Chris Barrow’s Blog

I think it’s Friday anyway, having reached the stage that when the alarm clock sounds I wake in the dark and cannot remember which hotel room I’m staying in.

It’s rather ironic to be staggering out of my room to present a workshop on time management and “work/life balance”!

Suppose I have a good excuse, what with professional opportunity and personal circumstances.

The last of 4 consecutive workshops today after a very pleasant day in Leeds on Thursday – about 50 people in the room and already I have received 3 emails, written last night, from clients to thank me for the day. That’s the stuff of job satisfaction.

We’ve been doing lots of work with clients on their professional tolerations – what are the relationship problems, situations and things (not working properly) that they tolerate.

The lists have made interesting reading and, of course, are all similar.

People not fulfilling their promises, elephants in the room that haven’t been acknowledged and acted on – even the simple stuff like faulty dental chairs that haven’t been fixed for a year.

I added a new PowerPoint slide to my workshop which reads:

“Whatever is on your tolerations list – that’s what your customers see and sense first!”

That has made a few people think – one client at the Newcastle workshop wrote overnight:

Thanks for presentation on Wednesday I have been no fun since then. Unable to “tolerate “ anything I have asked 4 people if I can speak to them openly and frankly feel better for it.

This weekend I’ll be spending 2 days in my Mum’s home,sorting through the biggest pile of paperwork and paraphenalia I have ever seen in my life. It will be a strange experience no doubt.

For those regular readers, “Baby”, the three-legged cat, has found a new home at a very respectable shelter for displaced moggies and we are promised that they will find a caring family.

So my Mum’s house is finally empty and, sadly, we need to get in there and remove valuables before the word gets out – it’s that kind of area.

I’m not looking forward to the weekend at all – many fond memories of both of my parents will be rekindled no doubt – but I’m just dog tired.

Oh – stop moaning Mr Barrow and go to work!

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It’s been a hectic few days.

Sunday I drove from Cornwall to Manchester and spent Monday morning discussing funeral arrangements and calling at my Mum’s home to feed the cat and take a first look at the “stuff” my Mum has left behind.

Quite an experience – she lived alone as a widow for the last 8 years and was clearly a hoarder.

First – just about every letter she has received in that time is still there, in it’s original envelope and with a note written on the outside as to what was happening. Piles and piles of envelopes, filling drawers, shelves, cupboards, work surfaces. In the lounge, the kitchen, the bedroom – everywhere one looked.

The temptation is to throw the whole lot straight into a refuse sack – but there is the nagging doubt that there may be important documents destroyed in the process – so it looks as if next Saturday and Sunday will be devoted to a paper-chase.

Secondly, Norma also hoarded clothes – every wardrobe and chest of drawers is brimming over with plastic carrier bags containing clothing for all seasons – most of it never worn.

And, finally, the house is a museum of goods offered by TVÂ retail channels. One of the her final passions in life was to watch QVC and The Shopping Channel – and then order the junk that they sell, no doubt to armies of bored old ladies.

As I wandered from cluttered room to room, I found a varied collection of plastic electronic goods – a/c units, hair-dryers, food heaters, mini-fridges, portable TV’s and tape/CD/DVD players, hair-curling/straightening/colouring/de-colouring devices – and so on.

The house is a gigantic junk yard of late 20th Century tat.

And sat in the middle of this is my Mum’s 3-legged cat “Baby”.

Her penultimate cat pegged out last summer – so we popped to the local “Animals in Distress” centre and, faced with a choice, she chose a 3-legged black cat called “Tripod” by the owners of the centre. How could she resist – a fully grown cat that was unlikely to escape?

She decided that a more sensitive name was appropriate and so “Baby” was christened.

There’s something quite fascinating about a 3-legged cat – a kind of contradiction – agility with clumsiness – that makes for curiosity on the part of the observer. One is constantly expecting the poor beast to fall, face first, into it’s food – but it frustratingly never does.

A call back to the distress centre revealed that there was “no room at the inn” – and so “Baby” will have to wait a while before we find a kind-hearted organisation.

Anybody want a tripodic cat?

For some reason (probably my work schedule this week) I haven’t allowed myself to greive yet – I think that will come after the funeral – which is planned for 21st March.

Now it’s time to start the process of reaching out to lost relatives – on which subject I may have more to say later.

Work is filling my mind – a great workshop at the simply excellent Hilton Caledonian in Edinburgh yesterday – a long, dark drive to Gateshead last night and my second workshop of the week starts in a couple of hours.

Oh – and you must remind me to tell you about Charlie Trotter’s restaurant.

Just a quickie to inform you that my Mum passed away peacefully in her sleep last night at the age of 77.Â

Her ambition was to avoid managed care and live out her final days in her own home – apart from the last 3 weeks in hospital, she managed that and will fulfil her goal of “being carried out of my own front door in a wooden overcoat”.Â

I also know that my Mum would have wanted the show to go on – so it is my intention to deliver 4 workshops next week and meet all of my face to face commitments – but I know my clients and colleagues will understand if emails and phone calls are a little delayed.Â

I’m not sentimental about these things and prefer to look back on the many laughs she gave me, her unconditional love  – and the often stated amazement that she could have produced just one child – but what a child! JÂ

Just back from a quick 2 days of workshops in Bristol and Bracknell – and I’ve been hearing some horror stories about NHS dental practice that I’ll share in next week’s newsletter – there’s going to be blood on the streets in April.

On a more positive note, I keep on saying that I work for the money BUT do this work because of the people I meet.

The last 2 days have been a pleasure – working with existing clients, new clients and tasters – just such lovely people.

We have always had firm boundaries as to the type of clients we will work with – those that we trust, respect and like – and it certainly pays of in terms of job satisfaction.

So my mini-angst after last Friday’s mystery note scribbler has been replaced by the rosy glow of knowing that I’ve been delivering my “Unique Ability®” these last few days.

One point is in my mind.

The number of dental teams who tell me that they offer “private treatment options” to their patients – or, for that matter, that they are “going private”.

What does that mean?

In the mind of the dentist/team, “private” often means:

• Better quality materials
• More time to deliver the treatment with the patient in the chair
• A chance to engage the services of a better technician
• A higher quality “finish” to the work – all margins and microns.

When they choose “private”, is that what the patients are really looking for?

I’m not so sure.

When I’m travelling, I use Hilton – and not Travellodge. Why?

It partly because I want a bigger room, comfy bed, a desk to work at with wifi, more soundproofing. But it’s also because I want some customer service – and don’t want to hang out with a bunch of obese, £20,000 a year reps eating egg and bacon with a copy of The Sun on their lap.

When I’m at Bristol Airport I pay to wait in the business lounge. Why?

It’s partly because I want an easy chair and a cappucino. But it’s also because I don’t want to sit with 100 Neanderthals waiting to go on stag and hen parties in Dublin or 500 yokels pissed up at 8.00am, waiting for a flight to Malaga.
I pay “private” because I want:

• Better customer service
• To hang out with better people (yes – I’m a working class snob)
• To feel special and “individual” (remember my thoughts on individuality?)
• To be treated like royalty (21st Century English, not 18th Century French)

So I’m asking you to embrace the possibility that the patients don’t give a “monkey’s” about your clinical doo-dads, your qualifications, the courses you have been on, their margins and microns.
What they care about is how they feel when they visit.

And if they feel like royalty – then that’s what “private” means.

Try this one on for size..

“We offer NHS and private service – which would you prefer?”

Stop using the word “treatment” – private treatment reads “more expensive treatment”.

Or “a more expensive way of doing the same thing”.

Start using the word “service” – private service reads “higher quality service”.

Or “a more customer-focused service”.

Or “no riff-raff”.

Which would you choose?

I was surprised that my best business coaching comment of the week came from no less than Jermaine Jackson.

“Class and no class don’t mix.”