Spending a Saturday night with my bride is a good thing, spending it at the boxing is not my idea of a romantic night out or even a night out really. in truth it would never occur to me to go to the boxing as a form of entertainment with or without my bride. But here I was. The most out of shape man in the room, and quite possibly the only one without ink. A few months ago I had said yes (as I stupidly always do) when I got the phone call asking me to do a charity auction of just one or two things.

With the usual calendar creep, the night suddenly loomed in my diary and I hightailed it back from the farm to get dressed to attend a night of boxing, somewhere in which I was required to get into the ring, and sell a framed glove and a huge framed boxers robe. Sure enough this was the crowd that would be most likely to buy such memorabilia but I needed convincing that anyone in the room would spend the money.

The room was chock-a-block full of muscle, tattoos and testosterone. Fair to say, not my usual charity auction crowd and certainly not my usual social mix on a Saturday night, and certainly not date night. For what its worth I thought the boxing was really interesting. I watched about twelve fights I think. Most of them going the full three rounds, one lasting three seconds.

I was more comfortable watching men fight than women, but that could just be me being sexist. I was more comfortable watching young men fight than old, but on another level I worried that the young men might be taking risks with their body that their head couldn’t match up to in later life. A couple of the fights were between men in their fifties. My instant thought was, “surely by fifty you don’t need to be getting into a ring to get pounded!”. Then I did also think the same rule applied to anyone regardless of age.

They call it the sweet science, but it is pretty brutal stuff. The most interesting aspect of all to me was the impact the fights had on the crowd. One well placed and well-timed punch had men instantly on their feet baying for more. It instantly recalled a similar feeling when I was very young watching the wrestling on TV with my younger brother and getting gee’d up to the extent we would wrestle on the lounge with great vigour. These men were all a fair bit older than that though and took it all a bit more seriously too.

A little scuffle broke out in the crowd, which I guess is pretty standard stuff on Saturday nights anywhere, but it took on a whole new level when you took into account the size of the men involved and the menace with which they held their threatening poses. I couldn’t back out of the area quick enough. It did all settle down quite quickly though and the fights continued.

A special mention to the fight promoter. If there is a spectrum upon which every fight promoter stands relative to their good looks Astrid Ven Der Sluys is definitely at the other end from every other fights promoter I have ever seen. I am reliably informed she is a more than handy pugilist.

It is no secret, my handyman skills are close to zero. When I got my first brush-cutter to clear some overgrown grass and Lantana on the property, I did my market research and bought one that was highly recommended. I managed to bring it to a grinding halt on the first day I used it.

Before I started it the first time, I read the manual including the bit that said how you start it and how you use it, but I didn’t read the section on how to stop it. So rather than stopping it the right way, I effectively flooded it. Sure it stopped, but then it would not start. In trying to rectify that error I then over-filled the oil and rendered the machine completely mute.
It cut my weekend of work short and I had to take it to the repair man back in Sydney to get it going. When I came back to his shop to pick it up he spent a few minutes explaining where I had gone wrong and assured me that newbies do the same thing all the time and I shouldn’t feel bad about it.
Blow me down if a similar thing didn’t happen with the Chainsaw. It couldn’t possibly be me could it (rhetorical question, of course it is) I did the research, bought the best one my money could buy and it stopped working the first time I used it. I did read the manual from cover to cover this time making sure I read and understood the section on stopping it. This time I took it back to the Stihl shop from which I bought it expecting them to roll their eyes, charge me a fortune to repair it and laugh behind my back as I left. Instead the bloke behind the counter asked me how it happened, took it apart there and then, did a few tricky things to it and handed it back to me happily.
“There you go pal, all fixed” and then proceeded to explain what I had done in terms I could understand and in a way that didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot. Brilliant! I couldn’t ask for more. Walking into the shop I felt for sure it was going to be both humiliating and expensive and it was neither. Walking out, I could not have been happier. That’s why you buy a great brand and happily pay a few dollars more!

Apparently I am learning.

I can only guess that my father grunted at me to keep out of his way as he built things when I was young, because I have zero handyman skills. My father, a navy man, was often away its fair to say, so perhaps in his defence, when I was ready to learn he was on board a ship somewhere. But no matter the cause, I was seriously left behind when the hammer, drill and saw sessions were being run. Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say I missed out on the measuring section, because I can cut and drill, but they rarely marry up to where they are meant to.

So with that in mind, I have this property in the country that requires non-stop handyman skills. It is fair to say, it is a steep learning curve and I am relying heavily on Mr Googlepants and Uncle YouTube. The lesson that I am trying to take to heart at the moment is measure twice, cut once. This has never been my mantra in real life, as I have preferred to take action and patch up the rough bits later. I am fast learning that the patch up approach is not always the best, and not always even possible when it comes to doing handyman stuff off-grid.
For example once you have put down foundations, you can’t move them, there is no cribbing, or patching or buffing or the building equivalent of spellcheck. They are there to stay buddy, warts and all. One of the other lessons I have learned is about tools. I am now going to buy the best I can afford, even if that means waiting an extra week for a few more dollars. Buying cheap tools is a false economy. You do truly get what you pay for when it comes to hand tools.
The dawning of this realisation came when I purchased an irresistibly cheap spade. A good brand of spade was $68 and the cheap version, hanging directly below it in the store was $4.95. I mean really? I am doing everything on a tight budget, so I reconciled the purchase of the cheap one with “$4.95, how bad can it be? I only have to use it twice and it has paid for itself.” I was pretty much right. It rusted after two digging sessions and didn’t have any of the integrity that a real spade should come with. Now I have a $68 spade that works and the remnants of my $4.95 spade. I regard that as a $4.95 lesson so that is great.

Steep learning curve and loving every minute of it.

Bringing a new /old dog into your home is an interesting exercise. As a result of our cat going AWOL and our friends, and their dog moving overseas, our much loved pooch was getting a bit needy so after much talk, the bride and I decided we needed a new entrant. First call was to the lovely breeder of Murphy our Basset Fauve, to find out if she had an older dog that needed rehoming. I had heard that this happens from time to time to dogs that don’t quite measure up in the siring stakes.

Her response was a little cautious. It was a tentative maybe in fact. Trish told me that she would need to consult the family first as they did indeed have a young lad that might be better off away from the pack she had at home. Our Murphy is very timid, and has been since day one. So another quiet timid dog might be just the thing. Conversation and consideration started.

Long story short, Rudy is with us now, after an eleven hour round trip. Three days into the venture and we have some promising signs. He has been transported from a lovely quiet country setting to inner city Sydney with all of its noise and sights. He is handling himself well though.

Murphy has swung from absolute delight at having a visitor, to sulking on day two because he wasn’t a visitor. She has never been a cuddler, but as I sat on the couch to watch the footy yesterday she spent the entire game working how to get closer to me. On top, was never close enough.

I took them off for a walk this morning. We walk about 5 kms in total. Its a walk on leads down to a lovely big park full of all sorts of dogs and their owners. Crammed with smells and sights and excitement and did I mention dogs? Murphy was off the lead and walking around like she owned the place while I kept Rudy close, which suited us both frankly. Murphy is normally very timid without her little (now kiwi) border terrier mate, but not this morning. She was strutting her stuff and letting Rudy know all about it, frequently arriving at his side to bite his ear.

For his part, Rudy was happiest with Murphy by his side trotting along the path, leaning into her. I think secretly she really liked it too. Eventually the aim is to have them both be able to wander through the park off leads, but that may take a while. Rudy would spell his own name for a treat, but is not too keen on sitting at the curb yet. Murphy is the queen of curb sitting and looked pretty smug doing it too.

Murphy is a bit like Beyonce in build, or perhaps a little like Serena Williams while Rudy looks a little more like a dog version of Bill Gates. They look great together and though my biggest fear about having two dogs was walking them without killing people as they tried to run by on their morning jog, we got it going this morning sufficiently to give me hope that it will work.

I have a restless mind. It whirls and spins from one subject of interest to another in seconds, rarely settling on one thing long enough to have much of an effect. It is forever looking at things and wondering why they are the way they are. Why things are done in a particular way and why not another way etc.
In my unsettled youth, that came across as a constant stream of criticism, which is what it was. It wasn’t what it was meant to be, but I had yet to develop the correct number of filters. Pretty much meaning that I said what I thought. Now if you don’t think much, or your think clearly and cogently that works out beautifully, but if you have a head full of stuff swirling around you just sound like a loon.
Funnily enough, the property, the beautiful blank piece of land we have bought has been a great way of settling my mind. It has provided a subject to vector my thoughts and aim my questioning mind upon. The huge blank canvas has provided me with a tap which i can turn on and off (if only I could) or at least a tap and hose, that I can point in one direction. It has been significant for my mental health.
Though in real life I only worry about the things i can change or at least effect (most of the time anyway) much more so than in my youth, it is now almost exclusively focused on the farm. What should I plant and where, how do i develop the skills sufficient to build this thing or create that thing? My bustling enquiring mind is now looking at building passive solar in a way that works best and most efficiently in a range of different applications, investigating best permaculture practice, solving problems that are vast and complex in a way that will reduce my footprint upon the earth.
In other words my brain space is now being used for good rather than evil, and about time too.

Like many pet owners I am frequently guilty of personifying them, that is attributing human like emotions to them. Things like happiness, loneliness, boredom or frustration. I don’t know why we do this, but I am definitely guilty of it. So please understand that as the backdrop to what follows.
My dog Murphy is going to be really sad. Her best friend, Gus the Burmese cat, just walked out the door two weeks ago, never to be seen again. Today, her little friend Walter the border terrier, that we walk with every day was packed off in a little transport crate to start his new life in New Zealand. So in the space of a fortnight she has gone from hanging out with her little dark brown friend during the day, playing games and rough housing with him, taking breaks to walk with her little friend from around the corner, to now being all alone.
I know on tomorrow morning’s walk she will stop outside his house and wait for him to come out, and he isn’t coming out.
The very thought was breaking my heart. We have decided to buy another dog. They are after all, pack animals. I have contacted the breeder and as luck would have it, they had the perfect dog. He is about the same age, house trained (I love that idea) of similar personality and they had to think long and hard before giving him up.

I’m excited about it.
It will mean getting used to walking two dogs in the morning rather than one of course, but I reckon that’s manageable. It may take some practice but I’m up for it. Living in a tiny inner city house means twice daily walks so I feel sure it won’t take long

I don’t know what it is about them, I don’t know how they do it. But our cat knows when the absolute most inconvenient time would be to try to sit on my lap. If I am watching Tv, no way. If I am sitting somewhere having a quiet glass of wine, no chance. But if I have just got a good idea for a blog, or I have a deadline to beat, or I have just made a promise to someone about responding immediately, the cat appears, claws its way up my leg and onto my lap. Where it doesn’t fit. My legs are too short or my stomach is too big and the gap between my desk and my belly button just will not allow the animal to be restful.

Frankly it doesn’t want to be restful anyway. It insists on clawing its way up my chest and trying to balance on my shoulder as I write and objects noisily to every letter I punch. In protest then clambers down and steps onto the keyboard. Not at all helpful.

I don’t even like cats. How do they know though?

Brothers and sisters are trained fighters
Family fights were one of the reasons I was delighted to leave the world of auctions behind. Brothers and sisters who, for the most part, got along well, when mum and dad passed away, suddenly decided that the family couch was theirs for the keeping and were prepared to fight to the death for it. The same could be said for paintings, or books or even the pots and pans. There is never a real winner, it is always ugly and invariably there is collateral damage.

Often, decades of unresolved frustration boil over to turn even the most reasonable siblings into martial artists.

Strangely enough, these days, as I record Life Logs for various clients, this same theme crops up time and time again. People filled with regret or even remorse over fights about stupid possessions at the cost of a friendship with a sibling.

 

At the time I was working in a dead-end job. It was in truth, the latest in a long line of dead end jobs. I had not enjoyed any of them really, but there was a need to earn money for my young family and my capabilities were meagre, so here I was. The company decided that it needed a senior manager and thought they would give the people on the floor the chance to step forward, I threw my hat in the ring. I figured what is the worst that could happen? I know stuff, I know how our customers think, I reckon I’m as smart as most of the others so what the hey.

The appointment was being handled by an external employment agency in three phases. Written applications, interview and then psych testing. The job was also advertised externally. The candidates would know they got through the written applications if they were invited to an interview etc. The internal candidates were guaranteed an interview so that was at least something.

So regardless of the strength of my application, when given the time for my interview it was without much excitement or sense of achievement. In my interview I was candid and probably a little too straightforward, certainly that was what I was thinking as I caught the train home in time to put the uniform on and get back to work. A few days later I was told I should turn up to do some psych testing. Now I was pretty excited. I knew I was the only internal applicant to get to the next stage.

I didn’t think I would get this far. I knew I would get an interview because I was an internal candidate so my expectations certainly weren’t raised at that stage, but now, off to some fancy pants evaluation centre, that was a whole new deal.

I got their early, like I do everywhere. I sat in the comfortable lounge in the foyer and was eventually invited behind the big doors down a corridor into a little white room. It was too small to be a part of some padded cell but that’s pretty much what it felt like. I was handed a few sheets of paper and a pencil and told to answer what I could in the time I had, and they would be back at the right time to stop me and collect the papers.

That sounded simple enough, so they left the room and I started sticking crosses on the paper without wasting any time. I wasn’t being reckless but I wasn’t triple reading anything either. Sooner than I had expected the door opened and they gave me another bunch of papers in a hostage exchange for the last lot. Same process and in what felt like even less time, they were back to run a third test.

Because I changed schools so often courtesy of my father’s Naval career, I had done more than my fair share of IQ tests, so I had no fear of these sorts of procedures, in fact some of the questions had a ring of familiarity about them.

The lovely office person then gave me a nice big smile and said that was all done and they would advise the firm in due course. They made it quite clear that I would not be hearing from them again. I remember thinking, well, that’s that.

Just as I had anticipated, there was no ticker tape parade next time I turned up for work. I gave myself a silent internal kicking for getting my hopes up. What was I thinking? They were probably just being nice. I may have been the only internal candidate that told them the truth about their organisation. So they probably felt obliged to send me to those tests.

I had given myself two weeks as the envelope of enquiry, Though I didn’t expect to hear from anyone upstairs, I gave it two weeks until I would give up on the idea entirely. The next day I was doing my thing at work when the boss meandered up to me and told me I wasn’t getting the job. He was nice and polite and I tried not to let my disappointment show. Almost without drawing breath he said the recommendation of the testing company was that I was way too bright to be doing my current job. My boss had very kindly and generously agreed to provide me with another meeting with the employment consultant to try to find me a job I was better suited to. I will forever be grateful.

In the next meeting, which was with a senior manager, I was provided with an insight into their testing numbers and where I sat on the spectrum. They gave me my test scores and then her expression changed, a scowl came across her face and she asked me what the hell was I doing? I then received a lecture. It was both confronting and fun. I was so excited to be told in a sort of definitive way that I was pretty bright and shown the scores that seemed to indicate it was true and at the same time be chastised for the same virtue, or more accurately wasting that virtue.

Previous to this manager, the only person that had ever told me I was super bright was my mum. Now lets face it, I think we all know, our own mum thinks we are all bright and beautiful. It is hardly an evidence based decision. I knew that mum was just pumping me up, bless her, that was her job after all. “My mum says I’m handsome” is not going to cut it in the modelling world.

A new dawn had arrived. That afternoon I went out and bought 4 books. A book on mathematic theory, and three books on science. Between the four books they covered pretty much everything I knew I was too dumb to ever understand. But now that I was smart, I ate them up. While they were not the first books I had ever read, I could name all of the others.

On reflection, what had really changed? It was merely my mindset. I was in the middle of learning an incredibly valuable lesson. The biggest change you can make in your life is in your own mind. I soon learnt about the “Growth mindset” and have been an outspoken advocate ever since. I went on to earn my MBA and run my own business and along the way advise dozens of other businesses on how to improve their performance.
Michael Beaumont MBA
The Life Log Project

Michael records histories and stories for the benefit of future generations. For more on the Life Log Project go to http://www.thelifelogproject.com.au