Psychometricity

Now I don’t know about you but I’m sick to the back teeth of all of them blatherin on, on the radio, and the internet about the state of the nation and lack of leadership. We are, allegedly, a democracy although last week the goings on were far from democratic. For years we’ve been electing leaders but in recent times the process aint workin. Hypothetically of course, might it be possible to fit the right person to the right job and in this case the most important and difficult job in the country? Think outside the box (I know, I hate that aul jargon too!). Why not advertise for the job? ‘Taosieach wanted. Must have copious amounts of common sense. Should possess leadership qualities with a real commitment to learning and personal growth. Must be able to do sums. Preferably be creative. Experience not essential. On the job training will be provided. Salary negotiable for suitable candidate.’

The use of personality measures and ability tests for employee selection has expanded since the early 1990s. It is intimated by many psychologists that a person’s behaviour may be predicated with the benefit of a detailed account of that person’s psychological traits. Now, before the argument begins, for all those academics who say it can, there are as many who believe it cannot. Nonetheless, Costa and McCrae have made a nice packet out of their Big Five model, narrowing us all down to five traits (openness, conscientiousness, extroversion, agreeableness and neuroticism). Whether you believe it or not, it’s out there, in the ether. So if www.FindYourPrinceCharmingWhoLeavesTheToiletSeatDown.com uses psychometric personality testing to do a Lisdoonvarna on would-be couples, why don’t we, as a country, advertise for candidates and whittle them down using similar measures? However, leadership is hard to define. We need a worthy leader, with the capacity to lead, direct and inspire in a manner that has merit, integrity and esteem. Do all that but with a vision. And be sound as a pound as well. So, is there a relationship between leadership and personality and ability? It is intimated there is, with much emphasis on extraversion, conscientiousness, openness and intelligence. The link between empathy and leadership is less investigated than other traits but should not be discounted. Surely an empathic leader is what we’ve been missing, someone who can listen to what others say and have the ability to read accurately the reactions of others. This leadership business is a complicated matter and even if the potential candidates had the smarts to do the job could they learn the woolly empathic stuff?  Now ability (intelligence) is another kettle a’ fish. Ability tests, I would agree, are indeed contentious. Nevertheless, the right person would need the ability to assimilate and interpret large volumes of complex information. On the other hand these intelligence tests, it could be said, do not allow for divergent thinking and what we really need now is a creative open leader, surely.   So why don’t we give it a try. What have we got to lose. We’re crocked anyway. ‘Wanted. Worthy leader.’ You’d never know who might surface. 

Sound Out

I’m prone to living in my own head. Not good sometimes. This week I took a trip down literary memory lane. The catalyst was Soundings and those of an age will remember the Leaving Cert poetry book with the squiggly green cover. It’s back on the shelves by popular demand, as the fella says. A gift for Christmas, it livens the elegiac connections in the grey matter. My school copy is buried in the depths of the attic at home no doubt, covered in notes, doodles and love hearts. I also gave a copy to a dearest friend who celebrated a birthday last week. I wished I was there to reminisce with her as we both loved that textbook. Much of our enthusiasm is down to some great teachers who taught in the old alma mater,  The Mercy, Newtownsmyth. We all had our favourites, some of the stanzas, couldn’t make head nor tail of them. It had all the hits. The inspirational odes of the Romantic Brat Pack;  Shelley,  Keats and Wordsworth.  There was Kavanagh’s insightful ‘dance in Billy Brennan’s barn’.  I was blown away by Clarke and his lyrical ‘The Planter’s Daughter’  as ‘men who had seen her/Drank deep and were silent’. And, of course, the emblematic  ‘September 1913’ where Yeats’ poetic voice rings true today as the bankers and politicians who ruined the country ‘fumble in the greasy till/And add the halfpence to the pence’. 

The Small Man in our house likes to look at our copies of US, a book of photos taken in Ireland by ordinary people doing all sorts of things, on the same day in October 2005 and again in 2010. He can be quite contemplative, gets that from his aul lad. He says it reminds him of home.  They’re great books, uniquely Irish. But this thing of Irish identity is hard to pin down. I tell him he will always be Irish no matter where he lives. Moving away inevitably leads to questions of identity as you try to assimilate into your new surroundings, wherever that may be. But all the while you try to retain your uniqueness, stay the person you are, especially when you have children.  In Soundings, T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ got me thinking. His symbolic masterpiece deals with the self-doubts of modern man, ya know, urbanisation, isolation, lack of spirituality, social crisis, all those light-hearted knitting-of-the- brow themes.  So, for me, ‘There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet’  reminds me of those who have left home and landed in pastures new, cities strange with fresh faces, by choice or without choice. Don’t change too much. It’s hard work meeting new people. Sure, when in Rome and all of that but be true to yourself. Don’t misplace your essence. And pick up a copy of Soundings..not to analyse, compare or contrast. Just immerse yourself in some of the greats.  Plug in, tune out. 

January...hate tha!

If Carlsberg were doing most depressing months, it would probably be January. For many reasons, some of us even have a long list. The credit card doesn’t know what hit it, hot to the touch, the liver is in shock and as for the jeans...must be the tumble dryer surely, Himsel must have changed the setting. Back to those dreaded early mornings that feel like the middle of the night and as for homework, it should be banned. In all honesty though, I must admit, I kinda like getting back to some routine. It’s good for the aul noggin, allegedly. However, this time of year comes with one of those niggling annoying tasks that you just don’t want to think about. There it sits all forlorn in the tree stand, Billy-No-Mates on the patio, all by it ownself, looking in at me, aware of its redundancy. Yes..the Christmas tree. Ya see, in Galway it was lobbed with loving care behind the back of the shed down the end of the long garden. Before we left I counted 5 of them all brown and on their last legs. Just lying there, not bothering anyone, not an eyesore, between the shed and the bushes, just slowly decaying to mulch. On mature recollection there were 2 others which Galway Grandad kindly chopped up.  Each tree marked another year.  Here, in this new space where we are endeavouring to adapt there will be no pegging of said tree behind the shed. There is no behind the shed. We don’t have the approved brown bin to dispose of garden waste either. We don’t have a fireplace in which to burn it. Maybe we’ll stew it and eat it? But for the moment it shall stay there, until it is prioritised up the ‘to do’ list. It may be a while. Might even do for next year.

Meanwhile, down at the school the playground meeting area is alive with chat of how, where and who the holidays were spent with. Tarantino Woman told me, in Thame talk, she spent it with ‘her brotha-in-law’ as her ‘motha-in-law has downsizzzzed and isn’t hosting anymo’. Translated to Galway spake..the mother-in-law sold the big house and ya couldn’t swing a cat in her new gaff.  Indeed the vernacular here is peculiar to my ears betimes. Thankfully, they don’t all sprechen sie Posh. Nonetheless a trip around the local Waitrose does require one to reset one’s ears to genteel mode. The nice staff at the checkout always apologise for keeping you waiting, even when you haven’t been waiting and were first in the queue. Cracks me up each time. When asked ‘will you be needing any bogs today, madam’ they just look at me in a confused fashion when the answer is ‘no, you’re sound, thanks’.  I can hear the different intonations creeping into the kids’ voices. After a week at home they had lost it and the Galway accent was strong, but it’s skulking back in there again now that they are back at school and with their new friends. What can one do? Time to increase the frequency of trips to the West, I reckon. 

Snow you see it...snow you don’t!

What snow? There it was...gone. All that carnage and mayhem. Well...did ya get goin? Did ya get the water goin? Did ya get the heating goin? Did ya get the car goin? Did ya get a plumber? How did ya get the Christmas!! It came and it went, a strange one this year. Pressure was on this end to get out before the band of snow came our way and locked us in. So, we made an executive decision, wet washing in the machine, breakfast still on the counter, the place like a tip, rang the nice man in StenaLine and got an early ferry. All the while we watched the traffic reports and heard of trucks jack-knifing, 20 mile tailbacks on the motorways but when you drive it, against relentless snow with kids in the back, no windscreen water, zero visibility, toes frozen...in a word...stress.  I was brickin it. None of us wanted to spend Christmas here so we had our hearts set on getting that ferry. Determination or irresponsibility, call it what you will. I had visions of us as characters from a Cormac McCarthy novel, trailing the highways and byways, warding off other vagrants, car abandoned, belongings and children on our backs. There was no ‘are we there yet’ from the Three. ‘Will we get home to Ireland’ was more like it. I was never as glad to get out of the car in Holyhead. The ferry crossing a dream. From Dublin to Tipp we drove in the wee small hours on roads that can only be described as treacherous. Door to door, Thame to Clonmel, 17 hours. I think we were lucky compared to some poor divils. We could have been stuck in Armageddon in Heathrow or Dublin. Nanna and Grandad were waiting up with tea and sandwiches. Sure, what else would ya be doin of a Tuesday morning, 5am! The kids are seasoned travellers, used to being dragged around the place but that was tough going. They slept like babies. Christmas morning was great, Santa came and Nanna got drunk on ½ glass champagne at 8am in the morning. Must have been the bubbles.

Stephen’s Day packed up the wagon and headed Wesht. The big thaw was on. Wow! Everything green again. Glad to see the back of snow.  No water in the folks house in Galway but hooked up hose with neighbour and filled the tank. Meanwhile, trasna an uisce mór in New York, the Galway Nanna and Grandad were stranded, again, in...more snow.  Delayed on the way out in Dublin, delayed on the way back in NY. I didn’t envy them. We saw them for about 2 hours before we headed back. But, we’ll be back before they know it. We packed, again, and unpacked, again this end. On arrival here we gingerly turned the key, as we had not turned off the mains on departure, so eager to get going. I had visions of all our bits n bobs meeting us at the end of the road in a flood. But touching wood all was well. Nothing was afloat and no sign of leakage.

 I have learned many things this Christmas; freezing temperature of kerosene v diesel (we had green jelly in the tank), much about plumbing, how to drive in snow, the futility of rear wheeled drive in snow,  how we take water for granted, the warmth and joy of an open fire, waste of time makin pastry and mashed potatoes cause they’re never as good as His mother’s and most importantly we think we have control of things, but really we don’t...oh and the importance of thermal vests. So here’s to 2011. I was never a wan for resolutions, not starting now either. 

Flus and Festives

If Carlsberg did flus....you know the rest. First I got it. It took me down. Then the kids got it, well the women so far. This past week it’s been like having different children in the house, the bodysnatchers have been here.  Both my girls have been floored by this flu that’s invaded the school. There were ten children missing in their class today. They missed their school disco, their choir concert. It lingers now with the Youngest. Stuck to the bed she’d sleep for Ireland at the best of times but this is different, no chat at all, no energy, lifeless.  All you want is for them to get better, it breaks your heart. As a parent you would take all the unpleasant feelings away and suffer yourself. I have been marooned at home for over a week now with one or both and this evil viral flu. At least you’d get out for a few hours during the day in prison. And they wouldn’t keep playin the same movie over and over again. Well maybe they would, it is a form of torture after all. Now I’m a big fan of Jack Black but there are only so many times I can watch School of Rock.

Nevertheless, despite the mountain of tissues, packets of Lemsip, spoons of honey, cough bottle, flat 7up, snot, moans, groans, aches and pains Himself put the tree up. Dragged it in and scratched his head at the lights that didn’t work. There was a bread knife taken to the bottom bit, health and safety all important in this house. Now if we had a cat to swing he’d be dead, it’s like Narnia in the sitting room. We eat our breakfast amongst the spruce. Each year you dig out the old decorations, up to the attic or out to the garage. I cannot help but be melancholy for Christmases past. I cannot but think of our old house at home, the enjoyable Christmases we spent there. Each year the tree changes a little, from being bottom heavy with baubles and bits to now chock full around the middle as the children get taller. The excitement of the lights going on is still there, even with all the electric accoutrement they play with. And now the countdown is surely on. Seven more big sleeps before we get the ferry from Holyhead. Please God we will all be well. Christmases past, when they were babies, there was always a trip to Westdoc, par for the course. I cannot wait to see everyone again, to back meself into a warm fire. Bring it on...cooling ham, wonderful kitchen smells, glass of Bulmers and mince pies for Santa (Christmas Eve in Clonmel) , bleary and bright eyed a sea of shredded wrapping paper Christmas morning, Quality Street and Harry Potter, boxes of Tayto and Gladiator, the company of family and snoozing on the couch. The simple pleasures! 

Shares in Lemsip

My body has been kidnapped by the flu, never had it before. I don’t think I’ve ever been this sick. Temperature off the Richter, the sweats, joints felt like they had been kicked and punched, my chest filled with daggers. Now on day 7 I am beginning to sound like Marian Finucane all husky and chesty. Soooooo fed up. My two girls who are pegged out on the couch, they have been taken over by the evil virus also. Went to the doctor this morning but it’s viral so really there is nothing to be done but run its course. We left our mark, the Youngest threw up on the carpet in the surgery. They have a thing about carpets here, who in all fairness would put a carpet in a doctor’s surgery? And to top it all I have a number of assignments due in, including statistics (the mere mention of the word makes my skin crawl) which I don’t understand, have no interest in completing so I am not in a good place right now. I don’t have the patience to be a good patient. This whole sick business doesn’t suit me. Of course, it all kicked off when Himself was away with work in Florida. It is a man’s world after all. Usually it’s one or all of the kids who get sick when he is away. Not this time, just little ole me. He missed his Christmas do last night, because we were sick. There was huffing and puffing and sulking, the tux all forlorn on the hanger, unused. Face...bovvered. Just want my body back. 

Proud as punch

There are moments that you treasure, for always.  The memory and its lasting feeling is saved away. For, if and when you think of it, in murky times, your heart is topped up with the good stuff. Tonight I have saved away one of those. At the Thame Christmas Festival of Music our Middle got up, in front of a packed audience of a couple of hundred parents, teachers, pupils, band, sound system, mics and sang  ‘Away in a Manger’. Unaccustomed, unplanned,  unrehearsed and  unexpected.  My heart was in my mouth. Gone wrong with shock and nerves. To be honest, it could have gone either way with the last few weeks she has had in school. There could have been a dramatic dash from the stage in a shower of tears when she realised she was the only one up there. But, she stayed and sang beautifully with her sweet innocent voice, so sure she could do it. Oh lads, I’m so proud. More importantly, she’s so proud of herself. I hope she will look to this treasured memory and great experience, especially the applause, as the years go on, and gain from it.