John Elkington

Spoke to my father, Tim, yesterday. Turns out that he had a rather exciting Wednesday, having been invited by No. 1 Squadron (with which he flew in the Battle of Britain) to Wyck Hill, a restaurant on the hill along from Little Rissington, where he was then invited to come outside around 13.00. Noticing that people from No. 1 kept looking at their watches, he asked whether they would prefer to be elsewhere? No, they said, they had plenty of time. And then a No. 1 Harrier jump-jet did a fly-past.

Having now had a personal aerial salute, it’s hard to know quite what to do for him on his nineteenth birthday in December. Apparently, the pilot who did the fly-past also read a brief speech Tim had done at a dinner – and received a standing ovation. In the end, though, as BoB veteran Geoffrey Wellum (who’s on again as I write this) put it on TV a few days ago, the main purpose of all of this is to honour all of those who took part  in the Battle.

One real benefit of long-haul flight is that you can plough through books – and on the way to and from Buenos Aires one of the books I read (and finished) was Gary Shteyngart’s extraordinary Super Sad True Love Story (Granta Publications, 2010). One of those books you race to finish – but don’t want to.

Given that I was in Argentina to talk to high net worth individuals, it was interesting that the business of the book’s main protagonist is recruiting ultra-rich people for the biotech company he works for, Post-Human Services. The story, involving the collapse of America, seems to be set 15-20 years into the future – and the language has mutated to suit, in a world where pornography has entered (and corrupted) mainstream culture and no-one reads books.

Interesting to see sustainability reduced to personal SUSTAINABILIT¥, an online measure of personal wealth. Global warming also puts in a fleeting appearance on pages 307 and 328, accorded a word or two each time.

With part of the Avina Foundation team Taxi meter – against which I kept banging my head Cathedral Demonstration 1 Demonstration 2 Demonstration 3 Me Bullet scars from 1973, the driver said Graffito Football Colours Tango 1 Tango 2, with Christine Blondel Tango 2, with Luciana and Fernando Colours 2 Some of the Desparecidos Tails somebody wins Blues It’s still winter Panama hat Twilight In the transformed Docklands The Pink House Tango band at the Cafe Tortoni Tango 2 Tango 3

It is Argentina’s Bicentennial Year, I discovered when I arrived in Buenos Aires for a conference aimed at young people who are owners of multi-generational family businesses in Latin America. Organised by Banco Itaú Unibanco at the Palacio Duhau, the event was full of interesting folk – and I emerged with a strong interest in coming back – and a couple of invitations to do so.

The first day, I did a session for the Avina Foundation with around 25 people – and afterwards we went back to the Foundation’s offices, where Alejandro (Litovsky) used to work. After the event closed, Luciana Tavares Nobre Varella and her colleague Fernando from Banco Itaú Unibanco hailed a taxi and took Christine Blondel of INSEAD and I on a tour around the city – ending with supper and a tango show at the Café Tortoni. Joyous.

Elaine and Jim walking around the Leg of Mutton Reservoir Wasp nest Advertising moment A dying white poplar A distant police boat under Barnes Bridge

Took a leisurely walk around Barnes and the Leg of Mutton Reservoir with Jim Salzman, who flew in from the States this morning, ahead of my flight to Buenos Aires this evening. At one point, he noted a wasp’s nest dangling just over my head. Reminded me of the hornet’s nest I posted a picture of from Cape Cod when just starting this blog series, in 2003.

Otherwise have more or less finished the slide deck from which I will draw down presentations in the coming months – but it’s currently around 50 MB, which is slightly Gargantuan. Odd how foxes are becoming day-time creatures: saw one loitering in the street as we walked back.

Shadowing: not my bike

I got to cycle quite a lot this week, though the day of the Tube strike was a little straining, with everyone and their pony out on the streets – or at least I did pass one female cyclist in Hyde Park who was wearing a horse riding helmet. The borisbikes are now everywhere – and I can’t help seeing them as a stroke of urban genius, though I suspect the bus drivers are finding it all a bit of a strain.

Made the mistake of crowing to Elaine that I would be able to ride into the office every day of the week, with Thursday slated for a filming session with me arriving on my bike, but then as I headed home on Friday my inner tube suffered a catastrophic puncture in Great Marlborough Street. I tried riding on the rim for a bit, but London roads are now so eaten up that I felt I would destroy the machine – so hailed a taxi, driven by a white-haired Irishman, who kindly drove me home.

Then, yesterday, as a result, I got to go to one of my favourite places, a nearby bike shop in Putney, Holdsworth’s, which has an interesting history. Back tyre is now triple-armoured with Kevlar, or so I’m told.

As I said to Sam (Lakha) in a text later in the day, one thing I like about such places is the sense of a “sincere belief in something, in this case the descendants of the velocipede. There’s a humbling purity about it. And it must have been the same watching your horse being re-shoed at the farrier’s. Different smell – horse, hay, leather, tobacco, urine, burning chitin – but the same complex, slightly dangerous pungency as when hanging around the blacksmith’s on the edge of town. For us as children in Ireland, it was the next-door farm, and in Nicosia it was the local brickworks.”

Sam and I agree we like workshops. As for my own workshop, I have been working this week on the building blocks for around 10 slide presentations, for conferences in Australia and Brazil, something that has taken an unconscionable time – but will no doubt stand me in good stead for later events once finished.

When Jim Salzman arrived from the States early this morning, he took a look at me and said I looked tired. True, I do. But am also suffering from an attack of eczema on my cheeks, which aggravates the effect – and often denotes too long spent hunched over a steaming laptop. But enjoyed a lovely sunset last night, as the world pondered the meaning of the 9/11 attacks and their aftermath. (See previous posting.)

Wildest moment of the week, though, was probably the moment when four of us were sitting in the office in Bloomsbury Place – and suddenly my age-old nightmare of a plane flying through the roof, or at least into the garden, seemed imminent as an aero engine seemed to go into screaming overdrive. Looked out the window – and saw the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight fly past, or at least the Lancaster and Spitfire. They had come in very low, apparently to mark the first day of the Blitz 70 years ago. Concentrated the mind wonderfully.

Sunset: 9/11