He and the Dyson family is listed in 59th place in this year's Sunday Times Rich List, with a £1.08 billion fortune and assets including a £3 million French chateau.
The company is headquartered in Malmesbury, Wiltshire, where it employs more than 1,200 staff.
The firm manufactures all products in Malaysia since a decision in 2002 to offshore the operation, a move which caused outcry, with 500 UK jobs axed under the switch abroad.
Friday, November 09, 2007
some, no, most days, small ironies creep up behind and pinch me
i'm only fifty-eight, after all; so i haven't lost my malmesbury accent yet
this afternoon, ( whilst back at the office to do some paperwork after the round ), jonida, a very smart & pretty girl whose english is good, & who is probably aged a lot less than 25, & whose fashion sense seems balkan at times, said
"tristan, i've always meant to ask, because of how you talk, are you foreign ?"
... curiously, i suddenly recall first noticing, at about the age of sixteen, the differences between the accents of village girls from little somerford and shipton moyne, villages that lay some three miles distant on opposite sides of the town
this afternoon, ( whilst back at the office to do some paperwork after the round ), jonida, a very smart & pretty girl whose english is good, & who is probably aged a lot less than 25, & whose fashion sense seems balkan at times, said
"tristan, i've always meant to ask, because of how you talk, are you foreign ?"
... curiously, i suddenly recall first noticing, at about the age of sixteen, the differences between the accents of village girls from little somerford and shipton moyne, villages that lay some three miles distant on opposite sides of the town
a short speculative step on a long journey towards the disposal of ghosts
earlier this year I wrote about how I'd "seen" my parents in a vivid dream.
the link is ... http://emotionalblackmailers.blogspot.com/2007/04/i-dreamed-about-my-parents.html
before and since, i've often mused on the possibility of there being ghosts, but their existence still seems entirely improbable
for a long time i hoped or rather fantasized that there might be a "soul" that drifts around for a while, and so my parents could be out there catching up on all the myriad marvels that evaded them in real life
i.e. "had we but world enough and time, this coyness lady were no crime ..." etc etc
whenever i fly somewhere i try to see the clouds and the bright sea through my mother's eyes
my father's ghost, i'm certain, would be content to linger on any sunny street corner, to listen avidly & to watch the human pantomime, as i like to do in other countries
but the best i can hope for is that i, and my siblings, and our children, are "the ghosts", and so i think again of that nice little poem by thomas hardy ...
Heredity
I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.
The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Of durance--that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die.
the only thing that's sacred is life itself
the link is ... http://emotionalblackmailers.blogspot.com/2007/04/i-dreamed-about-my-parents.html
before and since, i've often mused on the possibility of there being ghosts, but their existence still seems entirely improbable
for a long time i hoped or rather fantasized that there might be a "soul" that drifts around for a while, and so my parents could be out there catching up on all the myriad marvels that evaded them in real life
i.e. "had we but world enough and time, this coyness lady were no crime ..." etc etc
whenever i fly somewhere i try to see the clouds and the bright sea through my mother's eyes
my father's ghost, i'm certain, would be content to linger on any sunny street corner, to listen avidly & to watch the human pantomime, as i like to do in other countries
but the best i can hope for is that i, and my siblings, and our children, are "the ghosts", and so i think again of that nice little poem by thomas hardy ...
Heredity
I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.
The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Of durance--that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die.
the only thing that's sacred is life itself
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
i can resist everything except temptation ... which is why i turned to glance at the last page ( 631 ) when I was still only up to page 563
from alasdair gray's wonderful "book of prefaces" ... what a wonderful design for my next tattoo
True Confessions. Chapter 9,999.
( Fatigue + Stress ) = Bad Temper.
Deep down inside, I was mostly a grumpy kid & now I am becoming a grumpy old man again … and I am ashamed to say that this morning my bad temper showed itself, luridly, in all its ignominious & toxic putrescence.
We have been making a lot of changes to our working routines in the eternal pursuit of efficiency, which as you know usually implies harder work for wage slaves. For me, it seems to involve longer hours & more uncertainties. Despite getting up even earlier to be at work even earlier, it is taking longer to get out on the road & I’ve been reaching my first customer later than they or I would like me to. We are assured that these discomforts are merely “teething problems” but, driving anxiously along the wide empty road in to the outskirts of Crawley this morning, I was flashed by a speed camera, just before discovering that I’d missed my place in the queue for the first customer’s loading bay.
Later, whilst I was frantically trying to reorganize my schedule as “efficiently” as possible, my supervisor, Vic, who is a very gentle & relaxed man most of the time, ( at very least 99.99% ), phoned me to make a reasonable criticism because I’d forgotten to fill in a standard form which is part of statutory daily routine, and he then made a reasonable request for corrective action. The daft thing was that having set out on my round, I’d then gone back to the desk to fill in the form, and had then been distracted by half-a-dozen words of conversation ( friendly banter ), & then in response to Vic’s call I had rashly averred, using rarther violent language, that I’d already done the job.
Only in the instant after I’d put the phone down, did I realize that I hadn’t done it. Uh, oh ! So what I had just said to Vic was absolutely & transparently, luminously & totally, untrue. I’ve apologised, but neither fully nor adequately, and have been cowering all day beneath the well known twin clouds of shame and self-loathing.
Arriving home & feeling quite drained of energy, I settled down to skim last week’s New Scientist, in search of diversion & stimulus; and the title of an article by Dan Jones leapt off the page to smack me in the eye … and to put my petty troubles in a wider context. “How Do You Justify Yourself ?” Will you excuse me while I quote the first two paragraphs ?
“We all tend to rationalize our bad decisions and try to hide our mistakes, even from ourselves. Now it turns out that the psychological machinery to do this exists even in young children and evolved a surprisingly long way back in our primate ancestry. "
"When things go wrong for us, we have a choice ― give up on a cherished self-image (“I’m irresistible to women,” say ), or keep it and play down the situation (“I didn’t really like her anyway …”). Over the past fifty years, hundreds of studies have revealed the many tools at our disposal which cope with this “cognitive dissonance” ― from selective memory to the biased framing and re-telling of events. These allow us to live with our choices and, ultimately, ourselves, yet their origins are poorly understood."
The article goes on to describe some recent experiments which seem to show the behaviour that is symptomatic of this kind of dissonance is already established or embedded, both in primates and in small children. I find this disheartening because it makes it seem so much harder for me to escape from patterns of behaviour that are so deeply embedded in me. Damn ! Now I have to claw my way out of the primeval slime all over again !
Deep down inside, I was mostly a grumpy kid & now I am becoming a grumpy old man again … and I am ashamed to say that this morning my bad temper showed itself, luridly, in all its ignominious & toxic putrescence.
We have been making a lot of changes to our working routines in the eternal pursuit of efficiency, which as you know usually implies harder work for wage slaves. For me, it seems to involve longer hours & more uncertainties. Despite getting up even earlier to be at work even earlier, it is taking longer to get out on the road & I’ve been reaching my first customer later than they or I would like me to. We are assured that these discomforts are merely “teething problems” but, driving anxiously along the wide empty road in to the outskirts of Crawley this morning, I was flashed by a speed camera, just before discovering that I’d missed my place in the queue for the first customer’s loading bay.
Later, whilst I was frantically trying to reorganize my schedule as “efficiently” as possible, my supervisor, Vic, who is a very gentle & relaxed man most of the time, ( at very least 99.99% ), phoned me to make a reasonable criticism because I’d forgotten to fill in a standard form which is part of statutory daily routine, and he then made a reasonable request for corrective action. The daft thing was that having set out on my round, I’d then gone back to the desk to fill in the form, and had then been distracted by half-a-dozen words of conversation ( friendly banter ), & then in response to Vic’s call I had rashly averred, using rarther violent language, that I’d already done the job.
Only in the instant after I’d put the phone down, did I realize that I hadn’t done it. Uh, oh ! So what I had just said to Vic was absolutely & transparently, luminously & totally, untrue. I’ve apologised, but neither fully nor adequately, and have been cowering all day beneath the well known twin clouds of shame and self-loathing.
Arriving home & feeling quite drained of energy, I settled down to skim last week’s New Scientist, in search of diversion & stimulus; and the title of an article by Dan Jones leapt off the page to smack me in the eye … and to put my petty troubles in a wider context. “How Do You Justify Yourself ?” Will you excuse me while I quote the first two paragraphs ?
“We all tend to rationalize our bad decisions and try to hide our mistakes, even from ourselves. Now it turns out that the psychological machinery to do this exists even in young children and evolved a surprisingly long way back in our primate ancestry. "
"When things go wrong for us, we have a choice ― give up on a cherished self-image (“I’m irresistible to women,” say ), or keep it and play down the situation (“I didn’t really like her anyway …”). Over the past fifty years, hundreds of studies have revealed the many tools at our disposal which cope with this “cognitive dissonance” ― from selective memory to the biased framing and re-telling of events. These allow us to live with our choices and, ultimately, ourselves, yet their origins are poorly understood."
The article goes on to describe some recent experiments which seem to show the behaviour that is symptomatic of this kind of dissonance is already established or embedded, both in primates and in small children. I find this disheartening because it makes it seem so much harder for me to escape from patterns of behaviour that are so deeply embedded in me. Damn ! Now I have to claw my way out of the primeval slime all over again !
Saturday, November 03, 2007
3BT w/e 3rd November 2007
First in London on Wednesday, and then in Sussex on Friday, billowing plumes of sunlit steam, their pulsating transit indicating the passage of unseen steam locomotives.
Before dawn, as my truck slowly trundles away from the pumps at the Texaco petrol station on the A3 by Putney cemetery, an “African” cleaning lady emerges through the automatic doors, hands spread wide and arms at right-angles to her body. On the left hand she carries a sweeping brush and a dustpan, on the right she carries a mop and a bucket, upon her head she balances a large roll of blue paper towels, like a tall hat. Her wide hips seem to move in an exaggerated counterbalancing dance rotation that keeps the head moving in a smooth straight line … and as she catches my delighted smile& mimed applause, she laughs out loud.
In Tate Britain which opens late on Fridays, two deep-green patinated & polished bronze discs by Barbara Hepworth in a glass case, seen by me for the first time, standing parallel but slightly offset on a square plinth, ( Discs in Echelon, 1935 ) each with a soft curved edge at the bottom that gently transforms into a sharper but not-quite-cutting edge at the top. As I stare at their subtle symmetries and nubile polish, I remember with some delight having passed her in the doorway of the same gallery some forty years ago; a tiny, vital, strong-looking woman with a large flat forehead & a quick purposeful stride.
Before dawn, as my truck slowly trundles away from the pumps at the Texaco petrol station on the A3 by Putney cemetery, an “African” cleaning lady emerges through the automatic doors, hands spread wide and arms at right-angles to her body. On the left hand she carries a sweeping brush and a dustpan, on the right she carries a mop and a bucket, upon her head she balances a large roll of blue paper towels, like a tall hat. Her wide hips seem to move in an exaggerated counterbalancing dance rotation that keeps the head moving in a smooth straight line … and as she catches my delighted smile& mimed applause, she laughs out loud.
In Tate Britain which opens late on Fridays, two deep-green patinated & polished bronze discs by Barbara Hepworth in a glass case, seen by me for the first time, standing parallel but slightly offset on a square plinth, ( Discs in Echelon, 1935 ) each with a soft curved edge at the bottom that gently transforms into a sharper but not-quite-cutting edge at the top. As I stare at their subtle symmetries and nubile polish, I remember with some delight having passed her in the doorway of the same gallery some forty years ago; a tiny, vital, strong-looking woman with a large flat forehead & a quick purposeful stride.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
from the putney debates to the william morris museum
we woz reading this article in the guardian ... most kids no longer have to learn about history so this could be essential reading for anyone who knows nothing of the history of socialism and democracy in england ...
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/art/heritage/story/0,,2199577,00.html
... and it led us across london to the william morris museum at walthamstow
which is stuffed with art by morris and his many famous associates .... beautiful furniture, fantastic fabrics, paintings, stained glass, printed wallpapers, printed pamphlets, and much material pertinent to their design and manufacture,
there is also a stunning collection of paintings and etchings by frank brangwyn, who once worked in morris's employment as a draughtsman
it is a bit of a trek to an unattractive part of london but i'm so glad we went
and just for good measure ... here's a likeness of oliver cromwell from the V&A
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/art/heritage/story/0,,2199577,00.html
... and it led us across london to the william morris museum at walthamstow
which is stuffed with art by morris and his many famous associates .... beautiful furniture, fantastic fabrics, paintings, stained glass, printed wallpapers, printed pamphlets, and much material pertinent to their design and manufacture,
there is also a stunning collection of paintings and etchings by frank brangwyn, who once worked in morris's employment as a draughtsman
it is a bit of a trek to an unattractive part of london but i'm so glad we went
and just for good measure ... here's a likeness of oliver cromwell from the V&A
Monday, October 22, 2007
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