A rare, rare skill that – I think – is getting ever-rarer.
Is being bothered.
Have a think about that for a moment.
(If you can be bothered).
Because tucked away behind this notion, are business and a life opportunities – for all of us.

I think salt cellars run out of salt in restaurants and cafes because nobody could be bothered to check them.

I think menus lie stained and crumpled on coffee shop tables because nobody could be bothered processing the fact that – to me – shitty menu means shitty kitchen means shitty food.

I think people answering phones in businesses say, ‘sorry, Paul’s not here now – can you call back?’ because they can’t be bothered taking a coherent message – and asking Paul to call me.

And I think people that are bigger or smaller thisser or thatter than they’d like, is mostly because they can’t be bothered doing what’s needed to get where they (say they) want.

We have this little dog hotel in one of our holiday cottages. I had to be bothered putting dog wallpaper in it, to make it as good as it could be. It hurt my knees.

Before every guest visits, I have to be bothered weighing exactly 50 grams of coffee beans into a little brown bag. Then I have to be bothered to write every guest’s name, and their dog’s name, on the bag. So they simply grind-and-use the exact amount needed for the (unfamiliar) cafetière we provide. It’s bit of a faff.

And instead of saying to our cottage visitors – at the end of their stay – just leave the key inside the cottage. We have to be bothered packing a bigger brown bag – stamped with ‘Bye for Now’ – with bottles of water, sweet snacks and savoury snacks, for their journey home. It costs a bit of money, and adds to the to-do list.

It’s really nice that guests at Old Post Office Holiday Cottages in Northumberland talk about dog wallpaper, pre-weighed coffee beans and Bye for Now bags.

When you can be bothered – they notice.

A rare, rare skill that – I think – is getting ever-rarer.
Is being bothered.
Have a think about that for a moment.
(If you can be bothered).
Because tucked away behind this notion, are business and a life opportunities – for all of us.

It’s a great question.
And, I suppose, it’s also how to be really rude to somebody at a party.
(If I ever got invited to parties, that is.
Hmmm).

Scenario One.
“Mark, hello! I’ve not seen you for ages. This is Paul. Paul and I came here together. Paul… Meet Mark.”
“Hey,  hello Paul. I’m Mark. Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you too Mark. We’ve never bumped into each other have we?”
“No. First time. So… What the divvel do you do, Paul? ”
Etc.

Scenario Two.
“Mark, hello! I’ve not seen you for ages. This is Paul. Paul and I came here together. Paul… Meet Mark.”
“Hey,  hello Paul. I’m Mark. Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you too Mark. We’ve never bumped into each other have we?”
“No. First time. So… what the divvel are you for, Paul? ”
Etc.

OK, so “What the divvel are you for?” is a bit rude.
But also an infinitely more interesting question than, “What do you do?”
And it’s a question that we ask ourselves, more and more, about ourselves.
Especially as we get older.
At least – I do.

In real life, I never ask this question question out loud.
But I look for the answer to this question in how people are.
I look for the answer to this question in what people actually do.
I don’t look for the answer to this question in what people say to me.
Talk’s easy.
I think when a person knows what they’re for.
It turns up in how they are and what they actually do.
They can’t help that.

“What are you for?”
It’s a great question.
And, I suppose, it’s how to be really rude to somebody at a party.
(If I ever got invited to parties, that is.
Hmmm).

It is important to have someone in your life that you professionally dislike.
For me, it’s Keri.
In her professional field Keri is, and probably always will be, the worst (and best) person I know.

I am programmed to professionally dislike Keri for two reasons.

First, she tells me what to do.
(I don’t like being told what to do).
Second, she exposes my weaknesses, shortcomings and bullshit with poisonous precision.

And as a consequence she gets me to do and be something I have never managed to do or be in over 50 years.

Keri is my kickboxing teacher.
I started kickboxing three years ago and have a few belts now.
Keri treats me as if I am training to fight in the ring.
To protect myself from people like her husband – who I spar with.
Alan is 20kg heavier and 25 years younger that I am.
His approach matches Keri’s.
No excuses.
We’re there to fight.

I have to tongue-bite and find the determination, humility and hunger to ride the verbal and physical attacks and outings to get to what I want.

Stronger.
Fitter.
To live longer and be with my 9 year old Izobel.

Mirrored, this is why I absorb the professional dislike that I experience when I sit alongside business leaders.

I tell them what to do.
And I identify and expose their weaknesses, shortcomings and bullshit with poisonous precision.

How do they react?
It depends what they want.

If they want stronger.
Fitter.
To live longer as a business and a brand.
They tongue-bite and find the determination, humility and hunger to ride the verbal attacks and outings to get to what they want.

Or if they don’t want the discomfort.
I go.
And they stay as they are.

This is, of course, neither the whole story nor every story.
However, it is very common.

It is important to have someone in your life that you professionally dislike.
Someone like Keri.
Someone that, in their professional field probably is, and probably always will be, the worst (and best) person you know.

I wonder
Whilst  I go to Wetherspoons to (mostly) hide from conversation.
Do others go there to start one?
I suspect they do.
Life can be lonely.

I never really understood Train Spotting.
(Thehobbynotthefilm).
Or Plane Spotting.
Or any other staring-based pastime.
Until recently.
Because occasionally – I like Wetherspoons Spotting.

I buzz to the lovely market town of Hexham, just up the road, a few times each week.

I may go to a £3.50-per-cup independent coffee shop.
Or the £4.05-per-cup Cafe Nero where I can hide upstairs and work.
And occasionally, I may access the £1.25 Drink-Mediocre-Coffee-Til-You-Wee Wetherspoons offering.

I shouldn’t go to Planet Wetherspoons really.
Because I spend far too much time Spotting people.
And listening to people.
People are quite loud in Wetherspoons.
Sometimes laughing.
Sometimes shouting.

I can’t work out if the people that I Spot are happy.
Or not happy.
But I hope it is the former.

Planet Wetherspoons is a place of blue plates and chips.
And an app that, when I am feeling particularly asocial, gets me my empty, refillable cup – without actually speaking to anybody.

I wonder.
Whilst  I go to Wetherspoons to (mostly) hide from conversation.
Do others go there to start one?
I suspect they do.
Life can be lonely.

I talk too much.
‘Always have.

Sometimes it’s nerves.
Sometimes it’s insecurity.
Sometimes it’s to hear my thoughts out loud so I can at least try to make sense of them.

It was something that Sophia Loren said to me that has made me, finally, quieten.
A little bit.
And understand what’s really going on when anybody.
Or any business.
Overcommunicates.

We are all at our most interesting.
I think.
As people or businesses.
When we are intriguing.
When we know how to prioritise what we say.
Because when we overcommunicate.
What we’re really saying is, I’ve not spent the time to get to know you.
And because I’ve not spent the time to get to know you, I don’t know what the most important thing to say to you is.
So here’s the lot!

Here’s what Sophia said.
Regarding overcommunication.

“Sex appeal is fifty percent what you’ve got.
And fifty percent what people think you’ve got.”

Intriguing.

The only norm I ever liked was Norm in Cheers.
All other norms… bloody boring.

Here’s my favourite Norm greeting, by the way:

Sam/Woody: “Hey! What you up to Mr. Peterson?”
Norm: “My ideal weight if I were eleven feet tall.”

Challenging norms is great. In business and in life.
If I had a coffee shop, there’d be this sign on my door:

“Want a wee? Oh.. OK then. Use our toilet. No need to buy coffee… this time.
(Because next time. Once you do. You won’t go anywhere else).
Have a great day!”

That’s not the norm for business.

And this is not the norm in life… try it:

“The problem is, when a woman goes to the toilet she never puts the toilet seat back up does she?
Inconsiderate, that.”

Risky. But hard to argue with yes?
(Good luck).

The only norm I ever liked was Norm in Cheers.
All other norms… bloody boring.

Asking clearly for what I wanted, helped.
But it was never as effective as tangible, passonable shorthand that ignited conversation about universal standards.
Something visual.
Simple.
Real.
Like drinking straws.

The easiesthardest job I ever had was managing McDonald’s Restaurants.

It was the easiest job I ever had because, at 23 years old, I was too daft to be scared of managing a four million pound turnover business, leading 40 people, and twiddling with a P&L.

(At 23, I didn’t know what P&L stood for. I just knew the area manager was happy if – each month – this number was bigger than that number).

And it was the hardest job I ever had because – well – it was hard. Firing formulaic food from one end of a 20 metre long kitchen to the other, for 12 continual hours, out into a clean dining area – profitably. Whist stopping 40 young people from fighting or fornicating – was hard.

After a year or so managing one restaurant, they sent me to my next one. So my next restaurant reached the same standard as my last restaurant.

What was I doing to achieve this dubious accolade and recognition?
A few things probably.
But one thing I always did, was say this to my shift managers,

“If just one customer asks us for a straw.
Because there are no straws in the dining area.
You’ve had a shit shift.”

This was, of course, shorthand.
For clean tables.
Fast food.
Fresh brewed coffee.
A full milkshake machine.
Sauce where sauce was needed.
Empty bins.
Everything.

The straws thing meant getting ahead of the customer.
And it was always nice to hear shift managers repeating, word-for-word to the team, the straw thing.
It triggered great conversations.

Asking clearly for what I wanted, helped.
But it was never as effective as tangible, passonable shorthand that ignited conversation about universal standards.
Something visual.
Simple.
Real.
Like drinking straws.

I noticed recently that – all her life – Izobel has saved her shittiest handprints for our shiniest mirrors.

Some of Izobel’s handprints are right down at the bottom of the tallest mirrors we have.
Higgledy piggledy.
From eight years ago, probably.
Others.
Shin-height.
Then waist-height.
And some handprints, from last year probably, are (my) chest-height.

I don’t like these shitty handprints on shiny mirrors.
Not because of what they are.
I love what they are.
I don’t like these shitty handprints on shiny mirrors because as they get higher.
They get bigger.
And as they get bigger.
They get fewer.
And as they get fewer.
I get sadder.
Because the handprints remind me that one day.
Sooner than I’d like.
There’ll be no more new shitty handprints at all.

When you’re thinking about how to show up on LinkedIn.
Think about whether you would want to sit next to you at dinner.
And Be More Plumber.

I like Christmas because I see old friends.
And, occasionally, friends of friends.
This Christmas, one friend of a friend – plonked aside me at dinner – was The Plumber.

The only reason I learned that The Plumber was a plumber was because (weirdly and serendipitously) I got a text from a friend – mid-dinner – with a plumby problem.
Asking if I knew a plumber.

I discovered that I did.
I was sat next to one.
A plumber that was not only a great plumber.
But also chap that (my mercurial mind later concluded) understood LinkedIn better than almost everybody on LinkedIn.
Even though The Plumber had never heard of LinkedIn.

“Here” I said to the plumber.
“Have a read of this text. My friends toilet is doing this.”

The Plumber glanced down at my phone.
Then back up at me.
Then, still chewing on a sausage, took my phone calmly began to type.
(I’ll surmise).

“Hi. Try this. And is that doesn’t fix it, try this. And if that doesn’t fix it, do this to stop the leak. Then look at this website and search this phrase. Then if you can’t, or don’t want to do it yourself, text me. Here’s my number.”

The Plumber then handed me back my phone.
And went back to his sausages.

Now, the reason I think The Plumber understands LinkedIn better than almost everybody on LinkedIn.
Even though he’d never heard of LinkedIn.
Is because he did this.

Gave something.
Gave something else.
Gave something else.
Gave something else.
Showed understanding.
Then said if you want – get in touch.
Then went back to his sausages.

If he’d been on LinkedIn and had behaved like almost everybody on LinkedIn, this is how dinner with The Plumber would have gone.

The Plumber sits down.
The Plumber: “Hi I’m a plumber.”
The Plumber: “Hey, don’t tell me. You have a house don’t you? Am I right? You do don’t you? A house. And looking at you I bet it’s a real nice house too. And I bet you haaaaave… bathrooms! You do don’t you? Bathrooms! Am I right? Am I right? And I bet you haaaaave… toilets and sinks and baths too don’t you? Well, most plumbers have a call out fee…”
Me: Sorry. My house in on fire and/or I have a disease. I have to go.

A thought for 2026…

When you’re thinking about how to show up on LinkedIn.
Think about whether you would want to sit next to you at dinner.
Then Be More Plumber.
(Then get back to your sausages).

If you’re going to be a fraud.
(And if you are progressive, you are definitely going to be a fraud).
You may as well be a confident fraud.

It’s OK to be a fraud.
And it’s OK to feel like a fraud too.
You probably just need to manage that fraudy-feeling better.

It’s important to manage that fraudy-feeling better because, if you don’t, focus goes and progress slows. Or progress stops altogether.

Because unmanaged fraudy-feelings let the distractors in.
Unmanaged fraudy-feelings let the detractors in.
And distractors and detractors are not valuable in any way.

You’ll recognise the distractors and the detractors by their moany tone.
Their rubbish clothes.
And the fact that they have – in the grand scheme – achieved absolutely bugger all of any note.

You’re ahead of them.

But the main reason it’s OK to be a fraud, and to feel like a fraud too, is because all progressive people – by definition – are frauds.

Progressive people are claiming that there’s value in something untested and unproven.
In ideas.

Because another word for untested and unproven – is new.

It’s OK to be a fraud.
It’s OK to feel like a fraud too.
You just need to manage that fraudy-feeling better.

If you’re going to be a fraud.
(And if you are progressive, you are definitely going to be a fraud).
You may as well be a confident fraud.