[This is a follow-on to my post from yesterday: “Giving Away Money.” I recommend reading that post first, but if you haven’t then fear not: this post will still make sense.]

Local perceptions of international aid organisations are very mixed. While many people are grateful for the services these organisations provide and the positive impact on the economy and jobs market, there’s also a sense of resentment, related to the way the aid industry – and let’s be honest, it is an industry – is set up.

Popular rumours accuse organisations of inventing needs in order to profit from responding to them. This has been a persistent perception of the Ebola outbreak and response in eastern DR Congo, encapsulated by the term “Ebola business.”

In protracted crises, people sometimes come to see aid organisations as ineffectual due to the persistence of problems. “How come we’re still suffering from disease outbreaks and lack of food, despite these big international organisations being around for 25 years?”

These perceptions are understandable.

The structure of financing within the aid industry can lead to incentives being set up the wrong way. The focus on value for money can lead to projects that serve a lot of easily accessible people with a very limited intervention, rather than providing holistic, quality services to remote populations who are much harder to reach. Humanitarian organisations can cause huge inflation in the jobs market when several respond in the same area and need to hire staff quickly. Some of the money circulates in the local economy, but quite a bit of it is pocketed by outsiders – whether national staff from another part of the country, or international staff – who will spend it elsewhere. The outward signs of wealth are clear: when a humanitarian response hits town, hotels fill up and the number of land cruisers seen driving around increases exponentially. These factors feed perceptions that humanitarians are motivated by financial gain rather than by altruism.

[See my review of James Orbinski’s “An Imperfect Offering” for thoughts on why compassion must remain at the centre of what drives humanitarians.]

Criticism of aid organisations based on the persistence of the problems that attract them tends to misconstrue the mandate of the organisations and often overplays their power to actually change structural problems. Medair supported the provision of 553,000 free primary health consultations last year, in areas of eastern DR Congo affected by conflict or disease outbreaks. This was a hugely worthwhile endeavour, enabling vulnerable people to access care. This intervention was needed because the existing health system does not serve people’s needs: fees for service are a major barrier to care-seeking, and health facilities often lack the staff, supplies, and infrastructure to deliver services in a hygienic environment. While Medair’s work in health facilities last year was timely and effective in meeting immediate needs, it has not precipitated fundamental improvements to the way health services are delivered in eastern Congo. This shouldn’t be a surprise: 1) 553,000 consultations seems like a lot, but the scale of need vastly outweighs it, and 2) Medair’s projects are set up to quickly respond to needs where they are felt most acutely, rather than to precipitate lasting change.

While aid organisations in Nord Kivu, DR Congo, can seem like powerful players, I believe that lasting peace will come through favourable foreign policy conditions from other countries, through positive evolution in governance, and through local initiatives – whether businesses, sports clubs, churches, or groups of activists.

Thus, I’m motivated to identify and invest in people and organisations, locally. Ensuring that a higher proportion of my income benefits local initiatives feels like good citizenship, in a sense. It also serves to subvert the perception of aid workers being in it for themselves and squirrelling away money in overseas bank accounts.

(I’m aware that the impact to assuage my conscious will likely outweigh any impacts on public perception.)

Having been in DR Congo for nearly three years, I feel a strong affinity for the place and people. I desperately want to see a brighter future here, and often try to imagine what Nord Kivu might look like in 20 or 30 years’ time. There have been few bright spots in nearly 60 years since independence. But the future starts now.

Money is a taboo subject, perhaps because in many ways it equates to opportunity. People have different amounts of it, and make diverse decisions about what to do with it.

In the context of the protests against racism and police brutality, I’ve seen news articles reporting high profile celebrity donations to organisations that seek to bring about change, and celebrities themselves posting screenshots of ‘donation received’ notices that show the organisation to which they have donated funds, and the amount they have donated.

Equally, I’ve seen friends post links to organisations that seek to promote justice for people of colour, encouraging others to take an interest and to donate.

At the heart of both is a desire to persuade people to do something tangible and costly in order to advance the cause, rather than only taking easier steps like making sympathetic statements on social media.

It’s an invitation and a challenge: “put your money where your mouth is.”

While there’s some hope that the current moment will precipitate lasting structural change, I’m not optimistic. Just as very few of the people who spoke out against plastic straws became serious and regular advocates for protecting the environment, I expect that the vast majority of people speaking out about racism will not become regular advocates or regularly donate their time and money to the cause.

Consequently, I see huge value in donations that could serve to stretch out the benefits of the current attention on these issues over a long period of time, funding movements to campaign for changes to legislation or to address social injustices in practical ways for years after the news cycle moves on.

I grew up in church with the concept of tithing: giving away a tenth of one’s income to the church. You can influence what it is used for in two ways: 1) choosing which church to attend, and 2) seeking to influence the way your church allocates its financial resources.

Of course, Christianity is by no means the only religion that encourages giving away a proportion of one’s income. Indeed, without attempting to give an exhaustive list: the roots of Christian tithing are found in Judaism, and giving alms (zakat) is the fourth pillar of Islam.

So, there’s agreement that giving away money is good.

But how much, and who to?

I believe that answering these questions is extremely personal, so I will share some of my own considerations without suggesting that they should apply to you also.

While I was a student, I focused on giving time, as I was more time-rich than cash-rich. I gave a lot of time to serving at Christian Union events, Street Project (meeting up and sharing food with folk on York’s streets who were facing a range of issues including homelessness, addiction, violence, poor mental health, and unemployment), or at our church “City Tots” group (welcoming parents and young children to spend a couple of hours playing, chatting, and drinking tea or coffee). I really enjoyed all of these things, so giving time to them did not feel like a sacrifice.

Since leaving university, sadly I haven’t regularly attended a church whose leadership I trust to use funds well, so I have not committed to donating regularly. My financial giving has been limited to one-off donations: mostly to individuals, and once to the church I attended while at university. The sum total of my gifts is nowhere close to 10% of my income.

In recent weeks, I’ve become increasingly convinced that my approach to this needs to change.

My thoughts on this are somewhat embryonic, but here they are so far:

• Give regularly. I would commit to making monthly donations, because these are more helpful to organisations for their own financial planning.
• Give sacrificially. I would give at a level that costs something. A considered investment, not spare change.
• Give intelligently. I would investigate the people or organisations I donate to, ensuring that I’m confident about the way that they will spend the money I give. Crucially, this doesn’t mean insisting that my money is spent on meeting direct needs (for example: on the medicines themselves, within a health care project). Organisations need money for the boring things, like paying for the CEO’s hotel and train ticket when she travels for a speaking engagement or investing in computer software so that they can manage their finances more efficiently. It’s absolutely fine if my money is spent on those things …if the overall impact and spending choices of the organisation are good.
• Give locally. At the moment, this would mean investing in people and organisations working in eastern DR Congo. More on that, tomorrow.

I love routines.

To be clear: we’re talking about the ‘get up and make coffee’ routines, not the ‘sliiiide to the left, sliiiide to the right‘ dance routines… though those are great, too.

Routines feel comfortable, and they enable me to do what I want to do… most of the time.

This morning I wake up and start out with the bad version of my routine: collect phone, jump back into bed, start scrolling through BBC News, WhatsApp, and Instagram. This happens on four or five days a week.

I return to my senses and hop out of bed, do 12 push ups (a variation on the five I usually do, to wake up), before wandering to the kitchen to boil water.

With the kettle on the stove, I put away the dishes that have drip-dried overnight.

The kettle boils. Hot water is an enabler for the next two items:

• coffee (precisely 60 grams of coffee and 325 grams of water, filtered into a pre-heated cup)
• porridge (oats, milk powder, cinnamon, honey, banana)

I return to my room and open my laptop.

Trello.com

I click through to “Pete Harrison Workflow” and quickly realise that this is not where I want to be.

I want to be blogging.

But autopilot steered me straight towards work. By 0527hrs.

I navigate away from “Pete Harrison Workflow” and into “Blog,” then start writing.

I’m reminded that routines are valuable, but that autopilot can lead us in the wrong direction. Especially if we’re looking to change our routines.

Mindfulness could be defined as being conscious of what we’re thinking, feeling, and doing, and gauging the impact as we go.

This morning, autopilot overcame mindfulness. Mostly, things went to plan, but shifting the balance just a little towards being more conscious of my actions could have been helpful.

Do you have a regular routine? If not, are you trying to establish one?

How often do you feel that autopilot overtakes your conscious decision-making? What’s the impact?

So far, my blog has focused on a few core themes: work & productivity, reflections, stories, sport, and book reviews. I’ve tried to offer advice from experience or suggestions based on reflection.

This fits with the genre.

People often look for silver bullets that will fix something about themselves or provide an “ahah” moment.

“How can I work more efficiently?”
“What can I do to lose weight?”
“Why is it so hard to manage money?”
“Tell me the quickest and easiest way to get fit.”

The reader asks the question, and the writer (slash creator, slash artist) tries to provide the answer(s).

A key skill on the part of the creator is to guess the question(s) and to provide answers that seem appealing.

As I continue to write, I feel that offering answers is not enough. I’m not an oracle. I’m a pretty irregular prophet.

So, while I won’t stop offering reflections and suggestions, I would like to start being more proactive about stimulating you, my dear readers, to pose useful questions.

Answers often provide a short-term fix. Questions are more exciting. They prompt us to start journeys of discovery.

Like Bilbo Baggins stepping out of his round front door in The Hobbit, closing his garden gate behind him, gripping his walking stick tightly, and striding down the road. Singing. Perhaps to keep his fears at bay.

Today, I’m hesitant to write.

My mind is offering too many half-formed thoughts on subjects that I wish to treat adequately.

So, I think “not today” and file these potential themes into a list of ideas to return to later.

There’s a level of conceit in the way I impose these standards on myself. Surely giving a few days’ thought to something will rarely be sufficient to transform a rough or shallow piece into one that’s genuinely profound!

The level of depth, nuance, or sophistication to what I write is a self-imposed standard. It’s a subjective measure, reliant on a positive answer to the question: “is this piece of sufficient quality to put out into the world, with my name attached to it?”

I believe that artists (whether writers, filmmakers, musicians, or other “content” creators) ask themselves the same question all the time. The concept of “selling out” describes the shift in standards, from asking oneself “am I happy with the quality of this?” to accepting money in exchange for allowing someone else to ask that crucial question about your work.

Let’s shift perspective for a moment, to consider how we consume art.

In a way, when we repeatedly return to work done by the same artist, our judgement of its value shifts away from the art and towards the artists themselves. This is why Wes Anderson aficionados will watch any film he makes, regardless of the theme. Repeatedly positive experiences watching Wes Anderson’s films lead us to trust his judgement: if he thinks it’s good enough to produce, then it’s good enough for me to consume.

Thank you for reading. That’s all I have for today.

In my workplace, we host team devotions twice a week. All members of Medair’s Goma team (usually 50-60 people) come together to sing, share reflections on a Bible passage, and to hear key announcements. Lately we have been hosting these devotions via video calls.

An aspect of devotions that I truly love is that the person sharing reflections can be any member of the team. And when they are sharing, everyone else has to listen. There’s no correlation between one’s place in the hierarchy and one’s involvement in sharing. Additionally, our devotions are a space in which new, informal leaders emerge, as some people excel at convening the sessions, leading the singing, or offering prayers and reflections that articulate the mood of the team. This serves to upend the traditional power structure within the office, reminding us that nobody is worth more or less according to their title or the size of their salary.

Yesterday, my colleague Steve shared a reflection on Jesus’ command to loving one’s neighbour. He spoke about the current protests in the United States, and explained that he sees systemic racism as fundamentally arising from a lack of love for one’s neighbour – indeed a failure to recognise one’s neighbour. “Black people aren’t given the same consideration,” he said. Steve explained that, as in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), people who do not receive the same consideration are exactly the people that we should consider as our neighbours.

I’m struck by the depth and pertinence of Steve’s message. I’m also hugely grateful that he had the space to speak, and was confident enough to reflect with real honesty on a theme that means a lot to him (and to the wider team).

Something I hope to take into my own work is to help to create and maintain spaces where people feel comfortable to speak openly. Our experience as a team – and beyond that, as a group of people – is so much richer for it.

Yesterday I offered some thoughts on the value of seeing the end point, in terms of enabling us to cope and to maintain peace.

Writing on the 1st of June, 2020, I realised that people across the world suffering from the direct and indirect effects of the COVID19 pandemic will be asking themselves when it will end.

This is complicated by the fact that there are a series of end points in the pipeline, and some may occur twice or more.

When will lockdown end? When will schools reopen? When will a vaccine be found, and after that, how long will it be before I can get one?

It seems likely that the initiative to reopen that is taking place in large parts of Europe, the United States, and elsewhere represents a false endpoint for many COVID19-related restrictions. Case rates will probably rise again, precipitating the reintroduction of restrictions – though depending on the sophistication of the tracking, these restrictions may be more localised.

As humans, we love linear progression. I start at A and progress to B. The next step will be C. There’s no question of returning to A again!

We see this on a macro-level, with expectations about inexorable economic growth, and on a micro-level, with things like individual career progression.

But I digress.

Non-linear evolution can wait for another day.

For now, let us return to the subject of COVID19 end points, starting with what we know:

• the most important/significant end point is the cessation of disease transmission, due to herd immunity (either through naturally-developed herd immunity, or through enough people receiving an efficacious vaccine). For people in high income countries who may have swifter access to the vaccine, this could well happen in the next 12 months.
• before infections are stopped, some of the restrictions in place will be relaxed. Indeed, in some places many restrictions are being relaxed already. The wisdom of the timing is always going to be debatable, given that the costs and benefits are multifarious, and we’re not able to define many of them with much precision. For example: what are the costs and benefits of children returning to school in six weeks’ time, rather than two weeks’ time? Thus, the end points for lifting of restrictions are not fully knowable, except that they will come either at the same time or sooner than the end of disease transmission. And we won’t always agree with the timing. Individually and collectively, we need to find ways to cope with the uncertainty.

To address the subject of coping with uncertainty, let’s examine Maslow’s hierarchy of needs: physiological (related to the body), safety, love & belonging, esteem, and self-actualisation.

It’s not easy to generalise between countries about how the fulfilment of these needs has been affected by the COVID19 pandemic. In higher income countries, more people can rely on their own wealth or on state institutions acting as safety nets to provide food, shelter, and safety than in lower income countries. But there are exceptions.

Friends of mine often remark that COVID19 seems to polarise people, bringing out the best in some and the worst in others. As some display altruism (hundreds of thousands of National Health Service volunteers), others turn inwards out of self-preservation (toilet paper hoarders). I would encourage you to reflect on how COVID19 is affecting your needs, and those of others.

Coping with the uncertainty could involve identifying others who have been more badly affected, and meeting their needs. There are so many ways to do this: from donating to organisations providing food, shelter and safety to calling up isolated friends and relatives (love & belonging).

A brief note on current events in the United States (though that will undoubtedly lead to leaving key things unsaid). I don’t feel at all qualified to offer reflections or advice on this, but want to acknowledge the gravity of these events, seeing them as symptomatic of racism that has shaped and continues to shape our trajectory as a human race, to the benefit of some and to the detriment of others.

One way of viewing violent reactions to systemic racism would be through the lens that we have explored over the past couple of days. My impression is that there’s a sense of despair among people who see no end point to fear, oppression, and injustice. How is it possible to for peace to prevail in a situation like that?

The fact that lived experience has become so polarised is arguably what allows some people to view current events as shocking and others to view them as inevitable. Listening and reading, developing empathy, and standing in solidarity are good places to start, when seeking to engage in a helpful way.

During the past few days, I’ve been reflecting on knowing the end point, and the effects that this can have on our mentality.

Specifically, positive effects that enable us to cope.

I work on 12-week R&R cycles, which is to say: for every 11 weeks of work in DR Congo, I am meant to take one week outside of the country to rest and recover. When weighing up the intensity of my work against my overall energy levels, I feel comfortable to push my limits and work longer hours either when I’m recently back from holiday, or when a holiday is on the horizon.

I do the former due to feeling refreshed. It usually comes with a promise to myself that the higher intensity work must only be for a short phase. I commit to the latter because the end is in sight.

It’s comparable to putting in a sprint finish when running. Accepting extra pain and lactic acid build-up is fine because you know you’re going to stop.

I’ve worked in DR Congo for two years and eight months now, and have seen many colleagues come and go. Living in a house with 10 other international staff, naturally there are housemates who are easy to live with, and those with whom it’s more difficult. Confession time: sometimes knowing the end dates of my colleagues’ contracts help to me to suppress petty irritations. My inner monologue plays out something like this: “The way she does x is really annoying …but she will leave in three months’ time, of which I’ll either be on holiday or travelling for one month. Just put up with it.”

So, seeing the end point helps to maintain peace. And peace is precious!

Writing this on the 1st of June, 2020, people across the world are suffering from the direct and indirect effects of the COVID19 pandemic, and will be asking themselves about the end point(s) associated with that.

I will offer some thoughts on it in Part 2, tomorrow.

When I started drinking coffee during my second year of university, I set myself a rule: “drink coffee only when you have time to enjoy the taste; never drink it for the caffeine.”

This rule counts out:
– drinking coffee for an energy boost
– drinking coffee that tastes bad
– drinking coffee in a rush

In essence, I see making and drinking coffee as a recreational activity rather than serving to stimulate alertness.

In the past seven years, I’ve only broken my rule twice. On those occasions, I was going through phases of intense work, and was conscious that my morning coffee would stimulate working more efficiently.

In recent weeks, I levelled up on coffee snobbery and started to weigh the grounds and the water, towards ensuring greater consistency of taste.

But during the past week, a spanner has been thrown into the works. Let me explain:

I’m very fortunate to have my food and accommodation provided by my employer. As part of that, a collection of foods and drinks are regularly stocked. Coffee is among them.

There are a handful of suppliers of great-tasting coffee who source their beans either in North Kivu or in neighbouring Rwanda. The high altitude and volcanic soil apparently contribute to the great taste.

Recently, our team house coffee has been sourced from a new supplier. It’s awful. An honest marketing spiel on the back of the packet would say “with notes of ash and sawdust.”

So I’ve been drinking tea.

It’s not as much fun to make, or to drink.

A side-effect I did not expect was mid-morning brain fog and grumpiness.

Taking away coffee has shattered my sanctimonious illusions derived from my rule, and revealed the true effect that the coffee was having. I’m a bit stunned.

So, what’s next? I loathe reliance on things, so am considering how to reduce or eliminate that. At the same, the ritual of making and drinking coffee is something I really enjoy.

But developing a long term approach to this will have to wait. First, I’m off to the supermarket to pick up some decent coffee.

Oh the irony: coffee may help me to think more clearly about reducing my recently-discovered dependence on coffee.

Growing up, my bedroom tended to be messy. Honouring the long-established tradition of stereotypical exchanges between mother-and-child, Mum regularly asked me to tidy it. Sometimes I did, but it would quickly slide back into a chaotic state.

While attending boarding school (aged 16-18), I would make my bed, but leave everything else all over the place. Teachers sometimes suggested that I tidy my room, but these suggestions were never enforced; I would typically give a “hmmm, yes,” and then do nothing. Considering the comparative value of having a tidy room rather than a messy one, taking the time to maintain tidiness just didn’t seem worth the investment.

At university, there were no reminders. My clothes, books, and musical instruments were typically strewn across my room. Any visitors would be hosted in communal areas, so there was no social pressure to maintain a tidy bedroom.

Indeed, procrastination was perhaps my only consistent room-tidying motivator until one conversation caused me to completely and permanently switch to keeping my room tidy.

I was working in Liberia, visiting a field base, and staying in shared accommodation. I had agreed to vacate my room in order to enable a colleague to stay there, and he arrived a few hours before I had moved my things out.

He asked whether the items in the room were mine, in order to ascertain whether I would need access to the room later in the evening to recover them. I confirmed that they were. He commented “ah, okay. I always think that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they organise their s#!t.”

My items weren’t particularly badly- or particularly well-organised, but his comment resonated with me and caused an immediate turnaround in the way I view tidiness.

For the past five years, I’ve kept my personal items neat and orderly. I’ve come to see it as an external expression of my inner neatness. Internally, my way of thinking relies on clear, oft-binary structure: pros and cons, logical steps, right and wrong, contributors to stress and to peace. Perhaps growing older can accentuate one’s more extreme traits.

Retreating from that tangent, let’s return to my simple central thesis: messenger over message.

How was it that earlier suggestions on tidiness had had next to no impact, only for one comment to cause me to alter my approach completely?

While the indirectness of the comment may have helped, I think it comes down to the fact that the colleague who made the comment is someone I love and deeply admire, to whom I wanted to give the best possible impression about my character and ability. His example of relentless service, humanity, thoughtfulness, and commitment to advancing our work through force of will has left a lasting impression on me. To this day, he is the person who has most significantly influenced how I approach work. Hands down.

I’m convinced that my perception of him is what led to his off-hand comment having such a profound impact.

It’s not that my Mum or my teachers were unvalued messengers. The way they perceive me meant (means) a lot. They just weren’t appropriate messengers for the message about tidiness.

So, where do we do we go from here? Perhaps we can consider a couple of questions together:

• Take a moment to recall conversations that have profoundly impacted your worldview or approach to life. Who was the messenger? Did something about that person (or those people) cause the message to stick?
• Are there any messages that you feel that you’re repeating again and again to the same person, with no perceptible impact? Consider how they may view you, as the messenger. Could you potentially seek out a messenger more appropriate for delivering the message, or even change the way that the recipient views you, so that the message you’re giving resonates more strongly?

The irony of this piece isn’t lost on me. I realise that what I hope to communicate through this blog is deeply impacted by the way that you view me. My credibility as a source is more important than the way in which the messages I convey are structured and presented. Our selection of the messages we choose to consume is arguably based heavily on our perception of their sources, so perhaps that’s in my favour. No hard feelings if I’m not the right messenger at this moment, though.

I don’t meditate on a regular basis, but invariably feel that time spent meditating is time well spent.

My practice follows the typical format used in the Headspace app (pasted below). As such, it is quite simple and unattached to any particular belief system.

The primary reason I value meditation is because it helps to quieten the noise created by external stimuli.

If you will allow me to generalise: through the internet, each of us has endless information at the tips of our fingers, colleagues, family, friends, and adverts compete for our attention, and we live in a world that idolises busyness.

This adds up to a lot of noise, which clouds our ability to think clearly.

I have found that meditation quietens the noise such that, in the immediate aftermath, I’m able to think more deeply and with greater clarity than usual. Personally, this often provides a platform for prayer – usually offering thanks to God for people, things, or experiences that I’m grateful for.

So, if you haven’t tried meditation before, then I would posit that quietening the noise is a good reason to give it a go.

Steps (borrowed from Headspace):
– sit down on a chair
– take some deep breaths
– close your eyes
– listen to the sounds around you
– feel the weight of your body, and points of connection with chair and the floor
– scan down from head to toe, becoming aware of how different parts of the body are feeling
– focus on your breath, counting from one to 10, then starting again at one
– return your attention to the breath if and when you notice that your mind has started to wander
– after some time, stop focusing on the breath and listen again to the sounds around you
– open your eyes
– pause, then get up

For musings on mental clarity, I recommend watching videos created by Nathaniel Drew. I admire his intensity, open-mindedness, and attention to detail, and feel that he strives for high quality story and production quality in each film he creates.

If I live to 90 and sleep for eight hours per night, that adds up to 30 years spent asleep.

The calculation isn’t that simple, of course: many of us don’t devote enough time to sleeping, and some who find ample time still aren’t able to get sleep of sufficient quality and quantity. If you wish to go down the rabbit hole, start with this article from the UK National Health Service.

If you struggle with sleep, there are multifarious ways to overcome it. One that I would like to focus on today is maximising the comfort of your bed. Given that we spend years in our beds, it makes sense to ensure that they are comfortable – even when that involves investing time and money.

I’m fortunate to live in furnished accommodation provided by my employer. Beds and bedding are part of this.

My experience of it used to be far from ideal: dusty blankets getting on with my asthma like an old friend and leading to shortness of breath, and a sheet that would detach from the mattress so quickly that I’d often wake up wrapped in it or on the bare mattress the next morning.

I took the view that having any bedding provided is a privilege, so didn’t want to raise any complaints or ask for any upgrades. Instead, on a visit to the UK I invested in a fitted sheet, a feather duvet, and a duvet cover, and installed them on my bed in Goma. Oh. So. Worth it.

I sleep more comfortably than before, and can quickly and easily make my bed the next morning. I’m convinced that this has positively impacted my ability to rest well and to approach each day feeling physically and mentally refreshed.

Here’s to sleeping comfortably!

Each of us is a consumer.

Whether we’re evaluating available broadband subscriptions on a comparison website or squinting at slightly discoloured tomatoes sold on the side of the road, we’re asking the same question: “is it worth the money?“

Several factors play into this, and the way we balance those is very personal. Convenience, quality, environmental impact, and intended use/function are some of the big ones.

For me, a key way of answering the question “is it worth the money?” is to break down the cost into smaller units and to ask whether my experience of one of those units is worth the unit cost.

If I’m buying a laptop: what will the cost per day be, based on its expected lifetime?

If I’m going swimming somewhere that requires payment of a one-off entrance fee: what will the cost per length be?

If I’m buying a bicycle: what will the cost per kilometre be?

If I’m buying a shirt: what will the cost per wear be?

This doesn’t apply to all purchases, but it’s useful for larger purchases where the options sit on a cost/quality spectrum. It often leads one to a) buy fewer, higher quality items, b) ensure that items are well used and maintained, and c) consciously enjoy the experience that results from a well-made purchase.

As examples:

If laptop x is £500, okay to use, and the expected lifetime is two years, that adds up to middling satisfaction for a cost of £0.68 per day. If laptop y is £1,000, amazing to use, and the expected lifetime is four years, then I can expect high satisfaction for the same cost of £0.68 per day. Buying laptop y is a no-brainer. Added bonuses include: not having to spend time looking for another laptop after just two years, and avoiding the environmental impact associated with producing, shipping, and packaging a second laptop.

If a bicycle is £1,000 and I expect to cycle 20,000 kilometres on it and spend £300 on maintenance in the next five years, then this works out to £0.065 per kilometre. I can then consider: if I go out for a 120 kilometre cycle ride, then the bicycle-related cost would equal £7.80. Worth it, for the views, the fitness, the probability of sharing a memorable experience with a friend? Absolutely.

Perhaps unit costs don’t fact into your purchasing decisions, and my reflections above read as a blur of weirdness. Well, that’s alright.

I hope that you nonetheless feel stimulated to be conscious about what you purchase, whether or not that involves considering unit cost.

Consumerism pushes us to buy now, think later. I hope you’re on board with rejecting that, in favour of weighing up what’s important to you before parting with your cash in exchange for a good or service.

***

Caveat: the reflections above make a huge assumption about one’s ability to choose between different goods or services. Inherent in the choice is an assumption about financial means (being able to afford to make the purchase, and to consider more expensive options) and availability of choice (more than one option available).

“Enjoy your holiday! You deserve it!”

No. I don’t.

“Are you looking forward to a well-deserved break?”

No. I’m not.

I don’t doubt for a second the good intent of people who talk about holidays – or other perks – in these terms. They want to be encouraging, to indirectly say that they think I have worked hard.

But I find the linguistic convention around “you deserve” annoying. Frustrating, even.

It’s representative of a world view that I’m completely divorced from. A view that says “do good things, and good things will happen to you” or “just work hard and you will be happy and successful” …i.e. a meritocracy in which the actions of each individual determines their exact future.

I don’t subscribe, for two reasons:

1) Injustice and deep-rooted inequalities are visible for all to see. The fact I received the full complement of vaccines as a child is due to the happenstance of being born in a country with a robust health system. The fact that I completed an undergraduate degree is primarily because my parents were wealthy enough to pay for a good education and were caring enough to encourage me to make an effort with school work. These are just two examples of privileges that I did little or nothing to influence or deserve.

2) I believe in GRACE. The concept is central to my Christian faith. I’m convinced that God loves and accepts me not because of anything I do, but simply because he has chosen to do so. I’m utterly undeserving of this. The concept extends beyond notions of salvation and into daily life. I’m not entitled to a stable job, to good relationships with family and friends, or to peace and security. Where and when these happen, I appreciate and celebrate them! …but that’s quite different to believing that I’m somehow worthy of them.

We touched on it, just there.

Entitlement.

This is the main risk that stems from a meritocratic world view. “It’s not fair, I didn’t deserve this,” or “I’m doing x so I’m entitled to y.” When confronted with the harsh reality of things not working out as planned, cracks quickly appear. “I’m a good person. How could this happen to me?”

So, we need to live by grace: to see good things as gifts, and to appreciate that bad things can teach us a lot, too.

Yes, I’ve worked hard. Yes, it’s been tough and I’m ready to take a holiday, to rest up and feel refreshed. But no, I don’t deserve it at all.

Genuine

If you don’t believe it, the person (or people) to whom you are apologising won’t either.

We often witness people clashing while playing team sports, followed by the referee forcing the opposing players to apologise to one another. Continued participation may be conditional upon an apology offered. This is captured beautifully in the instruction “say sorry.” The players usually comply and say the magic word, because they want to keep playing. But it’s not genuine.

Language easily betrays counterfeit apologies. The UK Home Secretary was recently called out on her “I’m sorry if people feel” non-apology, related to inadequate supplies of personal protective equipment for frontline health workers.

Unconditional

Often, apologies are offered as a means to achieving forgiveness and reconciliation. While these are laudable outcomes, the apology must not be a) conditional on achieving them, or b) retracted if they are not achieved.

Apologies have inherent worth, even when they don’t realise the outcome(s) you hoped for.

Swift

A swift apology has the clear advantage of seeking resolution sooner, paving the way for good relations in future.

Delay can indicate deliberation about the value or necessity of apologising, or suggest that the person offering the apology has been coerced. While delayed apologies may still be genuine and worthwhile, swift apologies are preferable – so long as they are genuine.

Concise

While it is helpful for the person offering an apology to clearly articulate the reason why they are apologising, overly wordy apologies are to be avoided. Being concise helps to prevent the apology turning into a cooked up speech, and quickly opens up the space for a response.

Offered in-person

This allows for reciprocal non-verbal communication, and facilitates an exchange after the apology has been delivered. One-way, written apologies may be necessary in some circumstances, but are best avoided.

There’s value in the vulnerability shown by someone apologising in-person.

I have a confession to make. The reflections above started out as an exercise geared towards improving my own approach to apologising. I’m somewhat prone to being blunt, and can sometimes come across as remote or unfeeling. I have had myriad reasons to apologise in the past, and am under no illusions about my future need to offer genuine, unconditional, swift, concise apologies, in-person.

I hope that these reflections will also help you to make good apologies, and perhaps to consider why some apologies you have offered or received didn’t go over so well.

For five years during high school, I would wake up at 0515hrs in order to catch the bus.

I wasn’t enthusiastic about waking up so early. My morning routine was a mundane and methodical traverse through showering, putting on my school uniform, eating cornflakes, and packing my bags with the necessary books and sports equipment for the day ahead.

I have neglected to the mention the tea.

Each morning I would be woken up by my Dad bringing me a cup of hot tea.

Dad’s tea-making skills aren’t spectacular: sometimes he doesn’t add enough milk, and sometimes the tea itself is weak …either the second use of the bag, or a hasty meeting between bag and water before the bag was transferred to another cup.

Despite this, starting each day sitting up in bed sipping tea was something I appreciated. Finishing the tea served as a natural prompt to get out of bed.

Over time, I have come to see this ritual, played out over several years in the pleasant cool and dark at dawn, as a lesson in love.

Dad’s tea-making showed me the value of service and consistency.

It also highlighted the importance of interacting with people on an even footing. There were no negotiations or stern words about waking up and getting out of bed. I was served, not coerced.

Now, I try to replicate Dad’s service and consistency, as a way of showing love to others: in particular, through serving my housemates in small but consistent ways. And because the motivation is love, I do it without any sense of pressure, obligation, or disaffection. The overriding emotion is joy.

This is applicable to your kettle or your colleague.

I believe that we tend to more easily notice things when they are different or wrong.

While cycling, I only pause to think about my gears when they are clicking or not shifting correctly.

At work, the colleagues who need a lot of support or whose work regularly misses the mark occupy much more headspace than those who work independently and consistently do a good job.

When pouring hot water from a poorly designed kettle, I pay careful attention to ensure that I don’t spill water over myself or the table. When using a good quality kettle, the pouring process feels automatic.

Of course, there are exceptions where something (or someone) is truly remarkable and stands out because of its (their) quality. But generally, you notice the best, the least.