One of the questions in my final high school English exam was: Write an essay on the advantages or disadvantages of being a ‘lone wolf’. I had never thought about that subject, but, quite quickly, I decided I could write something sensible on the ‘advantages’ side. I started by describing the pluses of being free to make your own choices, and then idea after idea flowed. For those final English exams I got an A. Writing has simply never been a problem for me.

I recognise that’s not true for everyone, and for some who have struggled – barely able to put down even a few sentences – I’ve encouraged them to question their subject using Who? What? Why? Where? When? and How?  So, with my ‘lone wolf’ essay question, I could have asked myself: What kind of person has advantages? When is being on your own helpful? Where am I when I find it useful? How does being alone leave me feeling? Responding to those questions would have given me my essay. At any time of life, we may find we’re expected to write a short paper or report – it could be a complaint to the council about its services. You could use the 5 Ws and an H to structure your letter. Or you may prefer another technique. Whatever your method, develop the skill of writing something sensible. It’s a great help.

Giving a short talk  I spent almost all my working life delivering sermons, lectures, talks and presentations to audiences ranging from half a dozen to hundreds, and occasionally to thousands. I don’t find making speeches difficult. But many do. My Dad hated it. If he had to say a prayer in church, or give a short address to a group of golfers, Dad went through deep pain trying to get the words together. He’d write draft after draft, and then spend hours trying to learn every word. He could have benefitted from using the 5 Ws and an H method, or just noting down three or four key headings, and adding a few sentences under each heading. That would have given him a ten minute talk. That’s usually enough because, if there’s one golden rule for public speaking, it’s this: when you’ve said everything that needs saying, stop. Hardly anyone complains about a short talk!

Basic DIY skills  The first flat I owned was tiny. It had just two rooms, and was two floors up in an Edinburgh tenement. It was very cheap to buy, mainly because it had been built in Victorian times and the only improvement ever made was installing electricity. But to speak of ‘installing electricity’ is to flatter someone’s dangerous work of attaching a slack electric cable about three feet high along the walls. As well as hanging loose, that cable ran across the edge of a sink and over the front of a cast-iron range.[4] It was a fire hazard and a deathtrap. I hired professionals to deal with the electrics, because one vital skill about DIY is knowing when something is not a do-it-yourself job.

But I did learn how to do lots of small jobs around that flat. In the main room I stripped off all the wallpaper – not one layer, or two layers, or five layers, but at least seven layers plus another two layers of the original Victorian brown varnished wallpaper. Those last layers were impervious to water, so there was no way to soften and then peel off the paper. Over several months I chipped away at that varnished wallpaper inch by inch. Eventually I uncovered the wall underneath. It had innumerable dents and holes, especially where the old plaster had come loose. They were bad enough that fresh paint or wallpaper could never hide the imperfections. I had to fill them. By experimentation I learned how to remove loose plaster, mix filler to the right consistency, fill the hole, let it set, and sand it down. Then repeat the final stages several times, until the wall was so smooth I could shut my eyes and run my fingers over the area without feeling that there had ever been a hole there.

Having mastered filling holes in the walls, I graduated to making holes in the walls so I could hang pictures, bathroom cabinets, towel holders, toilet roll holders, shelves, kitchen utensil racks, coat hooks. I had bought a simple drill, and worked out how to make the right sized hole for a wall plug and screw. At first, that didn’t always go well. Sometimes I made the hole too large; sometimes the fragile wall-plaster crumbled. Either of those necessitated filler, and a more careful second attempt. Over time I learned how to succeed. And have done so many, many times since. In our family home, we’ve had all manner of things fixed to walls, and in garden sheds I’ve hung spades, forks, hoes, rakes, shears and the like. These days I have a much better drill, which, when not in use sits in its box up high on a shelf I fixed to the wall. Of course it does.

Learning from mistakes  Maybe this is the most important skill of all. There’s a truism that those who don’t learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them. Which also means they never become skilled.

In our small flat, I was a novice with home decorating, but a novice with big ambition. I decided to paint every bit of woodwork in that small flat. I had initial success painting the front door, but then two disasters. One was using dark purple paint on the entrance hall roof. Purple was an odd and very bad choice. But I’d read that using dark colours made a high roof seem lower. Maybe it did, but unfortunately purple also made that hall look garish, perhaps more like the entrance to an establishment where the rooms are rented by the hour. (Not that I would know about such establishments.) We hated that dreadful purple. It goes against my Scottish instincts to dispose of a paint tin still half full, but I made an exception with that purple paint.

That was not my only decorating disaster. Using white gloss, I painted all the woodwork in the bedroom. Even though I say so myself, I did a fine job. But, when I stepped back to admire my painting prowess, I noticed the floor was very dusty. I picked up my broom and swept everywhere. That was a bad – very bad – mistake. Dust flew up in the air, and every speck and every fleck stuck to the wet paint. I nearly wept. My beautiful painted woodwork was either spotty or hairy, neither of those a good look for the bedroom or, indeed, for anywhere. All I could do was wait 24 hours for the paint to dry, sand the woodwork smooth, and paint it all a second time. I never repeated my sweeping-the-floor-after-painting mistake. There’s a saying, ‘you live and learn’, but that is not guaranteed. Some never learn. Thankfully I did. It’s an important skill to recognise your mistakes and learn from them.

So, I suggest it’s very worthwhile to learn touch typing, spelling, essay or report writing, giving a talk, basic DIY, and, as far as possible, never to repeat your mistakes. That’s not even half of my valuable skills list, so I’ll continue with other important skills next time. Meanwhile, start learning to touch type – use eight fingers for the keys, and your right thumb for the space bar, making sure your index fingers start from the f and j home keys – and you’re off!

[1] The book I used when learning touch typing has gone through several editions. As far as I know it’s no longer in print, but several of its editions can be found via Amazon or used book suppliers like Abe Books or World of Books. Search for Gregg Typing First Course.

[2] In writing this paragraph, I checked which was right: proof reader; proof-reader; proofreader. None are wrong, but the most modern usage is to use just the one word, proofreader, which I have done.

[3] You can find a helpful list of common spelling errors (British English spellings) here: https://global.oup.com/booksites/content/0199296251/essentials/commonspellingerrors/

[4] If you have no idea what a Victorian range was, there’s a couple of good images here: https://mrvictorian.co.uk/2021/02/16/cast-iron-range/

An overwhelming longing

I burst into my house. Breathless – for I’d run all the way home from school – I asked: “Has it come yet?”

“Sorry, nothing has come.” My Mum looked so sorry for me. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Upset, disappointed, hurt, sad. Another frustrating day. I’d entered a national competition, knew I’d won the prize of a great camera, and I so wanted it to arrive. Today’s conversation as I ran into the kitchen was exactly the same as it had been for two months, ever since the competition finished.

The hard truth, though, was that I didn’t know that I’d won. As much as a ten-year-old boy could be, I was sure that my entry was the best, and, the more I told myself that, the more I was certain I’d won the prize.

After another two weeks of her boy running home only to be disappointed, my mother cracked. She wrote to the company who’d run the competition, saying her son was waiting anxiously to know if he’d won. The reply came just a day or two later. They were grateful for my entry but, no, I hadn’t won the top prize. In fact, I hadn’t won any prize. I was devastated. I had so longed for that camera.

Since that time, I don’t think I’ve ever been consumed about any prize or product. But I have known numerous people with overwhelming longings of many kinds.

I’ll describe some of those I’ve known who so longed for something it was almost crushing.

Top equal in my list are those who couldn’t imagine life without being married. Most were women, but men too. I felt for all of them. I’m married, so I knew to be careful with anything I said to those who were unwillingly single. Once – just once – I was bolder with a young lady who told me almost any man would do, because she just wanted a husband. That was so unwise, I said gently that it was better not to be married than married to a bad person. She didn’t agree. “If I was married, I’d at least be able to change him.” She was wrong, but I didn’t tell her. She wouldn’t have believed me, and there was nothing to gain.

Just as passionate were those who longed for children. Some were never in a lasting relationship, married or not, but wanted children. Others were married but remained childless. Since I had four children, I never claimed to know how they felt. But I was certainly aware of their overwhelming desire to have children. For example, in my church tradition, we don’t baptise children but do have a thanksgiving/dedication ceremony for little ones. One lady asked me to stop referring to those babies as ‘gifts from God’ because God wasn’t giving that gift to her. Another requested that we gave advance notice of child dedication events “so I can avoid coming to church that Sunday”. Another young woman had more of a longing for children than for a husband – if she hadn’t got married before she was 30, she told me, she wouldn’t wait any longer but find a man willing to impregnate her. I didn’t scold her. She needed a listening ear and only a few gentle words, not a judging voice.

The passion for some is to reach the top in their career. A lawyer, by then in his early thirties, told me he was utterly bored with contract law. It was a safe and profitable line of legal work, but neither exciting nor satisfying for him. “Why stick with it?” I asked, for he could retrain for other legal areas or even change careers completely. “Because, if I keep devising lucrative contracts I’ll soon be a partner, eventually a senior partner, and could get right to the top by the time I’m 50.” Was career tedium a price worth paying for that goal? An oil company executive realised when he was 45 he’d never achieve the top job. “If you aren’t on the second highest rung by your mid-40s” he said, “you know you’ll never be chief executive”. In his case he was right, but had to keep working knowing he’d fallen short of his ultimate ambition.

There have been many more with deep longings. I’ve spoken with athletes who, despite years of sacrifice and iron discipline with diet and exercise, know they’ll never get to the Olympics or win a world record. Other people have always wanted to own a luxury car like a Porsche or Ferrari, but have never had nearly enough wealth. Some simply long to be famous, but have no idea what they’d be famous for. Others want to tour the world but – though possible – they never get round to saving the money or reserving the time for such a venture.

Ambition is good. So is the passion necessary to fulfil ambition. But when a longing becomes overwhelming there are dangers. At one level that’s disappointment; at a deeper level it can mean damage to our inner self.

So, some care is needed. Here’s why.

First, being realistic, not all goals can be attained by everyone. Everyone can’t win the prize, or hold the world record, or get the top job. That’s just simple logic. And, sadly, not everyone will find a life partner or be able to conceive children. “Why am I the unlucky one?” is the obvious question. Sadly the only answer may be “Why anyone?”. Some things are not about deserving. Other things are not about achieving no matter how hard we try. In a whole variety of ways, this is a tough world.

Second, not all goals are worthy of extreme passion. My desire as a ten-year-old to win that camera had got blown out of all proportion. There was nothing wrong with my hope to get the prize, but that hope had become a longing that was affecting everything else I did. Whenever any longing consumes us, we’d be wise to stop and consider what’s happening. The deeper the longing, the harder that is to do. Ideally, we’d all have a good friend whose wisdom we’d listen to.

The deeper the desire, the harder it is to cope with disappointment. That sentence is not an argument against sincerely longing for something good. It’s only a caution that the greater our desire to achieve a goal, the more difficult it is if we don’t achieve it. For some, that failure can overwhelm the rest of their lives. When, as a late teenager, I started a career in journalism, my ambition was to reach the very top in the newspaper or broadcasting worlds. With the brashness of youth, I had no doubt I could achieve that. But I was able to let that ambition go because an even greater goal came along, one central to my growing faith. But what if that other goal had never happened? What if I’d got stuck in a routine journalism career? How would I have coped? I’ll never know, but I did see journalists weary with their work, never progressing, never fulfilling the ambitions they’d had as teenagers. They were not happy people.

We need caution about what drives our lives. How realistic is that ambition for us? Are we passionate about something truly worthwhile? Can we cope if our dreams are never more than dreams? An overwhelming longing can be a great asset. It can also become an unbearable burden. Be careful.

I wish you a merry Christmas

On the eve of one of the most special days of the year, I wish you and all those you love a very merry Christmas. Not everyone in our multicultural and multifaith faith world celebrates Christmas, and I respect their views while disagreeing with them.

For some, Christmas is happening in the midst of terrible trouble – war, famine, poverty, abuse, homelessness, or other dreadful experiences. It’s worth remembering that the first ever Christmas – the birth of Jesus – happened during a cruel occupancy by an invading force (the Romans) and under tyrannical and savage local rule (by King Herod who massacred all Bethlehem-born male children aged under 2). The angels who announced Jesus’ birth spoke a message of peace, but we are still far from seeing that fulfilled everywhere.

For me, God’s Son entering this world tells me God has not abandoned us. We get so much wrong because of our selfishness, prejudice, and wickedness, and God might have given up on us and all humankind. But God hasn’t done that, and he sent his Son into the world to change lives. Many resist that change, but billions have found forgiveness, hope, freedom and love in knowing God.

To me that’s Christmas with real meaning. It’s serious and wonderful.

But, while listening to music in the build-up to Christmas, their messages are often light-hearted and fanciful. Yes, they give reasons for celebrating Christmas, but those reasons are not what this season is about.

Here’s the kind of thing I mean.

From my youngest I liked the idea that Santa Claus is coming to town. But, wait a minute, apparently Santa has a list, and he’s studying it to see who’s been naughty or nice, bad or good. On that basis, I don’t think I’d ever have had presents. And the idea that you only get something if you’re ‘good enough’ is not a healthy message.

Of course the theme of children and presents comes through a lot. I wish it could be Christmas every day paints a rosy picture of Christmas – the kids starts singing, bands are playing, bells are ringing. And how do we know It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas? We know because there are toys in every store. If you are Barney you’re hoping for ‘hopalong’ boots, and if you’re Ben you want a pistol that shoots. Really? A pistol? Not the ideal present, IMHO.

But, no scary thoughts allowed. Christmas – just because of the season it is – must surely mean joy, joy, joy. Merry Christmas Everybody says everyone is having fun, and Merry little Christmas tells me my heart can be light, and all my troubles out of sight. Nice thoughts. If only they were true. But I’ve met too many people who found Christmas stressful (too much work and getting into debt), or sad (as they remember those no longer with them), or lonely (after I sent an elderly person a Christmas card, I got a thank you letter from her because my card was the only one she had received).

Surely, though, Christmas is the season for romance? Countless films suggest romance blooms at Christmas. The standard story-line is that lonely single woman meets handsome widower, and after some to-ing and fro-ing of feelings, they kiss and embark on an always happy future together. And, if that’s not quite working, then you can ask Santa to put Mr Right on the doorstep – or so All I want for Christmas says. But, Last Christmas warns us to be careful who we give our hearts to. Heart given on Christmas Day; heart taken away the very next day. So, this year, it’ll be given only to someone special. That’s certainly a good idea, but I’m not sure why it would be true only at Christmas.

I apologise if these last paragraphs sound mean. Actually, I quite enjoy most of these songs. My complaint is only when they suggest fun, presents, tradition, Christmas trees, Santa, parties, romance is what Christmas is all about.

For me, there’s so much more. One Christmas, many years ago, I knelt down and prayed words like these: Dear Lord, Christmas is your birthday. I can’t give you any ordinary present. But I am giving you my life for whatever you want to do with me.

That wasn’t the only time I’d offered my life to God, but that Christmas prayer was special. It was answered by new direction, new wisdom, new strength to do what I believed right with the gifts God had given me.

I can’t tell anyone what to pray, but if you know there’s something you should ‘give’ to God this Christmas, that would be wonderful.

May you be greatly blessed at Christmas and throughout the new year.

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An apology: I’m very aware that my posting to Occasionally Wise has been irregular recently. The major reason is that from October I began a new course of full-time university study. So far it’s been both demanding and good. Posts will continue to appear, but I cannot promise what the frequency will be. Please be patient – thank you.

When less is more and more is less

I sat opposite ten sober-faced interviewers who would decide whether I should be the next minister for their church. They asked their questions; I answered as best I could. Remarkably that committee recommended me for appointment. Why was that remarkable? Because they probably didn’t hear most of what I said. Earlier that day I’d developed a serious throat infection, and almost lost my voice. My answers to that committee were a near-inaudible whisper.

Perhaps they did hear a little and they liked that. And perhaps they never heard the rest, which they might not have liked. It turned out that less was more, and more would have been less.

Less is more and more is less in many areas of life. Below are six examples to explain my point.

When saying more might complicate matters

Near the end of an important hearing in front of a government body, I was about to speak again when I was dug sharply in the ribs by the lawyer alongside me. “Don’t say another word!” he whispered. The ruling was going in our favour, and the lawyer knew I might add information that could cause hesitation. I shut up. Minutes later the verdict we wanted was announced, and the meeting ended. “No-one ever objects to what you don’t say,” the lawyer told me later.

That is not a licence to omit vital information; just advice not to add anything unnecessary. Less is more.

When staying longer might be unhelpful

I’ve been a hospital patient several times because of back problems. I enjoyed getting visitors, but often did not enjoy how long they stayed. More than one must have imagined that, since I was going nowhere, their company through most of an afternoon would cheer me up. It didn’t. Instead, those visitors wore me out. Once they’d stayed more than an hour, I learned to plead that I needed to sleep. Yet, all too often, as one long-staying visitor left, another would arrive. Visiting times did not improve my health. More time visiting was definitely less benefit.

The same would be true when visiting the elderly, or interrupting someone’s busy day. For many years I worked from home, and Arthur, who lived nearby, would call at the door, saying “I’ve nothing else to do this morning, so thought I’d chat with you”. Arthur was a good man, but his casual visits were not helpful. Less, not more, would have been better.

When talking longer might reveal ignorance

From time to time I would let someone else preach. But I wasn’t always wise about my choice of speaker. With some, the congregation’s interest was over ages before the sermon was over. The problem with others was that they preached beyond their knowledge, by which I mean their theological knowledge. Martin would start well into his subject, make some good points, but then progress to ideas for which he had no foundation. Listening from the pews, I’d start praying that Martin would not drift into outright heresy. Thankfully, he’d usually stop just short of a complete distortion of the Bible’s teaching. But the lesson for me was ‘Don’t ask people to do what they’re not capable or competent to do’. Martin needed to speak only on the safest of subjects, and even then impart less rather than more of his own thinking.

When talking more reduces impact

One of the bloodiest battles of the American Civil War was at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in July 1863. On November 19th, on the site of the battle, an official dedication ceremony took place at the Soldiers National Cemetery.[1] The main speaker was President Abraham Lincoln, and his speech is widely regarded as one of the most influential in American history. He began this way: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” [2]

From beginning to end Lincoln focused his listeners on what really mattered. But from that beginning to its end his speech was only two minutes. It consisted of just 272 words. Every phrase, though, was moving and significant. Another speaker addressed the crowd for two hours. Which speech was remembered? Which speech had more influence? Less really can have more impact.

When writing less might get an article or letter read

Britain’s World War II Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, frequently pleaded for “short-windedness”. In a written appeal to Cabinet colleagues he demanded “brevity”. That note had only 60 words. He complained that “Cabinet Minutes are much too long” and should concentrate only on decisions. He called “Whitehall jargon a waste of time”.[3]

A war-time leader like Churchill simply did not have time to read lengthy reports. That’s true for many today. People I know are so put off by a long article they don’t read it at all. My friend edited our church magazine, and consistently reproduced the entirety of lengthy letters from missionaries. Most church members never read them because paragraph after paragraph of text was off-putting. But the editor kept reproducing those letters, convinced every word from a missionary was valuable. Those letters were valuable, but valueless to those who wouldn’t read them.

When you’re writing a love letter, make it as long as you like. In most other cases, writing less, concentrating only on key points, is much more appreciated.

When eating less might be healthier

The National Library of Medicine advises that, on average, a woman will maintain her weight eating 2000 calories a day, and lose weight eating 1500 or less a day. For a man, the equivalent figures are 2500 and 2000.[4] Sticking to that allowance was impossible when I ate out at a steakhouse where several main dishes would each give me over 3000 calories. If I’d added a dessert and a speciality coffee, I could have gained over 4500 calories from just one meal. Would that meal have left me feeling content? More likely, I’d have been seriously uncomfortable and not slept well.

I don’t mean to rant about diet, only to make the point that excess in almost anything is neither healthy nor rewarding. Some have said the 11th Commandment should be ‘Thou shalt have balance’, but that can be as difficult as the first 10 commandments.

Having written this much about less is more, there’s only one thing to do. Stop.

[1] Now called the Gettysburg National Cemetery.

[2] The most accepted version of the whole speech can be read here: https://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/gettysburg.htm

[3] These examples and more can be found at: https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/churchills-call-for-brevity/

[4] This and much more fascinating information about caloric intake available at: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK499909/#

What shoelaces can teach us

My right shoelace was a little loose, so I bent down and retied it. Much tighter; much better. I walked on. In less than 20 steps I felt my left shoelace was now loose, so I bent down and retied it. Much tighter; much better.

As I walked on, I realised my left lace had felt completely fine until I tied my right lace more firmly. Then – only then – did my left lace feel slack. Because the right was tighter, the left felt loose, which caused me to fix it too.

My shoelace ‘experience’ reveals something interesting.

It’s this: often we decide something is right or wrong only when we compare it to something else. Studying an alternative makes us rethink what we are already doing or already have. It’s the comparison which causes us to make changes.

Here are several imagined examples:

  • Before putting my house on the market, I compare its value with the prices paid for similar homes nearby. They sold for a lot more than I first thought mine was worth. My hopes rise and so does my sale price, as I adjust it to equal what was paid for the homes of my neighbours.
  • I start at university, not sure where to go, which lectures never to miss, how to go about assignments. But I watch other students, see what they do, and I match it.
  • I am content with my salary, but then discover that others doing similar work get paid much more than me. I am now discontent, and demand that my boss gives me a raise.
  • I think my house décor looks great, but visit a friend whose home is so beautiful it could feature in a home design magazine. Now I feel my home is inadequate, and call in a designer.
  • I prepare a wonderful meal for visiting friends – beef stroganoff. They tell me they enjoyed it, and invite me for a meal in their home. They serve salmon en croute – cream cheese and dill beautifully encased in light puff pastry. It’s magnificent. My beef stroganoff no longer seems special. I enrol in a culinary school.
  • I love my car. It’s comfortable, reliable, and though not fast it gets me where I want to go. Then my neighbour buys a top of the range Porshe. The leather seats are luxurious, the technology mind-boggling, the engine purrs before roaring into life when he pushes the accelerator. I fall out of love with my car.

Several of these examples are about envy, and I may write about that another time. But envy is not the key point here, which is simply that we adjust our behaviour when we encounter contrasting behaviour. Sometimes we know we’re doing it; sometimes we don’t.

However, changing what you do in the light of what someone else does or possesses requires caution.

First, realise your point of comparison may be poor

For a couple of years I worked in a large open-plan office where Jean also worked. Jean was clearly a good staff member. Very efficient in all she did. In one respect, Jean was super-efficient. I’d walk past her desk after she’d left for the day, and the top of her desk was completely bare. No in-tray or out-tray. No stack of folders. No pile of to-do notes. No stapler, no pens, no paper clips. Not even her landline phone. The desk surface was completely empty. Jean had put everything, literally everything, away in drawers and cabinet. It was impressive.

Many blog posts ago I wrote about two visits to friends. These people did not know each other, but they did have something in common.

Noreen showed us round her modest-sized home. Everything was neat and clean, very neat and very clean. There were no stray cups or plates lying around the kitchen; in the bedroom no clothes strewn over a chair and no overcrowding of the wardrobe; no cushions out of place on the sofa in the lounge. We had to ask: ‘How do you keep everything so perfectly in place like this?’ Noreen’s answer was simple: ‘If I buy something new, I remove something old.’ That’s why her wardrobe and chest of drawers would never overflow. It was hard not to admire Noreen’s ruthlessness.

At their invitation, we visited Chris and Sally just one day after they moved into a new home. I’d protested we shouldn’t visit so soon, but had been assured it would be fine. It wasn’t just fine; the place looked like a show home. Nothing was out of place. At a quiet moment Sally gave away the secret. At the old house, Chris hadn’t allowed a single item to be packed for removal without it being labelled exactly where it was to go in the new place. On arrival, the removers opened the boxes, and laid each item down where prescribed. That’s why, when we visited next day, there were no unpacked boxes, no unhung pictures, nothing lacking a location. It was all perfect. Wasn’t that wonderful?  (Both stories originally at https://occasionallywise.com/2021/06/12/how-we-caused-a-plague-of-frogs/)

Jean, Noreen, and Chris provided amazing examples of organisation and tidiness. But:

  • At the end of each day Jean used 15 minutes of work time stowing away all her desk top papers and tools, and at the beginning of the next day another 15 minutes retrieving them.
  • Noreen’s ruthlessness eventually got the better of her. She didn’t control her super-orderliness; it controlled her. It became a compulsion, which sadly led to a broader mental breakdown.
  • Something similar was happening with Chris. He couldn’t function without everything being exactly in its right place. That actually made him inefficient, wore down relationships with others, and was one reason his marriage failed and career ended.

Not for a moment am I criticising habits like tidiness. My sole point is that we may encounter traits or practices in others which, initially, we find admirable. The contrast with what we do is stark. My only minimally organised desk looked so cluttered compared to Jean’s swept-clean desk. At the time I thought ‘I should do what Jean does’. But in fact I shouldn’t. Half an hour of work time spent presenting a clean desk wasn’t what my employer wanted. And Noreen and Chris paid a high prince for their super-organised lives. I shouldn’t emulate them either.

Every person or object we initially admire does not qualify as an example we should copy. Perhaps your modest vacation doesn’t look like much compared to someone else’s lavish cruise, but your bank balance and the environment may thank you for your choice. A bad comparison is no guide to right behaviour.

Second, every comparison we reject doesn’t justify our own behaviour

What if I was speeding down the motorway at 80 miles per hour, feeling a little guilty because the limit is 70 mph? Suddenly a car roars past me. It’s going far faster, almost certainly around 110 mph. “Now that’s really bad ,” I say. “At least I’m not going that fast.” No, I’m not. But my 80 mph is still wrong and risks an accident. Because someone else’s actions are worse doesn’t make mine good.

I played golf in the company of Colin who, to use an old phrase, ‘swore like a trooper’, perhaps because he had been a trooper. Whether from childhood or his years in the military Colin had developed extremely crude language habits. His swear words outnumbered clean words in almost every sentence. He put me off my golf, and probably spoiled his own game. I was used to fellow-golfers who uttered the occasional expletive when they hit the ball out-of-bounds, or missed a short putt. Colin’s appalling language was in a class of its own, a very bad class. Yet that didn’t make it okay that others only used the ‘F’ word sometimes. Their language was better than Colin’s, but still fell short of ideal.

Contrasting our behaviour with someone else’s worse behaviour doesn’t make us good.

When I was a boy my friends and I would jump streams. The challenge was easy when the width was only two or three feet. We could all jump those streams. Next we’d find a place where the gap was five feet. We all managed that too. And then the gap was eight feet. Tommy was great at running and jumping and he cleared it easily. Freddy was not so fast, and slipped as he jumped. He flew only about four feet before plunging into the water. Useless. Then it was my turn. I ran and jumped to an excellent distance. But six feet wasn’t excellent enough for an eight foot gap, and down I fell into the water. I was better than Freddy, but just as wet as he was.

The point is obvious. We see someone doing less well than we are, and feel good about our attitude, our ability, our accomplishment. But contrasting ourselves with someone who is worse doesn’t prove we’re okay.

In our thinking, speaking, acting our point of comparison should be doing what is right and good. What someone else does is, in a sense, irrelevant. The standard isn’t being better than others. The standard is being the best we can be.

Third, maybe nothing needs changing

The final lesson from my shoelaces is very simple. When I’d first tied them, both shoelaces were adequately tight. Yes, as I walked I realised one was tighter than the other, but neither was loose. Both were holding my shoes on my feet perfectly well. Nothing needed changing.

Years ago I read a review of hi-fi equipment. Hi-fi is short for high fidelity, and audiophiles, the people who seek the purest reproduction of sound, invest a lot of money to buy the best. They want no ‘noise’, no distortion, and the ideal frequency response. Having put two h-fi systems through a battery of tests, the reviewer reported that A was fractionally better than B. But, he added, the difference was measurable only in a laboratory. In the real world situation of a music system in the home there would be echo from walls, absorption of sound by carpets and furniture, and extraneous noises such as from passing traffic. Add to that humans have a limited hearing range. “The honest truth,” the reviewer wrote, “is that you’ll never hear any difference between these systems.”

We compare what we have with what someone else has. Or what we can do with what another can do. Then we feel we must get the other thing or be like the other person.

Maybe we do, but maybe we don’t. Perhaps what really matters is being content with what we have and what we’re able to do. Life won’t be significantly different by making a change. Most likely both your shoelaces are already adequately fastened.

If you’ve found this blog post helpful, you’d likely also enjoy others from the archives. For example, have a look at these:

The left-handed ironing board  https://occasionallywise.com/2022/01/01/the-left-handed-ironing-board/

When the right thing to do is nothing at all  https://occasionallywise.com/2021/01/30/when-the-right-thing-to-do-is-nothing-at-all/

Inner peace  https://occasionallywise.com/2023/07/15/inner-peace/

And, please think of sharing any of these with others who might appreciate reading them. Thank you.