Past a big display of fresh roses, we went into the marble-lined restaurant. Lunch at the Hotel Crillon is more an institution than an event. The restaurant has cultivated a style of sumptuous dining that has become almost a cult. Every aspect (the table, the ambience, the menu) is arranged with the same attention to detail as if Charles Swann himself was expected. The waiters were fast-moving, darting around us in a blur of efficiency and flapping tail-coats. Pate foie gras (even though I am not happy about how it is made - in yet another compromise I went along with everyone else), terrine, lamb with vichyssoise, caramelised fruit. To drink we had a bottle of Sancerre, which was wonderful (worth the trip to France in itself). We went round the table proposing toasts - I suggested “La Reine”, primarily to the present Queen of England, but also doubling for that long-gone Queen of France who had her head sliced from her body to satisfy a howling mob barely a hundred metres from where we sat. Did her spirit still hang in the ether, I wondered, nostalgic for her singing lessons? Did she join us, craving mortal company, sitting in the empty place left for Alan Nixon? As usual the effect of the alcohol was to make me feel melancholic, and I knew that if left unchecked the melancholy would turn to morbidity. This downward drift in my thoughts was arrested by Gary Spencer nudging my elbow and pointing across the restaurant to one of the windows.

Two films, seen on television

The first was The Trench starring Paul Nicholls and directed by William Boyd. It was a depiction of trench life on the western front during the First World War. The acting was good, and the sets were authentic, but the film was basically a variation of Peter Weir's 1981 film Gallipoli (except that Peter Weir is a better director than William Boyd and Paul Nicholls is a better actor than Mel Gibson).

On Monday I watched Downfall, a German film directed by Oliver Hirschbiegel and starring Alexandra Maria Lara as a secretary in the Berlin bunker (that bunker) during the last days of the Second World War (the script was based on the memoirs of Traudl Jung). The film captured the mood of claustrophobia, fanaticism and paranoia, seen through the (supposedly innocent) eyes of Traudl Jung. It was a fascinating film, and also explained why the German regime was convinced, right to the last minute, that they would win. Previously I had thought that the German leaders were self-deluded or even mad, refusing to acknowledge that their forces were overwhelmed and their cities in ruins. However the film gave a different view, conveying the total belief the Germans had in the cold-blooded theory of Darwinian selection. Darwinian theory underpinned all their actions, and convinced them that ultimately the stronger and more ruthless forces would triumph over the weaker nations (as we know, Darwin's theory was faulty in this case).

I only manage to see films on television since there never seems to be enough time to go to the cinema (although I do hope to see Mrs Henderson Presents). Cinema is one of the most powerful visual mediums - you are sat in the dark, looking at colour images many times larger than life, listening to sophisticated sound systems. Films on television are a poor substitute.

Downfall was broadcast on new satellite channel More4. I am very impressed with this new channel. Right from the start they seem to be placing an emphasis upon quality of content rather than a populist drive to gain ratings (that is also the policy of this weblog!).

Traditional Christmas carols

I am not a naturally out-going person. Consequently I find the four or five weeks before Christmas, made up of a relentless series of social gatherings, parties and office dinners, rather heavy going. Plus my sister is extremely ill with throat cancer (any Christians reading this entry please pray for her recovery).

The past two weeks in particular have consisted of too many late nights, when I have battled against a perpetual cold (which shows no signs of leaving), and an average of five hours sleep per night. So when Marie-Astrid e-mailed me to ask me along to a birthday celebration I was not enthusiastic. Especially when she told me she wanted to mark her birthday by going along to a candle-light Christmas musical evening in a local “castle” (an event that sounded so high-kitsch and embarrassing that normally I would not go near the place).

But Marie-Astrid is half-Danish and is enthusiastic about Old English customs (including entirely fabricated ones such as this). Also, as a recently-divorced person she is struggling to build up a social network - most of her previous friends were members of her husband’s family, and have abandoned her. And Marie-Astrid is always good company.

So I said I would go along, and on Wednesday drove to the northern town where she lives (“northern” is a relative term - some people would consider it to be in the east Midlands). Because I went there straight from work I was still in a suit, and wondered if I would be over-dressed. When I got to Marie-Astrid’s house I found she was dressed smartly, plus we were joined by two of her friends (Emily and Julie, both of whom work for a big charity) who were in long dresses (long formal dresses, like you would see at a ball).

Anyway, we drove for miles along narrow muddy lanes, until my car became almost entirely plastered in mud. We were obviously going deep into the countryside as there were no houses, no other cars, no lights whichever way one looked. Eventually, following Emily’s directions for about half an hour, we saw in the distance the “castle” lit up on the top of a looming black hill.

The “castle” is not a castle at all, but is in fact a ducal palace built in 1816 in a form of Regency Gothic (turrets, battlements and gothic arches overlaying a symmetrical and rational style of architecture that is essentially Georgian). The place is huge, and built for entertaining on the grandest scale. The ducal family must have considerable reserves of money, as everywhere was well kept - none of the usual signs of decay you see in big houses.

We couldn’t drive right up to the “castle” but had to park on the lower slopes, stewards directing us into a field. There were many other cars parked in rows, and I began to fear that the event would be crowded. Leaving the car we walked across the field (Marie-Astrid, Emily and Julie picking their way in high-heeled shoes, complaining about the mud) and past a sort of lodge, joining a procession of other guests making their way up the extremely steep hill, the direction indicated by electric lights strung out along the side of the path.

After about twenty minutes of stiff walking we arrived on top of the hill where a very cold strong wind was blowing. The “castle” towered over us, floodlit and looking as insubstantial as a film set. We followed everyone else through a gothic doorway into what seemed to be a sort of armoury (the walls decorated with displays of antique guns and swords, suits of armour standing in niches). This chamber although vast, was absolutely crammed with people, so that we could hardly move. Upstairs, on a sort of gallery, a big choir was belting out traditional Christmas carols, and at a bar glasses of mulled wine were being handed out. My worst fears, that the evening would be crowded, clichéd and uncomfortable, seemed to be realised.

But I was wrong.

Although there were hundreds of people at the event (almost all of them in full evening dress), as soon as we moved away from the armoury the “castle” absorbed everyone, so that there were never more than twenty or so people in each cavernous room. The interiors of the “castle” are so ornate and decorative that the swathes of Christmas baubles and tinsel seemed positively restrained by comparison. And the effect of such big chambers lit almost entirely by dozens and dozens of candles gave even the most over-familiar Christmas songs and carols new and (I hesitate to use this word, but nothing else seems apposite) magical settings.

We could wander all over the “castle”, each room we entered having a different musical performance, the thickness of the stone walls preventing the sounds from clashing. From the choir in the ballroom to a jazz band in a picture gallery, to a piano soloist in the State Dining Room (blond hair, serious expression on her young face, she played a succession of piano pieces on the theme of moonlight - Clare de lune, Blue Moon, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata). Open fires were in every room, and so many candles were on display that the fire risk must have been considerable.

At one stage we entered a sort of long gallery, a room of ridiculously expansive proportions (over a hundred and thirty feet in length), the furnishings sumptuous and extravagant. As we approached the end of this gallery the wall was made up of a huge floor-to-ceiling mirror. Marie-Astrid, Emily and Julie stood in front of this giant looking-glass and in a co-ordinated act of vanity dropped their coats to the floor and admired their long dresses (at a risk of catching cold, since the chamber was not warm).

We finished the evening in the small chapel (the altarpiece being a painting of The Holy Family by Murillo). A choir of women called Voices From A Small Place (eleven of them, various ages), were singing medieval carols. The women were dressed in red evening clothes, all different. They were led by an extrovert women aged about forty-five, and seemed just as interested in singing for each other as performing for an audience. Normally I am ambivalent about middle-class interpretations of English folk culture (satirised by Kingsley Amis in Lucky Jim), but this choir didn’t take themselves too seriously and stayed the right side of sentimentality. Their voices were very fine, and a rendition of the Coventry Carol was genuinely moving.

At the end of the evening we returned to the car. Most other people had already left, churning large parts of the field to mud. Consequently my car got stuck in a boggy patch and refused to move forward. Marie-Astrid, Emily and Julie immediately got out of the car and attempted to push it (in the dark, slipping in mud, not thinking of their shoes or long dresses) but still no movement. The field was on a fairly steep slope, and eventually I just let the car roll backwards onto some un-churned grass where the wheels could get some grip and I could get some momentum and go forward again. When I looked at the car the next day there were three pairs of handprints in the thick mud on the back.

The castle staterooms were laid out as a succession of musical soirees.

Although the ducal palace was meant to be a "castle" the interiors were 18th century in style.

Candles lighting the grand staircase.

In every part of the castle were hundreds of candles - originally the whole building must have been lit by candles.

Photo essay: The splendour falls on castle walls

(Above) Baconsthorpe Castle in north Norfolk, which I visited as a child. I can remember being completely over-awed by the antiquity of the place. Baconsthorpe features prominently in the medieval Paston Letters, which describe feuding between the Heydon and Paston families over the Fastolf inheritance (Sir John Fastolf amassed a huge fortune from plunder during various invasions of France - Shakespeare satirised him as Sir John Falstaff in Henry V and The Merry Wives of Windsor).

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story
(as Tennyson said).

(Above) It's funny the way the castle has entered popular culture.

(Above) an old legend connects these towers with a local castle.

After a hurried lunch (roast lamb) a long drive along muddy roads, eventually arriving at a melancholy town. Four grand former banks facing each other at the intersection of a crossroads, assorted shops trailing off along the four roads, petering out into the countryside. Apart from a good second-hand bookshop everywhere was shut.

Helen B and I had made the journey to look at the porch of the church. A local legend recounts that it originally came from a nearby castle (long since torn down), and reassembled as a grand entrance to the north door of the church. Certainly the two round towers were not ecclesiastical architecture, and were not bonded with the rest of the porch.

Already the light was beginning to fade, and the damp silence of the afternoon created a mood of expectation - would the legendary porch be a portal to another time? In a way it was, as when we entered the church we found a stillness and a darkness that seemed palpably from another age. We also found something else…

In the north west corner of the building was the fourteenth century tomb of a knight, his life-size stone effigy lying on a decorated stone chest. In full armour (with a belt of medallions), feet resting on a lion, his left arm held a shield emblazoned with two leopards. The head rested on a huge helmet, the face looking out at us from a petrified balaclava of chain mail.

“It was his castle the two towers came from” said Helen B (making up history as she went along). “After his death they were brought here as a memorial.” In a reversal of the Sleeping Beauty story she leaned over the knight and kissed his stone lips, and then relapsed into giggles.

A corporate visit forced on me

(Above) picture I took in the Place Vendome, setting sun, very cold air.

A short while back I applied for two days holiday, and as I filled in the form Sales Director Mitch Holmes looked over my shoulder and asked what I was up to. I explained that a group of my college friends would meet up every year just before Christmas. This year we were going to Paris for the day - by leaving early in the morning we could get to Paris by about midday, have a few hours in the city and be back in London by about ten or eleven (loaded with duty-free alcohol).

This information made Mitch Holmes very animated. He explained that he had a fairly big client in Paris and had been wondering what Christmas gift to give him (the company entertains all its major customers this time of year). I had given him the idea of going to over to Paris for lunch with the client, paid for by the company. Normally he would go to client lunches with Sarah Linton, but given the sensitive nature of their relationship (they are not-so-secret lovers) he obviously decided a freebie tryst in the city of love would be asking for trouble. Therefore I got roped into going (and thus have the prospect of two day-trips to Paris within a couple of weeks).

So on Thursday…

It was 5am when I got up, the morning/night dark and cold. After a cup of tea I left the house and set off for the local station, the roads empty and clear. Parking my car in the station car-park, I bought a train ticket from a machine (the ticket office wasn’t open) and went over to the middle platform. I was surprised to see lots of people waiting to catch the same train, talking to each other as if they were all friends (twenty people or so). Listening to their conversation, most of them were railway workers going up to London to start their various shifts (I was the only person on the platform wearing a suit).

The train made good time, despite stopping at all stations. Arriving in London, I met Mitch Holmes by the WH Smith shop and we went across to Waterloo by taxi. Despite the early hour London seemed as busy as ever.

At Waterloo we went into the Eurostar compound and then into the Business Premier Lounge (gaining access by showing company AmEx Platinum cards). The Lounge, created by Parisian designer Philippe Starck at a cost of £2 million, was a very long hall (the shape following the line of the platform) imaginatively furnished in a sort of reinterpretation of 1960s revival décor (not so much how the 1960s were, but how they ought to have been). Big “Dr Strangelove” swivel armchairs, plate glass windows, high stools at the central marble topped bar - a typical note of idiosyncratic luxury was the large ornate chandelier made especially for the salon (“lounge” doesn’t do the room justice).

At one end of the Lounge, in a wide futuristic niche, there were refreshments – tea, coffee, even alcoholic drinks. On the central bar were large plates piled high with various breakfast items such as croissants, chocolat au pain, waffles. In a wall of elegant minimalist boxes were crisp new copies of serious publications – The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Economist, Le Monde, The International Herald Tribune, The Financial Times. Suspended overhead, slightly obscured by the glittering chandelier, was a huge television monitor tuned into the Bloomburg channel (financial news and share prices moving continuously across the foot of the screen like electronic tickertape). Everything was free, and you could help yourself to whatever you wanted. Mitch Holmes took advantage of this largess and piled his tray with more than he could possibly eat or drink or read (like some kind of corporate scavenger).

We waited for about half an hour until our train was announced, then we went out to join a brisk-moving queue and after a short walk along the platform found our seats in one of the first class carriages. The rest of the coach was almost empty. As soon as we sat down staff came along to offer us a drink and ask us whether we wanted the English or Continental breakfast.

“It’s like the Orient Express” said Mitch Holmes appreciatively (actually it was nothing like the Orient Express, and to my mind resembled a Club Class aircraft cabin).

All the staff on the train appeared to be French, but spoke very good English. Breakfast was served, two young attendants trundling along with a metal contraption that issued trays of pre-packed food. By the time they reached our table the cooked English breakfasts had run out. I said I would be happy with the Continental breakfast (bread rolls, apricot jam, chicory coffee) but Mitch Holmes made a fuss.

“I ordered the cooked breakfast” he said, taking the Continental alternative with an air of very bad grace. “This is NOT good enough.” Then, as the attendants walked away, he said in a Yorkshire whisper (which is not a whisper at all, but loud and meant to be heard): “Bloody French”.

This national insult must have stung them as shortly afterwards a smartly dressed senior attendant arrived and presented Mitch Holmes with a tray of foil-wrapped hot food. Mitch removed the coverings and began eating the various items, but soon stopped, and complained to a passing attendant that the food was tasteless and there was no meat in the meal. The attendant said it was the vegetarian option and that he would look into the matter. Shortly afterwards a different smartly dressed senior attendant arrived and delivered a bona fide full English breakfast. Mitch Holmes thus commenced his third breakfast on the train, but soon pushed it to one side saying he didn’t want it. Attendants came by and removed all the detritus of the meal, giving us hot wet cloths to wipe our fingers with (Mitch Holmes rubbed his face with the cloth).

Close to half-twelve we arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris (delay of twenty minutes while the train stood at the environs of the city). The day was sunny, but very cold and Mitch Holmes put on a fedora – I had never seen him wear a hat before. The station seemed unchanged since my last visit, but there was little time to linger as Mitch Holmes marched us out the front of the building and across the busy wide road to the Terminus Nord Hotel.

We entered the brasserie of the hotel past a kiosk selling every kind of seafood imaginable (the restaurant has a tradition of Bouillabaisse). Into the vast eating hall which was very crowded and noisy. There was a pronounced art nouveau appearance to the place, with walls a discreet golden-nicotine colour, pendulous globes of light suspended from sinuous organic-looking ironwork, engraved mirrors reflecting panels of engraved glass. Black leather banquettes, white starched linen, transparent upturned goblets - everything was very smart. We were led to a table at the back where the client (English, working for a French company) was already seated. Our waiter was very tall, aged about fifty and had a military moustache - he was very good at his job.

Pate en croute de lievre et salade to start, then steak and chips, and for a pudding Sablé de pistache et framboise, crème citronnée et jus de lavande. The client didn’t have much to say - I wondered whether the trip was for his benefit or just Mitch Holmes living it up at the company’s expense. Mitch had his back to the main part of the restaurant and often looked round to comment on the large number of waiters moving about.

“Look at all these staff. Look at them all. How can they afford to employ so many people!”

“Waiting is a high-status profession in France” said the client.

“There were loads of staff on the train over” said Mitch. “French companies seem grossly over-staffed. No wonder their economy is on the rocks.”

The meal lasted about two hours. Nothing interesting was said. Afterwards the client said goodbye to us in the street outside and walked swiftly away.

We had a couple of hours before our train went back to London, so Mitch Holmes hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the centre of the city. The driver was perplexed as to where to take us. Mitch Holmes just told him “Anywhere in the centre” so he drove us to the Place Vendome.

Getting out the taxi we walked around looking at the shops - mostly women’s fashions.

“You can tell we’re in France” said Mitch Holmes, “even the manikins have their legs apart.”

We walked aimlessly along looking in the windows of various stores - Prada, Hermes, Chanel. The air was very cold, even though the sun was shining. Police seemed everywhere, particularly heavy at road junctions.

Eventually Mitch stopped another taxi and we returned to the Gare du Nord for the Eurostar back to England. Once again we gained access to the Business Premier Lounge by showing company AmEx cards. The Paris lounge seemed an exact replica of the London one except that there was no chandelier.

Mitch Holmes picked up several newspapers (including Le Soir - a fatuous choice since he can’t speak French) and we sat down in swivel armchairs. There were many people waiting in the lounge, nearly all of them formally dressed in dark suits. The only people casually dressed were the middle-aged man and women sat next to us.

“Look at me in cords and stripy jumper!” the woman said excitedly. “Everyone must think we are tramps who have sneaked in here illegally.” She hooted with embarrassed laughter, her partner (in jeans and sweatshirt) sinking deeper into his armchair.

The woman’s voice was so loud that it was impossible not to listen. She used a mobile phone to ring her daughter in England explaining that they had missed an earlier train through some mix-up by Eurostar and had been upgraded to First Class as compensation. She thought this was hilarious.

“We’re sat here in First Class with everybody looking at us” she said into the ’phone (as far as I could see no-one was looking at them). “I’m just a probation worker from Kent. I daren’t go to the loo in case someone asks what I’m doing in here.”

Eventually the train was announced and we went out to find our seats. The journey back to London was uneventful. Parting from Mitch Holmes at Waterloo, I felt a little let-down by the expedition - I had been looking forward to going to Paris with friends, and having a corporate visit forced on me in this way marred my sense of expectation.

The New Girl

Last week Managing Director Marc Bottoni decided to “jump-start” the company by putting all non-operative personnel through a week of sales training to try to get the sales figures up. He told me on Monday morning that I didn’t need to attend all the training days, but that I should just sit in occasionally and make notes on how effective the courses were, and whether people were participating (in other words, be his spy). The impact on the company was quite disruptive, since at any one time a third of the office-based staff were in the Training Centre.

Because all the branch personnel came in for the training, the week consisted of lots of little meetings crammed into lunch and coffee breaks or taking place in the evening after the training had finished. I particularly disliked evening meetings with Sales Manager Frank Hunter (when the air conditioning was switched off at six o’clock the sudden silence was very noticeable, and for a long time I tried to recall why that moment was familiar to me - until I realised it corresponded to a profound moment in a feature film about a sinking liner, Titanic or similar, when the ship’s engines suddenly stop and you know the vessel is doomed). Frank and I worked on the new sales literature - as usual there was a great deal of dithering and going off at tangents. Many times I silently expressed thanks that I do not report to him, since the way he treats his team is so awful. At one meeting we clashed over the wording of a paragraph, and I feared he would cause trouble but when we talked next day there was a complete volte-face (which made me suspect he had complained to Marc Bottoni and had been rebuffed). As well as the new sales literature we discussed new designs for the Yellow Pages advertisements - it was incredible how much time and energy was taken up considering these simple designs.

Wednesday afternoon I took off to play golf with IT Supervisor Eric Morgan. I didn’t really want to do this, as the weather was so cold (plus I don’t enjoy golf), but since Eric had asked me I felt it would be bad manners to refuse. We played nine holes. The peace of the countryside was wonderful, the course bounded by stark oak trees smothered with ivy. And I was pleased at the reasonably competent way I managed to get through the game. Afterwards we had a simple dinner at the Club House, joined by Eric’s wife Jean.

Thursday was the only training day I sat through completely. Entitled Professional Selling Skills it was for all sales reps, sales estimators and call centre staff, plus a few extras like myself. About fifty people in all were in the main training room, sat round a big horseshoe of tables (there were not enough chairs for everyone, so several people were sat on tables along the side walls). I sat next to IT Manager Gavin Bargate - he was trying to be friendly but came across as patronising:

“Have you settled in alright?” he asked me, despite the fact that I had been at the company over four months (his tone was one of a senior director talking to a junior whereas in fact he is no older and no more important than myself - I resisted the temptation to ask whether HE had settled in alright).

The training began with the usual round where we had to introduce ourselves. I mentioned my interest in local history, how I liked to photograph historical sites, the large amount of historical reading I do. Other people talked about playing football or buying antique postcards on E-bay.

The Trainer had a droning voice and sweated a great deal (the armpits of his blue shirt became dark with perspiration). I had given him a copy of my Marketing Plan at the beginning of the week, and it was interesting the way in which he publicly endorsed my ideas (some of which had been expressly rejected by Frank Hunter). He gave a general introduction to selling (most of which was very basic) and showed us a video.

Lunchtime we all went across to a back room of the cafeteria where a buffet meal had been laid out. As usual I found the food rather stodgy and the conversation uninspiring (ranging from Office Politics: “There were so many names dropping at the last plc board meeting I had to wear steel toe-caps to protect my feet…” to Sport: “Some rugby players hit themselves before going out onto the pitch…” to Call Centre Gossips Giving Advice To New Entrants: “And watch out for Frank Hunter, he’s stupid sly and dangerous, and still trying to trade on his good-looks which have long gone to seed…”). As soon as I could (without appearing to be anti-social) I left the cafeteria to take refuge back at my desk.

In the afternoon the course attendees were augmented by a contingent from the Stevenage branch, so that the room became quite crowded. Sat on the end of one of the side tables, leaning casually back against the cream-coloured canvas-weave wallpaper, was Louis Maxwell, sales rep and office lothario, based at Stevenage. Aged in his mid-twenties, he was very sure of himself. Well-cut black suit with a narrow pin-stripe, black silk tie (subtle curvilinear pattern in dark red), shirt made of a thick white cotton fabric so that the cuffs were substantial, secured with big silver cuff-links (in my quest for details I wanted to ask him where he had bought his suit, but decided not to do so in case my interest was misinterpreted). Tiny mysterious gold badge in his jacket lapel. Crafty when dealing with the complaining call centre staff (lots of pat answers to the criticisms they made about how he ignored them and didn’t keep them up to date about his customer list).

Despite the lounging way he sat, he could move very quickly, expertly diving forward for papers on the main table as the handouts were circulated. His face was lightly tanned, the features even, the dark hair longish at the back. Wide sensuous mouth with the lips open (did he breathe through his mouth?). There was a look of concentration on his face (dark eyebrows above his dark eyes ever so slightly furrowed), as oblivious to the trainer he stared at one of the call centre staff.

The object of his attention was a New Girl who had just joined the call centre team. It was her first day and she had obviously made an effort over her appearance (slim-cut woollen trousers in dark brown checks, burgundy shirt with tiny white polka dots, v-neck black top splashed with a design of red cabbage roses). Aged nineteen or twenty, her face was beautiful, the jaw-line strong. Her light-brown hair, with a central parting, was long and wavy. Her eyes were almond shaped and the colour of pale green chartreuse. She seemed not to notice Louis Bargate, although he was staring right at her.

The turnover in the call centre is very high, and just looking at the New Girl, one could tell that she wasn’t likely to last very long, especially as her desk is opposite that of Lou Thompson, Call Centre Supervisor. Lou Thompson is an atrocious bully - aged in her fifties she is very tall and has a loud penetrating voice and intimidating manner so that she reminds me of the evil trolls of Scandinavian mythology (in particular, she has a way of standing up when she is arguing with someone, so that she literally towers over them resembling a TH White short story set in Sweden about an ordinary woman who would grow into a monstrous troll every time you looked away from her). If the New Girl escapes the predatory attentions of the sales reps she is not likely to survive very long the irrational angry outbursts of Lou Thompson.

During the late afternoon I found I was falling asleep and it was a horrible sensation to try to stay awake.

Andrew Porter on Straight Talk, BBC News 24

Last night I watched Straight Talk on BBC News 24 - I was told about this programme by Gary Spencer (it is acquiring a cult following among his circle of young and ambitious financial advisors, despite the killing time it is broadcast). Last night Andrew Porter from the Sunday Times was very perceptive about Angela Merkel's visit to Paris on Wednesday. I havn't been familiar with the astute political interpretations of Andrew Porter since I hardly ever buy The Sunday Times (apart from the obvious objection about giving money to Rupert Murdoch, it would mean missing the Roger Bootle column in The Sunday Telegraph).

Pharrell Williams

While I was waiting for Straight Talk I watched music videos, including Drop It Like It's Hot by Snoop Dog, featuring Pharrell Williams. Pharrell Williams currently has a single out entitled Can I Have It Like That (featuring Gwen Stefani). Pharrell Williams is one of those artists whose musical influence extends far beyond the intrinsic value of his own productions.

An anthropological manifesto

Recently I have been wondering why I write this weblog. It represents quite a considerable investment in time and effort. Today it occurred to me, looking back at past entries, that what I have really been doing is practising my skills as an (amateur) historian and (very amateur) anthropologist.

And because I am not able to travel to the Amazon rain forests or the islands of the Pacific I have chosen to study the nearest societies to hand - the corporate world where I work, the middle class village communities where I live, and the various aspects of my personal progress through life.

So this weblog is an anthropological study (and this entry an anthropological manifesto). Whether the effort is worthwhile or not I can’t say. All I know is that it keeps me from being bored.

Often readers ask me what would happen if the weblog were to be “discovered”. As an experiment I recently told someone who is featured regularly (and not always favourably) and they were delighted by the way they had been described - they couldn’t stop talking about it. So I suppose reactions are going to be unpredictable (and I am resigned to the fact that sooner or later everything is going to come out).

What my readers think of this web log I can’t really say. Sitemeter tells me I get roughly a hundred visitors a day. Only a tiny fraction of that number ever leave a comment. If more people would comment it would make the process of writing much easier. And I would really appreciate people introducing themselves - even if just a first name, where you live and maybe what you do for a living. It will help me visualise who my audience is.

In this entry I am going to look at the interaction among the different departments, groups and cliques in the company (and which has taken me some time to work out). A conversation with Operations Manager Ian Murray (about forty, tall, gaunt) threw some light on the byzantine complexity of the organisation. As an old company hand, he enjoyed telling me about the corporate past (and as an historian, I enjoyed recording this utterly useless information).

“It all stems from the acquisition of the family business by Group plc” said Ian. “Unlike most of the Group’s acquisitions, where they bought a small company to gain a particular contract, this company was a mature organisation, with a fully developed structure and hierarchy equal to that of Group plc. It thus doesn’t fit easily into Group plc’s format, and has to be handled carefully – it’s an empire within the Group plc empire. That’s one of the reasons they chose Marc Bottoni as the Managing Director rather than putting in their own man. Formerly he had been manager of the branches, and overnight he was promoted to senior director following the departure of the old boss-family.”

IT Supervisor Eric Morgan (plump, grey haired, liable to histrionics) had been listening to what Ian was saying, and came over to where we were sitting.

“Whatever people say about Mr Bottoni’s shortcomings” Ian went on, “he has proved to be very good at managing the ambiguous relationship between the Group and the sbu” (sbu means Strategic Business Unit – after the takeover the company was re-designated an sbu). “You’ll notice there is a very definite difference in this organisation between a person who has senior rank and a person who is in charge and can give orders. There is a constant struggle between the two. Officially the Group recognises sbu autonomy. In reality there are lots of new people coming into the company looking to build careers for themselves with the backing of mentors at Group plc – it’s the usual way the Group operates and imposes its control. But in our company these new people have to be tamed in case they upset too many of the old regime and it starts to impact on business.”

“The whole thing could collapse like a soufflé when the oven door is opened” said Eric Morgan importantly.

“Why do questions of power and status matter?” I asked. “At the end of the day we all work for the same company. That should be enough.”

Eric Morgan burst out with a comment that obviously came from the heart (he had been a manager in the old set up and was now just a supervisor): “They matter because they decide who gets a good car, who gets a good salary level, and who gets a departmental budget allocation with teams of people to work for them. These are all vitally important considerations. That’s why you will often see two people fighting over the same job – the old manager who has senior rank, and the new manager who is taking all the decisions.”

“It’s the old managers that give the new managers their legitimacy” said Ian. “When Group plc bought the company from the Cain family they were only interested in one big contract. But now they are running the show they are starting to realise that this company has lots of fingers in very lucrative pies, and the potential to make money is enormous. But they have to tread carefully since there is always a risk of people leaving and taking their contacts to a competitor. This is not office politics in the usual style. This is a cold war between two clearly defined opposing sides.”

“And it’s far from certain who is going to win” said Eric Morgan excitedly, “since there are many people here who want the sbu to become an independent company again.”

We had gone too far. A noise behind us made all three of us look round simultaneously to see Managing Director of Marc Bottoni glaring at us from behind his thick spectacles. He had come in quietly through the side door from the Board Room - there was no knowing how long he had been standing there.

Last Friday - the eleventh day of the eleventh month

As a (part time) historian I am interested in the way in which items of contemporary life become memorialised and make the transition into "history". One of the most significant examples of this is the way in which the two world wars of the last century are passing from living memory into a mythological context, to be interpreted by historians working from second hand sources. This display of poppies, arranged by Maud Blanchard (old enough to have lived through the Second World War) has significance because it has been constructed by a participant in the conflict.

Although my main interest is in the medieval period, I try to collect examples of twentieth-century "history" that might be vulnerable. It was Marie-Astrid (who has little sympathy with the past and is always telling me to look to the future) who told me about the little northern village where there was a small shrine to the remarkable Dame Sarah Swift who came out of retirement to become Matron-in-Chief of 1,500 hospitals during the First World War. As well as a portrait photograph of Dame Sarah (looking very formidable, as if she could quell the German hordes with one disapproving look) there was a framed illuminated citation from the British Red Cross and a typed biography of her life - all these items could vanish tomorrow.

Sometimes in stained glass windows you get an actual portrait of someone who served in the Great War, usually dressed in mediaeval armour (as in this example) to emphasise the special nature of the conflict against Germany. The implication is that he has become translated into one of the knights of King Arthur, ready to return in the hour of England's need. In the village of Swaffham in Cambridgeshire there is a sequence of stained glass windows showing First World War tanks storming the German trenches to usher in an English paradise-on-earth (portrayed in Edwardian rural symbolism).

Machine Gunners' memorial at Hyde Park Corner - the inscription reads: Saul hath killed his thousands but David hath killed his tens of thousands.