Author Archives: Bernie Mayall

TAKING VISION TO ACTION

I am an experienced business mentor, Director, member of the Institute of Enterprise and Entrepreneurs and Fellow of the Chartered Management Institute, Academy for Social Justice Commissioning board member, Alzheimers ambassador and champion. I offer business, strategic, operational and educational services and business growth and workforce restructure advice to health and social care organisations of all sizes.

I enjoy new ways of working, fresh pathways, different opportunities and do not restrict myself to specific roles, organisations or structures and that allows me to connect with many different and engaging people and activities.

Successes have dropped out of:
• A sound grasp of policy
• Creating a culture of progress and innovation
• Meticulous contract management and negotiation
• Excellent partnership working and engagement
• Defining, establishing and communicating a shared vision and communicating
• Working effectively within and towards published criteria and policies
• Making clear decisions based on evidence and dropping out of rigorous evaluation, and communicating them with clarity and openness
• Sustainable business growth and acquisition
• Strong, visible, responsive, accessible leadership
• Excellent strategic talent grounded in objectivity and longfinger understanding
• Independence of approach and rigour of intellectual activity.

Always looking for new projects and ideas! Especially in creative and artistic fields, and those involving disadvantaged, disenfranchised or vulnerable people.

The very thought of you

An unexpected memory is released in an unplanned smell and sound and reaches down my throat and retches the sludge up and out. Self loathing slithers around with fetid filthy fingers and re-opens the regret notebook I stopped writing in and had put away in a drawer at the back of my head.

Regrets…….regrets live on long after a death has slipped down in history and changed its shape. Death does not allow for repair or renewal.

Regret squats over what remains like a grubby troll alert for a flicker of joy so that it can shit some toxicity onto it. It wakes you up in the middle of the night with its noxious  farts that cling. Regret bleeds in and out like breath on a humid day. Regret writes on Every.Single.Page.

Before the end it would be good to rescue just one moment of joy from the sludge and inhale it deeply alongside the toxicity, feel its gladness over the sadness, hear the quiet laughter that was. And then close the book.

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I do like to be beside the seaside – Folkestone rediscovered

Spending a few days in Folkestone, which might surprise those who know I live in Dover. Longish quite nice story. Not for now.

It is beautiful in a way I had not expected even though I work here and live so close. It feels rough and ready in many ways and in many places, with ingrained grubbiness left over from a busier more nautical era that does nothing to reduce the charm and energy that exists there now, rather it acts as a counterpoint, an authenticity. Money has been spent on it, for sure, but that on its own would not achieve the lasting elegance and colour I have found. Wise and clever people-focussed spending is the key. Don’t be misled, there is significant poverty, sickness, mental turbulence. There is also grit, strength and heart to match and manage it, and the emerging beauty in the environment makes use of that and encourages the entrepreneurial activity I can see in abundance. What we create we value. The local initiatives have been rooted in the local communities, and that has given them a better chance of budding and flowering, and many of them have taken that chance and flourished – and those that didn’t are reinventing themselves and sailing in a new direction with the wind behind them.

As I write this I am looking out over the channel – I can see France, it feels as if I can almost touch our European counterparts. I can see the glorious Harbour Arm with Lowry-like people moving like ants in perpetual motion carrying their trophies – the view, a coffee, a book, their dogs leads – often overtaken by arrogant seagulls and for all the world like those desk toys that swing back and forth. Kinetic. That’s it! Folkestone offers a kinetic energy, a comfortable dynamism that is almost tangible.

I am pootling around the town for the next few days in between working. Perhaps there will be more to share with you about this glorious, throbbing, vivid, secretive, smudged, slightly slatternly but beautiful and blossoming coquettish town. It draws you in, promises to show you the sights, honours its citizens – the memorial arch is stunning and moving, all the more so, for some reason, as a result of the knitted poppies that surround it – and  Isaiah-like (“I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places”) keeps revealing, bit by bit, another of its treasures, another half-hidden bauble that it soon becomes clear is a precious jewel, and then yet another follows……

I know I have only skimmed the surface so far. I have plans to visit a few places that I would otherwise miss: have a pint on the harbour, breakfast at Beanos, dinner out somewhere I have yet to decide, spend time in the museum and galleries – there are many galleries and bookshops  in the streets leading from the harbour some of which also do coffee. Books and Coffee, two of my favourite things……There is a fabulous creative quarter – I work actually in it but not of it – and I need, literally need, to explore that. Restaurants and cafes will also be taking a hit.  I also need to walk around the bits that are not attractive to tourists, that shelter the people I probably know best.

Through this week I will be noting the fresh chapters,  great initiatives, seamy side and chequered entity that is Folkestone. It is likely I will share this with you…….brace yourselves.  I will try not to write after that pint! No promises…..

 

Hay Festival 2019 part one, edited highlights

I arrived at Hay on Wye under a sky covered in monochrome laburnum clouds that soon gave way to a warm dry green wonderland. And my gosh I loved Hay this year. My first joy was where I stayed – a beautiful house with lovely hosts and an enviable, huge  and eclectic art collection which brought great happiness –  I wish I had had more alone time to inspect it. But even more delightful were the three women with whom I shared a breakfast table. They were a similar age to me, that is to say mature, and it quickly became clear that around that table no fucks were given, not a one, and we laughed and chatted. We fell easily into our roles: There was a woman-in-charge who poured the coffee and passed the butter unprompted, a mildly forgetful, hesitant  widowed healthcare professional who twittered (in the old-fashioned non-technical way) and a sharp but warm social comforter who reached out and oiled the conversation. They were charming, spiky and lovely, and only one of them liked Dylan Moran. And that didn’t matter. My role was mostly as audience for a welcome change – this break was an intended opportunity for me to speak less and be more alone. Our hosts were a fascinating mix of charm and snob – if he had crowbarred Prince Charles into the conversation any more it would have consisted only of the words Prince Charles – but were warm and accommodating and most importantly made excellent coffee. They opened their house to us without boundaries and with considerable skill and character and displayed  the talents one would expect of creative psychotherapists. They sat in the middle of their wonderful, colourful, often surprising home which was set in the most diverse and pleasing grounds and hosted us with ease and care. Interesting and ingenious they contributed brilliantly to my Hay Festival.

 

As for the Festival……..

Billy Bragg was possibly not at his most comfortable on stage surrounded by a clutch of white middle class privilege but the room was with him and he more than hit the spot with wit and charm. Boom. He built up and promoted the three dimensions of freedom: liberty, equality and accountability. My heart sang as he described their importance, they chimed so closely with me and yet are not trendy or popular and indeed are casually  trivialised, often manipulated. Hearing them normalised and promoted was a good, good feeling and he did it with passion and skill. He equally efficiently destroyed the current faux freedom that veneers the neoliberalism we endure while it imprisons us, but always with respect and courtesy towards other viewpoints. That was, in essence, the point. I needed that.

The poetry collective,despite busting a gut to be diverse and inclusive ( LGBTQ, people of colour, some disability) they failed. No older people. Inclusivity doesn’t cease to be relevant when one is over 25. They were brave and heroic to stand on stage and expose their poetry, but for me they were selfobsessed and selfserious. The phrase “write about what you know” hung heavy on the air and that’s ok, many of the poems were (while being formless, also ok) were worth hearing and benefited hugely from the speaking, offering a degree of depth and clarity. After a while, though, and I own this, they merged, made up in equal measure of pain, victimhood and wistfulness. Also ok. All ok, but not attractive to me. Which is also ok.

Last one on this post, best till last and all that. Benjamin Zephaniah. What can I say? Best gig ever. Possibly, if it mattered to me (it doesn’t), a tad age inappropriate for me, I loved the heat and energy of not only the performers but the audience too. Audiences are a large part of a gig for me and these did not disappoint.  I hugely admired the woman singer in the band, not dressed to thrill or please anyone but herself in her choice of comfortable t-shirt and baggy trousers, her voice and her hot energy blew me away; the bass player who played a fabulous butt-throbbing bass was a greybeard and rocked right alongside Benjamin and the woman singer (apologies I didn’t hear her name) and way harder than the young people who tentatively at first and then bolder and bolder got up to dance at the front of the room. Those dancing people were as much a joy as the performers, all of them memorable, and their happiness when Benjamin left the stage to join them and dance with them was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Zephaniah was a force of nature who absolutely re-connected my politics and my poetry engaging and connecting with the whole room. A funny, kind and passionate man and performer who charmingly took Trump et al to pieces without malice and without violence. He reminded us of our power and our hearts. But he definitely left Trump and others in pieces. I couldn’t dance – never have, too self conscious and now too disabled – but my head and heart danced and my feet beat the rhythm. Zephaniah bounced, rocked, smiled, taught and charmed all evening. And his music and words, the powerful intoxicating music and words, moved us, caught us up and took us alongside the troupe to a magical musical poetic place. The politics and poetry of fun and fairness. Priceless.

 

Part Two of the edited highlights to come soon. Hay is made up of the visitors as much as the performers and this year they charmed and entertained equally and the venue was also unique.

Savage

The words chucked and hurled themselves at her hitting her soft, bruised shame and taking her breath away. More words followed, slicing into her, stinging, aching, pinning her against the wall, sagging and limp.

Grey and filthy brown swirled down inside her like dirty water down a plughole draining her life, leeching into the floor staining it straining it. Staggering backwards into the next room panting and heaving, sick with pain and effort, her legs weakened and knees softened under her. Drifting backwards she closed her eyes, shut out the sights but the sounds wouldn’t be driven away, the words that plunged into her, twisted around, severed her will.

Cold hands touched her face and she realised blankly, bleakly that they were her own crippled hands. With an energy that was already almost entirely depleted and raw she crawled into her cage. The stinging aching pains died as she lay down and drew up her legs. Here was comfort. She dissolved.

Bosom buddies over the years

My bosoms have been around the block a bit.

Early development brought early attention from older men as well as other students, long bus rides to school being littered by moments of leering and lurching, scary intimations of what being a grown up would be like. I was not alone in that, it just happened a little early for me, while I was still colouring in my future and playing with dolls. Fascinated by the appearance of maturity I soon became shy of the evidence, covering them up to stop the leers, rejecting them as evidence of change, and slowly having their deficiencies brought to my attention. Too big for comfort when horse riding, too small for instant popularity, too this, too that, two much.

And then I began to understand they could be fun as well. If I chose to share them it could be quite nice and they have joined me in a few lovely moments bringing some happiness to me as well as to someone else. Large and juicy and bouncy they caused me some joy, and spread a little of that stuff too.

And next thing I knew they were useful. I fed four children with them, nourishing my children, making them strong and healthy, bonding with them deliciously and creating memories for me and relationships for us all.  I spent a decade or so either pregnant or breastfeeding and it was, perhaps, the best time in my life. A wanton, verdant space in which my body made things right and that was all that mattered.

And after that, another opportunity for some joy. Short lived, but memorable. Because then I noticed things of all kinds changing, a little less overall bounce and more wobble and not just in the bosoms, part of a generalised weary reduction in joy and upswing in tasks and a tangible draining of verve, less noticeable purpose and a slipping away of meaning and value. The devaluation of the bosoms echoing a reduction in worth. The bosoms that had created such fear, then joy, then deeper joy and meaning, were entering a new and unexpected chapter. Cause and effect, or effect and cause? Outwardly so much was satisfying, so many achievements, but inside there was a little necrosis every day, a spreading of the dark shadows and the loss of significance, the essence bleeding away into a sticky vacuum of regrets, guilt and exhaustion.

But then, with little ballyhoo but with such a warm and welcome relief, it stopped mattering. My bosoms – MY bosoms – triumphed and became part of my story. They were mine and I dressed them for me, washed and cared for them for me. This old feminist remembered who she was and hacked and whacked through the  flourishing detritus uprooting the pernicious growths of expectation and control, flinging them onto the waiting pyre and planting nutritious saplings and mature thoughts in their place, where they have established and now thrive giving me colour, energy, the scent of a life to be lived. These bosoms have been through the mill, alongside the rest of me, and here we are having emerged from that vacuum into glorious sunshine and promise, with some beautiful hands to hold and memories, some obscured and some hovering on the surface, waiting patiently for me to sift and sort and calibrate them with proper reflection and some context. It may take a little while but I know now I am up to the task.

Two of my favourite, doubtless irritating, phrases are A Work In Progress and Onward and Upward. I have come to realise that both are applicable to almost everything, including me. And you.

Whoever you are, if you feel the pull of that vacuum, the quicksand beneath your feet, please: remember your unique merits, own your Self, live your life. It is yours, colliding with others but yours to fit into whichever jigsaw you choose, yours to steer or not, to enjoy the ride and harness the journey as well as savour the peace when it happens. Hard to see when the waters are closing over you, but swim upward with all your might and take the hand that opens for you. It is there.

Onward and Upward.

 

 

 

 

A divot in the verbiage

Today I have found a divot in my verbiage.

I am apparently at the age which has become “the new forty” but I am sceptical. However vibrant sixty is – and it is –  it will never have the juice of forty, ovaries have thankfully ceased to be a challenge although their loss was mourned for a while, and I am finding a few other things melt away on the weary climb to the pinnacle of decrepitude before falling off the other side. Slower on the stairs;  tins are more of a challenge, inexplicably; bearing four live children and a few who did not survive has left some scars literal and otherwise; when I stop moving not all of me does.  Nothing I had not expected. But.

Words. My main hobby and place of work. Worshipping at their altar and making a living manipulating them perhaps I began to take them for granted and they are making their presence, or absence, felt simply as a reminder. I take a shade longer to identify the best word for a sentence or description, it takes a mite longer to recall names, running up against white noise instead of the expected tumble of potential sentences is shocking and unexpected. I do not think it is a clinical issue but having noticed it, it matters to me. I can sort-of bear the loss of sinew, suppleness and strength and there are compensations: as an old lady I can be less careful and more legitimately honest – although that was never really a problem – and can walk away from crap more easily, if a little stiffly; I do not feel any pressure at all to dress appropriately; knowing more stuff means I can reflect more effectively and that is a blessing and a curse. Grateful to have reached an age at which I have become a closer approximation of who I am and have learned about a variety of things, I am also burdened with that learning, the realisation of things.  Understanding is often over-rated. Comprehension can be crushing.

My usually lush and well watered verbiage that has grown and thickened over the years is becoming a little pock marked and faded around the margins. It takes a little longer to grow – still lush, still a pleasure to walk on, still fragrant and opulent but with signs of fatigue and some of those heavier footprints take longer to disappear, the turf breathing just that bit harder when forced to restore itself. And that divot, ah that divot…….for now I will walk around it and stand on the abundance that all but covers it. Because who knows if it will heal itself, or the lawn wither and die anyway, or if it will simply sit as a divot and behave itself with grace as a reminder that  am just lucky to be here, now, at all.

Poetry will continue, my life as a storyteller will continue. My colours may simply be a slightly different shade and bleed into one another a little more.

 

 

Is that it?

Jesus in a latte, Narcissus in a pond,

A saint to hear the prayer we make, a star to wish upon.

Jesus in a piece of toast, Narcissus in a lake

When I lay me down to sleep I pray you my soul to take.

There is no sorry, no second chance, no room to make amends.

It stops, sucks dry, bleeds out, falls flat. The light fades out and bends

Towards the loss, the lack, the well of nothing. Empty, done.

No moon, no stars, no breeze, no dew, no rain, no clouds. No sun.

 

Call out for actors

Whoop 'n' Wail

Dora

Whoop ‘n’ Wail Theatre are casting 8 actors (ages between 40 – 80, including specifically BAME) for a one-day table read of a brand new play, But For Us, by award winning playwrights Ali Kemp and Deborah Klayman. This is an unpaid opportunity for actors with a passion for new writing and an interest in the welfare state, social inclusion and politics. The plan for the day will be a read through followed by a discussion, then work on individual sections as decided by the director. This is to inform an ongoing R&D process with a view to a future production.

Please visit the casting page on our website for the full details and character breakdown. Deadline for submissions is Tuesday 18th December 2018.

Synopsis

Welfare’s in a state and the pensioners are revolting.

In 2022, the Uncoupled Kingdom is feeling the pinch and welfare’s in a state. Prescription…

View original post 196 more words

Us

When did you become the grit in my eye?

The stone in my shoe?

The itch in my arse?

Which door did I go through that closed behind me?

Horticulture it ain’t…….

My garden, my net, my sanctuary, where I feel safe, has sanctuary for my friends too.

Pigeons, like fat blokes trying to be cunning, sneak faux-stealthily past me to the seeds and crumbs I share with them.

Seagulls wolf down the curry I threw out, only needing a foaming pint to be the lads that they are, a gang of Ross Kemps with feathers.

My garden, where the shade I sit in calms the shade inside me.

My garden, where the sunshine dances with the bees and magpies in a whimsical waltz that makes me smile.

My garden, my net, my sanctuary.

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