Dumbing down for the dummies?

London Fields Lido - Pre-renovation, with tache.

There's nothing worse than coming home riled up by something and banging out a full blown passionate blog entry...and then realising at the end of the process that you're probably on the wrong side of the argument.

*sigh*

London 2012. It seems only yesterday one of the peaks of the sporting landscape was in London. Not Russian-owned, Sloane-eyed, French manicured West London. But here in East London - layered across the little suburbs who could of Hackney and Tower Hamlets. Making real before our eyes the Olympic pledge of revitalisation of places which for decades had struggled along in the blind-spot of political will.

And it was wonderful. Britain shone. Women won gold medals, silver medals and bronze medals. They were celebrated in newspapers, on the TV and radio not for what they wore, or who they were married to, and not for one-off body parts but for strength, and speed and skill. We talked about maintaining the focus on sport as a means to deliver health, hope and social advancement. We have talked about raising the profile of women's sport after these Games. I believe we meant it. So why, in its women's-only swimming hour, has my local pool decided to focus on pool noodle water aerobics? Why has it chosen to dumb down sport for women and blunt ambition for sporting skill?

Last Tuesday evening I went to my local pool in London Fields in Hackney to do some long distance training. This pool is a gem. It's one of very few outdoor 50m pools in the UK and attracts a wide range of people from paddlers to serious swimmers. It was originally opened in the 30s - like a lot of the UK's lidos - and was re-opened after refurbishment in 2006.

From 7pm to 8pm on Tuesday evenings the pool is open to women only. I don't agree with this policy since both men and women contribute to the pool's operation via local taxes, but I can live with it. I can certainly understand some women might feel uncomfortable wearing swimsuits in front of men, but on the basis most of the lifeguards remain men during this slot the theory lapses in practice. But it's not something I feel that strongly about and women have long suffered exclusion and discomfort in public spaces at the whim of men.

What I do feel strongly about is the pool's decision to dumb down the sport and this facility to the point where it is unrecognisable as sport. With music cranked up until the water vibrated, a poolside gym instructor led about a dozen women through a coloured foam rodeo. It looked like a dozen clowns drowning with their balloon animals. The music was so loud it was impossible to relax, think technique, count laps or do anything other than endure dripping wet Justin Beiber. It wasn't just loud, it was utterly depressing. If this is the legacy of the Olympics, I want my money back.

I know people reading this will say hang on! It's about participation!' or 'But I use water aerobics for my knee rehab! Don't be a snob!' Right? No! Wrong!

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

This legacy of the Olympics should be about striving, about excellence, and about ambition for the people of Britain, and in this case Hackney. This pool is one of Britain's rarest sporting environments and instead of leveraging its power and the skills of people who could teach high quality swimming, the company who operate the pool - Greenwich Leisure - have sunk the pool to the lowest level. They have, effectively, said to women, 'we know you don't think you can swim. You're right! So let's have fun doing something utterly useless that you'll quickly tire of and which will leave you with no lifelong skills at all, but which ticks our Hackney Council box of 'inclusion.' Job done! Thanks for playing!

Girls are culturally raised to be safe, conscientious, and quiet. They are raised to try hard, smile when they (expect to) lose and to put others before themselves. They are raised not to make mistakes, and not to be loud and not to be aggressive. They are raised not to be ambitious, because they are told through invisible signals all through their lives that a woman who is ambitious is not liked. Worse, dangerous. They are raised, not to put it too bluntly, to like pool noodle aerobics! Read Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In and she will list you numerous scientific studies which show this to be true (I mean the bit about ambitious women, not actually studies on pool noodle aerobics). Even women are shown to fear and mistrust ambitious women. Ambition in men, however, is totally different and is encouraged subconsciously by mothers of boys, fathers of boys and friends of boys. Women thrive in the ordered environs of school, but don't do well in life.

And yet. And yet we love Rebecca Adlington. We love Jessica Ennis. We love women who win at sport - because we saw it all at the Olympics last year. These athletes come to win, or at the very least to be the best version of themselves possible. So let's use sport, real sport, to expand women's horizons. Let's use the few top class facilities we have to get hold of women and team them to swim, and swim better, faster, and further, whether that's 200m, or 10km.

If you think I'm being politically incorrect by suggesting women need this sort of intervention then I'll point no further than the Government's programme launch last week doing just this same thing in business. We need to shake women up, and show them what can be done. This isn't because they can't do it, it's because they are still not raised to do it. They are raised to settle for comedy non sports. We have been let down over and over again and if we keep dumbing down things like sport, or education, or the workplace, then we won't ever set our sights higher.

I predict the women who attend these noodle aerobics classes will attend 4, maybe 6 sessions in summer. They will have fun for a while, then it will rain and they'll get bored, and find other things to do. Then it will be winter and the noodles will be packed away for another season. These women will drift back home with no swimming fitness, no confidence to train on their own and no high level swimming skills. And they will miss the beauty of the pool in winter looking like a hot Turkish salon, its quiet lovely lanes, its muscle toning, lung expanding magic.


I asked the manager and assistant at London Fields what other people's feedback was - and the answer is mixed. Some people love the idea of the pool offering different things. Others, like another woman in reception at the time, feel the same way I do, and agree that men would never be subjected to such low-brow fob offs.


I mentioned my anguish to two people this week. One man, and one woman. The woman, a fellow swimmer, wrote back 'but think of the COMEDY value! Surely it's worth it for that?' No. I sighed. It's not. I want more. I'm saying let's not make women's fitness a thing of comedy. Let's not say 'aim low and hit the ground.' Let's make it about high achievement, and skill, and goals. Instead, currently, it's ambition in the slow lane. And it's not just women. When I first started swimming at the pool, in 2008, I asked if they offered private lessons for kids. No, they said, they didn't. I was staggered. Here's a dream chance to make some money off middle class ambition but they weren't having a bar of it. The second person I mentioned my argument too is a man. He didn't agree with me, saying who cares what the exercise is, it's exercise. But he was incensed about women's hour and suggested that was the real problem.

So after a week's thinking I've come to the conclusion that technically I probably am wrong to say that pool noodle aerobics is nothing but sexist devil's work, but the spirit of my argument and feeling on the matter is the right one. I'm suspicious of dumbing down activities for the sake of popularity - see UKIP, Page 3 in The Sun etc - or an easy life. I think the value of this special place is not done justice by pool noodle aerobics and, being something of an evangelist for swimming, I think these women are missing out on the King of Sports.

What's wrong with this picture? Looking for feminism on the internet.

By Katherine Burgdorf

 

 

If I asked you where in the world are people most searching the word 'feminism' online, what would you say? Would you guess it was a developed country, or a developing country? A country where feminism had a stronghold, or a country where equality for women is still an aspiration? Do you think the word is being searched for more, or less, in 2013 than in 2004? What do searches for 'feminism' in Australia look like, or Britain? And what happens when we replace the word feminism with 'rape'?

 

In a burst of inspiration last week I thought I'd use Google Trends to find out. All the usual data health warnings apply. These trends are based on Google searches around the world with limited flex on methodology. Sadly, we don't have the luxury of time to analyse or cross check the data to draw many conclusions or correlate data with socio-economic or political regimes but I bet any amount of money it throws up some interesting questions. It's a tiny, tantalising glimpse into the world's interest in one of the great movements toward human equality.

 

This first graph (below) shows the declining popularity of the search term 'feminism' from 2004 (the earliest data) to 2013. The number '100' in Google Trends represents the search peak, with all other numbers in relation to that peak. In this data set the peak looks to be in mid-2004. What's interesting too, is the very uniform peaks and troughs from 2006 onwards, as if the search term is seasonal. 

Trends in searches of the word 'feminism' on the internet 2004-2013.



 

The tool shows us that when people are searching for the word 'feminism' they are often also searching for terms like 'feminism definition', 'what is feminism' and 'feminism theory'. The terms 'first wave' and 'second wave' feminism are also common related searches suggests internet interest in the word might most often relate to academic study rather than a general interest in the subject. 

 

So which country do you think most of the searches for the word 'feminism' originated from in that period 2004-2013? Here's the answer:

 

 

Countries where the internet search term 'feminism' was most prevalent. Zimbabwe in top spot (2004-2013)

 

Nope, I didn't guess Zimbabwe either. But completely by chance on the day I started to look at Google Trends I also stumbled across a Bloomberg news story from January this year which said Zimbabwe may become the world’s first country to pass a law requiring that women hold at least 50 percent of posts in parliament and other government bodies, according to a new constitution. The timing of the search trends doesn't correlate with this political development in any way but it's an interesting pair of facts.

 

Three African countries appear in the top 10. I'm relieved Australia's in there. I'm not surprised to see the UK in the top 10, but I thought it would be higher up. I expected to see other Scandi countries in the top 10, but then, if you live by feminism ideals, why do you need to search for them? France is a flat-line when it comes to the search term, and I can see their Gallic shrugs saying, 'What do we need zis 'feminizm' for? We 'ave it already, every day.'

 

Now for the killer chart. Here's a heatmap showing where the word 'feminism' is searched for as an internet term in Australia. It does rather prompt the question: 'So what's wrong with this picture?' 

 

 

Yes, that's right. No one has searched for the word 'feminism' in the Northern Territory. Or, to be datapolitically correct, not enough people have searched for the term 'feminism' in the Northern Territory for it to be shaded even the palest blue. Perhaps we should write to them? 'Dear Northern Territory, It has come to our attention....' But maybe I'm jumping to the wrong conclusion. Territorian women are probably tough as nails and too busy wrestling crocs to need to look up 'feminism' on the internet. They've literally got bigger reptiles to fry. Or it could be the internet isn't on in the NT yet.

 

Here's the same view of the UK. Wales leads with the most searches, followed by England, Northern Ireland and Scotland.



 

 

If we switch to UK cities over the same time period, it looks like this:

 

 

 

While Wales leads the country charts, Cardiff, the capital city, only sneaks in at 10th place. Does this mean people in smaller Welsh towns are, collectively,  searching the term 'feminism' more than their capital counterparts? The cities on the list are not particularly surprising. Most have universities which could explain it. But it's the absence of one city which is interesting, and that's London. The political, media, cultural and financial heart of the UK isn't interested in looking up feminism. 

 

So what if we switch to the word 'rape'? Below is a chart of worldwide searches of the word rape from 2004 to 2013.

 

It's largely flat until the start of 2013 when it spikes significantly. The rise in line with the high profile rape of the 23-year-old student in New Delhi, India, on 16th December 2012. The letter 'A' on the same chart flags up the news coverage - just ahead of the Presidential elections - which followed US Congressman Todd Akin's comments that women's bodies knew how to avoid pregnancies from 'real rapes' which is why legal abortion wasn't needed (or welcome) in the US. At the time we weren't sure what we were so confused about...the wacky science from a politician sitting on a House science committee or the not so subtle subtext that 'real rapes' were different from other rapes which are .....not so bad? Or happen when the victim was drinking? Or were just plain fictional or...whatever. When the historians come in 3000 years time I do hope they know we thought this guy was a speciman crackpot in 2012.

 

Here's a chart showing the rise in the searches for rape in India over a two year period which includes the 2012 attack. The relative difference between the peak, in December 2012, and the historic 'steady state' search levels is considerable.

 

 

 

Here's the search trend for 'feminism' in India over the past 12 months. The peak comes in January 2013, at the same time as the trial for the now infamous attack.

 

 

Without doubt the saddest exercise of the week was looking at what related terms people searched for when searching for 'rape'.

 

 

Not much in the way of analysis needed there.

 

And so we have it - Google's internet interest in feminism. Is it all 'lies, damn lies and statistics?' Probably. And even with a hundred years of analysis I doubt data's ability to draw many useful conclusions, but I love it for provoking questions. Who is searching for feminism in Kenya? Will Zimbabwe take a leading step in insisting half its parliament are women. Is it conceivable that India will change? A country which had been led by a woman, but where other data in other media reports say a woman is raped every twenty minutes. It's only ever a window.

 

Whatever your view on data I didn't want to leave this blog on the sad trends of the last chart so here's a special set of charts on a subject close to the heart of Notthestylepages. I'm not so sure there isn't some good news in this set.

 

CHART 1. Popularity of the search term 'big pants' 2004-2013.

CHART 2. Regional interest in 'big pants'.

CHART 3. Top 10 city interest in 'big pants' ...

 

 

CHART 4. What related search terms to 'big pants' are on the rise?

 

It might be a man's world, but maybe they're coming around to our way of thinking after all.

 

 

 

Dear London...

Dear Great Britain,

No, wait,

Dear London,

It was a grey, cold and drizzly day a decade ago I arrived on your shores to live. I spent my first few nights at St Christopher's Inn on Borough High Street and never left the Northern Line. The roll call of my 7 London residences reads Oval, Borough, Clapham, Elephant & Castle, Kings Cross, Islington and Shoreditch. I loved something about them all - yes, even you, Elephant.

Oval was owned by a lovely Polish taxi driver who lived somewhere in rural Yorkshire, having driven himself into a land owning dynasty. He owned most of our street, all the terraces divided (probably illegally) into flat shares. He gave Sam and I his own TV in acknowledgement that Poles and Australians both knew the meaning of hard work. We'd put a roast in the oven and head to the Fentiman Arms for a beer and plate of chips. Couldn't afford to eat out but did it matter? Not a jot. I will say, though, that walking back from the pub to our tiny room I would look with envy at the warm interiors of other people's terraces and wonder at the money they must earn to live in them. It was my first experience of being poor, but it's hard to say I've ever been happier...earning nothing, expecting nothing. What an adventure.

Borough SE1, was a lovely step up to our own flat - two incomes now! - and was owned by Minnie Driver's aunt. She bought the flat around 1997 for £59,000. She was a photograher who married to a dentist turned music producer and she took photos of all her tenants. I'll dig ours out and post it later. Our weekly shop was the market, and I ran and ran and ran along the Thames. I could hear Big Ben chime. I loved it and I know that whoever lives there now will love it too. First - and so far only - time I've been questioned at a witness to a minor stabbing. Sadly I didn't see anything.

On to Clapham, a single girl now, and it was two summers of bikes, parties and living with blokey flatmates. It was like living on a TV show...people dropping in, stumbling home from discos and getting invited out to places all around that manor. I was 26 years old and getting younger by the month. It was the very best of times, and the very worst of times. It was my home during the 7/7 bombings and I was mugged within site of my front door. By girls on bikes. The lady who called the police told me she didn't think I'd get up but it must have looked worse than it was.

Onto Elephant then, for a short stay. It was a mistaken move but it did host a wonderful girls-only Christmas Lunch in 2005  - seating 17 around the table. Soon after that I ditched the boys and, for the first time, moved in with a friend, Sarah. Muriel Street, Kings Cross, wasn't a pretty location, but with Islington 20 yards up the road and the canal to take us to Camden it was heaven. From there I discovered the Ladies Pond at Hampstead in the summer. I trained for my first and only marathon along that canal stretch, which I could see from my window. Sarah studied for entrance into medicine using our Ikea coffee table and I studied for my financial exams using the ironing board. That address the home to the height of my insomnia which marked it darkly as far as being a good flatmate, I'm afraid. If only I knew then what I know now.

Residence no. 6 was Liverpool Road with Simon and my introduction to Living With Kids. Harry threw up on me on the sofa there, peed in his sleep in the corridor, and we read stories to the boys in bed. It still holds the record for being my longest running address, but still no sleep. Miserable years at work. But Islington I loved - its pubs, its farmers' market, its blossom trees, its squares, our friends, still in London, still nearby. Whenever I think of it, it is spring or autumn I recall. We tried to buy our own patch there, but it wasn't meant to be.

Which brings us to Shoreditch - an experiment with City living. We live above a tex mex restaurant in a building with just a few other invisible souls. There are no light switches in our bedroom, it is daylight 24/7, and if you run the kitchen tap you are rewarded with a brief but powerful sewage smell in the bathroom. An exhaust fan runs through the height of the building which provides a reassuring hum throughout the night in the spare room. Isn't this typical London living? Nothing is ever as it seems. The wall of windows provides a nightly array of entertainment from midnight photo shoots and rappers filming video clips, to raves in the empty car park opposite and parachute regiments jumping from Chinooks over the Artillery Barracks. This is the beating heart of London now - East is best. I live where I work where I eat where I shop where I volunteer - the lastest experience.

There is a whole other letter I could write to Britain, but it is to London that this last decade belongs. The tube, the lidos, the parks, the markets, the vintage stores, the terrible coffees, now the flat whites - that other Aussie invasion. Some money, more money, less money. Exams, learning again. A boom, a bust. Bikes, the canal, walking. Lots of travel, no travel. The Heathrow Express. Seasons. Dancing. Theatre. Visas, visas, visas. A whole new career. And always, brilliant graffiti.

Where to next? Who knows. London Fields maybe, closer to the pool because I can't swim enough. It will be something bijou to buy, I think, to be sure when I'm old I can visit. Maybe to pass on to nieces. If London is still a place to be. I'll start looking this week, I think. Always moving on.

With much affection,
Your newest citizen.
Monday 17 Sept. 2012.

Why does it always come back to baking?

Do you remember how, earlier this year, I wrote here that I thought City sexism was on the last slow train from Waterloo - waving us farewell as it downed its last G&T, and lit up its last cigar?

You do? Really?

What's that?

Oh, that's so nice of you to say!

Well, anyway, it turns out I was wrong. Yes, I'm afraid so. Very wrong. To put it bluntly I was as wrong as a rat up an S-bend. Like a frog in a toaster. Wrong.

What do I mean? Well, yesterday at work (an investment bank) I received this email:

Sent: 10th September 2012 11.21am

Dear Ladies of <my bank>

Do any of you think you will have the time/energy to whizz up some cakes for our (charity) Foundation bake sale this Wednesday & Thursday?

Please do let me know...thanks,

<sender name withheld>

I'm tempted to stop writing here. You can see what I mean.

What's that?

No!

I'm not having you on. That's an actual, real email.  I'm protecting the identity of the sender. I don't mean to single them out for this, this...de-vancement of our status, shall we say. I'm just...distressed.

See, women actually died fighting for the vote in England. Oh I know you know that, but I wonder if enough people know that. I'm not sure they do. Or maybe they learned it, but have forgotten. I'm not sure what's worse!

You know, we only got that vote on equal age terms in 1928.

What?

No, no. The 1918 legislation gave us the vote at 30. Our vote was only lowered to the same age as men in 1928 - in those days 21 years of age. Campaigning for women's rights was a crime. Many suffragettes went to prison. Yes, jailed! I think the best you could hope as a campaigner was suffering only ridicule. And total social exclusion.

I know. It's bizaare to think of it now, isn't it? I mean it's so long ago (well, not that long really, but seems like it).  So...yes. I'm just a bit distressed, that's all. I wasn't expecting it. I mean, I was at work. In 2012. The thought that someone is here, looking around, thinking of women as the lone resource for...baking...well, it's got me worried.

Why does it always come back to baking, do you think? Baking for kids' schools. Baking for the village fete. Baking in films...even that great film Bridesmaids which showed women's conversations about cocks as they actually are (you know, in the cafe scene early on, when she makes some bollocks with her arms and closes one eye?). Yeah, even in that film the main character, Annie, finds love and resurrection through...baking! But at work too? Really?

What's that? Bigger picture?

Huh. You know what, you are totally right. That's how I should be thinking about it.
So by putting the 'women = always = baking' thing aside, as you suggest, this is actually about the economics of charity. It would be better to try and get as many cakes as possible to sell, right? I mean, I like cooking (of which baking is a sub-set), but Gordon 'WTF' Ramsey likes cooking too, doesn't he? And other men do too. So, well, why not ask everyone in the office if they would like to contribute to the charity day by baking cakes for sale. Because, and here's the clincher to your argument, us women like eating them! So if both men and women get the opportunity to bake, buy and eat then we're making more cakes and more money. And, this is the City - we like making money. After all, thanks to slow-but-wonderful laws I get to keep the money I earn too. I can spend it how I like (which wasn't always the case). I can spend my own money on cakes, on charity, on...whatever.

What? I'm still too serious you think?

Oh. I know. Yes it is funny. And it does make me laugh, I promise. Or it will tomorrow. Maybe.

If you don't laugh you cry, right?

What?

Who sent it?

Oh, someone in HR.

Calm down dear...sexism is leaving the City

Yesterday I encountered some sexism in the office. It was like opening a picnic basket to discover a bloodied, maggot-infested arm stump instead of potato salad; disappointing (no one wants to eat maggot-infested arm stump) but thrilling too, for reasons I'll come to shortly.

The conversation was about a piece of information relating to a client. I asked if a male colleague had clarifed some information we needed and he said 'I thought you were doing that?' I said 'It's really your responsibility to follow it up, and to know that detail'. He said 'I thought you were going to call that girl who sends you the information.' I said 'No, that's really something you should do.' He said 'Fine. I just thought you were going to do it. You're making a mountain out of a mole hill.' I said 'I don't think I am'. He said 'We've already spent five minutes talking about it.' End of conversation.

I'm sorry to record such a dull conversation. We can agree there was a breakdown in communication as to who was meant to do what. No problem there. But any seasoned watcher of sexism will spot two phrases of interest (1) 'you're making a mountain out of a mole hill' and (2) 'that girl,' and smile with recognition.

There were no raised voices or suggestions this was a problem bigger than knowing what an account manager is responsible for. The conversation took about 30 seconds, not five minutes. That is exaggeration. If it had been left at 'Fine. I just thought you were going to do it,' it would be a very different interaction. But to then go on to say 'You're making a mountain out of a mole hill' changes the conversation. The reference to 'that girl' is interesting too. The information in question is sent to me by a senior male at the client firm. My colleague should know this given the importance of the communication.  I think the implication is that the correspondence is the domain of 'admin girls'.
As any down to earth woman does I immediately questioned my reaction and judgement. Was I being too sensitive about this? So I applied the 'Man Test'. The 'Man Test' is important. You basically substitute yourself in the relevant conversation with a man of similar professional stature. I concluded it was sexism because if our (male) Head of Sales had said to my colleague, 'You need to know this kind of detail' the response would not have been 'You're making a mountain out of a mole hill,' it would have been 'Yeah, yeah, OK, I'm on it.' My gut feel was 'that was some sexist Attitude right there' and the Man Test confirmed it.

The incident was not dangerous, hardly offensive, and not remotely in the same universe as being called a 'tethered goat' (a famous sex discrimation case in the City). But let's call it what it was; sexism. The whole thing reminded me of David Cameron telling his female Opposition colleague to 'calm down dear'...all very easy to fob off as an ad-inspired joke but we know it's being done to casually, sometimes very subtley, put women down.

But this is hardly a poster story to prove the glass ceiling still exists so why am I writing about it? Well, that's just it. I was caught off guard because where I work it's so rare.

This year will be my seventh year as a stockbroker in the City of London. I was 27 when I started and, as I am technically and legally a woman, I can assure you I've seen, heard and encountered sexism that has made me roar with laughter, wince, and gasp in equal measure. I'm happy to say it's never made me cry but that was a question I was asked once in a City interview 'Do you cry at work much...because we can't hire a girl who cries.' If you apply the Man Test to 'Do you cry at work' in an interview I think you'll agree that's some Gold Standard Sexist Bollocks.

But yesterday's 'Mountain out of a Mole Hill' comment really caught me by surprise. I went home and realised that for the past five years I've been working in a haven of stockbroking gender respect. I was out of practice. It was almost thrilling...like I'd stumbled on some forgotten relic of the City, or found that bloodied human stump in my lunch box.

Perhaps it's because I work at a young company - both in terms of years in business and in the age of the people within the business. Perhaps it's because of the personalities who set the business up. I should declare I'm a shareholder in the company, I'm married to the Chief Executive and have been involved with the business from the outset. But I know I've been offered very good career opportunities over the years based on merit and I'm also one of the most vocal people internally about our weaknesses when it comes to women in the business. We do have them. We don't buck the general trend. There are no women on our board and I am one of only two women who sit on the Heads of Department committee (and mine is a department of one). Women make up only 20% of our workforce and in three rounds of graduate intakes we have not yet hired a woman graduate. We have found it very difficult to attract female grads despite wanting to. Why is this?

I can guess that stockbroking sounds like a 'numbers' job. Are there stats to show that more women grads apply to other sectors? I don't know, I need to look that up. If true (I would never have considered broking as a career while at University for that reason) this is a great shame because, like sales and marketing, stockbroking is all about telling, or writing, an engaging story. It's also about building long term relationships with clients.

I also wonder, and worry, that young women think 'broking = old men = sexist bullshit = no way on God's green Earth I am applying for that malarky'. Historically they'd probably be right (though I'm not convinced broking is statistically worse than any other sector). But this week's 'mole hill' incident highlighted that no matter the industry or its reputation you can suddenly find yourself at the forefront of a great change in attitudes. I think the City is moving into a new era of modernity and I think the shock it's currently undergoing - redundancies, losses, mergers etc - will force change faster. Businesses that want to survive will need to professionalise.

So, if you're a grad thinking about a job then stick the City on your Serious Options list, even if you're an English Lit major. And if you're a woman in the City now and you stumble across some sexism in the corridors then call it and deal with it how you see fit. But do then recommend it to the Endangered States list and tuck the memory away to tell to your disbelieving granddaughters. For men have already proven that mountains are made over time by geophysical forces, not moles or women.

Two fields - What Remembrance Day says about the Occupy London protests, by Tom Harwood

I was in two very different fields this week. On Thursday, it was the opening of the Royal British Legion ‘Field of Remembrance’ at Westminster Abbey. It was a low key, poignant and very British affair. I also spent a lunchtime last week around the ‘field’ of Finsbury Square in the company of the Occupy London protestors. My feelings for the two sites could not have been more different.

The Field of Remembrance is nestled in and around the north side of Westminster Abbey. It is a roughly triangular plot where the Royal British Legion lay out thousands of small wooden crosses in order to represent the fallen and the services and their regiments, ships and squadrons. It is structured, ordered, disciplined and respectful. The opening is attended by representatives of all those who served and I was lucky enough to be involved with the Gloucestershire Regiment contingent. It is a fine display of military pageantry with a garish range of headdress of the various regiments bobbing around, medals galore and the telling of tales of heroic deeds.

There are scars aplenty and whispers of respect as various military legends take their place in line. Old retired senior officers acknowledge each other from afar with a deft touch or a modest raise of their tattered bowler hats (the headgear of choice of the retired). The traffic is held up in Parliament Square as the Duke of Edinburgh arrives to mark the opening. Suddenly from behind me there is a commotion as a veteran stumbles. John, 80 years old, in his Somerset Light Infantry blazer is down but is quickly assisted by the St John’s ambulance and is wheeled off for a cup of tea. To my left is Lt Col Nick Kitson, the epitome of a young courageous officer. He is back from a torrid tour in Afghanistan where his 1400-strong battle group lost 30 soldiers and had over 100 seriously injured - a casualty rate not seen since the Korean War. In front of him is the mother and girlfriend of the late Lt Daniel Clack, killed 12 weeks ago. The rawness of their distress is too visible. Finally there is Sam Mercer, ramrod straight, one artificial leg, a glass eye, captured at the battle of the Imjin River in 1951 and spent two years in a Chinese POW camp but every bit the proud soldier and a hugely inspirational figure. One can only wonder at what days like today mean for all of them. The address is short and respectful and the Duke takes a tour of the assembled ranks post the two minutes silence. At 90, and a veteran himself, he is still charming and fully engaged with the people. He finishes his tour and we are done.

While we are all waiting to depart there is lots of talk of the city and what is happening in the world and how crazy the news seems at the minute with leaders of countries falling at a rate of one a day and street protests and student demonstrations. I have to say I struggle to give a credible answer for the protests and actions; in fact I can only offer that history will no doubt record this period as a time of total political ineptitude with no clear leadership. No one seems happy with the answer and the old and bold do seem bewildered by the current unrest. They lived a life of simplicity, of rules and service and dedication and, on occasion, of protracted periods of extreme violence and carnage. They have seen it all. They have a shell that can withstand hardship, nothing will knock them off their stride. What is there really to complain about? They also have a common cause. These people are here to pay their respects to lost family and friends, to remember monumental events in their lives. They are here to reflect and pay tribute to days long gone. And I know they do not forget them for the other 364 days of the year. How could they? The trauma is too great but undaunted and accepting they go about their lives in quiet contemplation.

 Suddenly, John, the old soldier who had fallen, is behind me, looking much better for his tea break.

‘I’m sorry to have missed the Duke but I just wanted to let you know that I was alright,’ he says.

There is a chorus of replies from his former comrades, who pat him on the back.

‘Thanks John, have a safe journey back’

‘Look after him Gwen.’

‘See you on Sunday at the march.’

I am surprised by his return, its sole purpose to make sure we were OK and not worried by his absence. He is still watching out for his buddies.

I loved this event not for the sentimentality but for the simple dedication and sacrifice that all these people have made. They have put themselves out in every conceivable way to achieve a simple aim or order. They have courage beyond words and individual deeds that will scar them for life but will also give them immense pride and a better understanding of who they are. The loyalty is tangible and the collective strength fills your chest and heart.

Back at work I felt as though I had been caught off guard by the questions on the protests. It was like I had the enemy at the gates but I did not know what it was all about. A stroll five minutes round the corner brought me to my second field.

The Finsbury Square protest has been running for about three weeks and sprung up at the same time as the St Pauls Cathedral protest. It looks like a festival site with myriad brightly coloured tents crammed together on any available patch. There is a big communal marquee, a media tent, a tarpaulin shelter and a yurt. Over the weeks, as the Indian summer turned to dank winter, wooden pallets have been dragged out to provide a raised walkway. Banners are strung from trees and tent poles.

The thing that surprises me how few people there are around. I have walked past it at all times of day and it seems empty. At one stage newspapers took thermal images which suggested that many of the tents are unoccupied. The posters say people are holding down jobs while living at the site. All I know is there are more tents than people. There is no atmosphere, no buzz, no impact.

The other thing that strikes me is that it is not entirely clear what the issue is. There seem to be so many issues being represented that almost everything wrong in the world is being aired by the protesters including taxes, bankers’ bonuses, anarchy, climate change, corruption, pollution, torture, waste, inequality, racism, nuclear arms, healthcare and public sector cuts. It is quite a cocktail. I think back to Parliament Square and Brian Haw who lived for 10 years on the roadside campaigning for peace . It was clear what he wanted and what he was prepared to do to deliver it. In this field there seems to be a few people trying to affect too much change. To achieve it all would be social utopia but it’s unrealistic.

I am all for protest. If you feel wronged you should have the right to try and do something about it, but in this case the message is lost. The action is ineffective and there seems to be an air of pity about the place. The student protestors tried hard to charge up Moorgate to link up with the camp but they were thwarted by the police who were keen to make up for being asleep at the wheel in the summer riots. Even if they had been successful, what on earth would they do if they got there? There was no rallying cry, there seems to be no credible goal, and no sense of what success might look like.

My point is this. What has this second field achieved? What plight has been highlighted if nobody takes any notice? When do they pack up and disappear? Even those around them seem a touch embarrassed.

I am a banker and, of course, it’s now fashionable to give bankers a hard time. My industry hasn’t covered itself in glory but I do think in this country it is an industry with the potential to lead the economy out of its current crisis. Financial services are something we are good at and have a geographic advantage in. To put pressure on the industry and to overly constrain it is in no one’s interest. The regulator and leaders of these businesses need to take the necessary steps to get things back on track but it’s too simplistic and naïve to blame all that is wrong with the world on the UK banking system. To punish it further would kill a great national asset.

I wanted to come away from this second field clearer on the protest, crisper in my answers to those who ask me about it, and with a better understanding of the other side of the coin. But the protest was a bit vague, too thin and seemingly toothless.

In the space of 24 hours I felt I had seen the best of people, united in a common cause, clear in what they were doing and setting an example to all of selfless demonstration. I also saw a more modern cause, but it was unstructured, complex, vague and ineffectual. The human spirit is a remarkable thing and when united it is a powerful force but without that strength and desire it can become difficult to see.

Both fields will be there for the next couple of weeks, so take a look and see what you think.

By Tom Harwood