5 May 2016
Back at my desk, and inspired by Mr Poore’s kind words, I finish the third volume of my end-of-presidency speech. I have included some thank yous to the other Officers, each of whom has helped me in his or her own particular way. The EyePeePee taught me to be more sensible, and to read things properly before I commented on them – or at least to wait until someone else had read them properly before agreeing with their assessment. The VeePee, meanwhile, taught me not to do things in too much detail. He was not 100.00% successful in this, but at least my meeting notes no longer include what kind of biscuits we ate. The Onssek taught me not to take things personally, for example when people told me I was incompetent or improper. And also to use more commas. Or rather, to use them in different places. Which, I did. The EyePeePee and the EyeEyePeePee together taught me that there is Life beyond the CIPA Presidency, although it can be of variable quality: for example, the EyePeePee’s Life beyond Presidency involves gin and tonic and shopping for quality shoes and skiing holidays and evenings out with friends, whereas the EyeEyePeePee’s Life beyond Presidency involves putting on a boiler suit and welding bits of steam train together. The VeePee taught me that the best thing to do, just in case you are destined to end up in a boiler suit, is to enjoy your Life beyond Presidency during the period before your presidency. This he did with terrific commitment and in several different countries of the world: there are emails to prove it. Mr Davies, though not an Officer in the strict sense of the word, taught me a number of things. Some of them were expletives. Some of them I have not dared try yet. But the most important of all was that you must live your life in a perpetual state of optimism, because optimism confuses people, especially patent attorneys. He is not wrong. Sometimes my optimism confuses me too.
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4 May 2016, 4.50 pm
I am just about to close the meeting when Mr Poore says that he has another item of Any Other Business. My instinct is to be fierce about this, because people should declare their items of Any Other Business beforehand like they are told to. But it turns out that this item of Any Other Business involves Mr Poore telling me I have been quite a good President, in some respects anyway, and at least I have been it with a sense of humour, and also I have not been dead, so in fact there is plenty for CIPA to be grateful for. He says I have got a lot done, which is a euphemism for my having ploughed tractor tracks through several of the committees. He says I have persuaded people to be nicer to IPReg than they were naturally inclined to be, and that it is just possible this has had a good effect on our relationship with regulation, although we must give it a few more years yet. He also credits me with one or two things that I don’t remember doing, or indeed distinctly remember other people doing, which is kind of him, and I don’t like to embarrass him by offering corrections. It is a lovely speech. But I am slightly worried by the notes Mr Poore is making it from. They take the form of a bubble diagram, with a maze of manic spider-lines between the bubbles and a lot of scribblings and crossings-out. The bubbles I presume represent the many different parts of CIPA I have meddled with. The manic spider-lines represent the essentially unstructured approach I have taken to the meddling, and the large number of trip hazards I have generated along the way. The crossings-out represent the things that Mr Poore decided, in the end, were better left unsaid. A tear comes to my eye when I think of the effort he must have expended to put a positive spin on this year of unstructured namby-pambiness and trip hazards. He is my Best Friend Forever. The others are not moved to tears, but they are moved to go for a drink. I am not the only one consumed with relief to have reached the end of my Presidential term: the whole of CIPA is about to exhale very deeply. The EyePeePee asks if I would like to join them for a drink. When I say I would actually rather go home she gives me an understanding look and offers to drink a spare gin and tonic on my behalf. This is proper teamwork. The EyePeePee can also be my Best Friend Forever. Then Mr Dixon offers to buy me a drink as well. Mr Dixon has regarded my entire presidency – possibly my entire time on Council – as one big mistake, and I know that once he has bought me a drink, he will waste no time in elaborating on this topic. Mr Dixon and I will never be Best Friends Forever, I fear, because he has absolutely sussed my ineptitude. I expect he will buy an extra drink for the EyePeePee instead. Like I said, teamwork. 4 May 2016, 2.30 pm
So. Here we go. Armed with the ceremonial mallet, I embark on the odyssey that is my last Council meeting. Somehow, it seems easier when you know it would no longer be worth the bother of deposing you even if someone felt moved to. I am sporting the swimming gala medal, its decorative portion freshly glued to its supporting substrate by Mr Davies’s own fair hand. It knocks against the table every time I sit forward, reminding me that I am Important and In Charge. This also boosts my confidence. Bring it on! And bring it on they do. We have two particularly crucial issues to debate today. The first is whether we should allow dead people to be CIPA members. Perhaps I should elaborate on this. In the new Bye-laws, which we are still trying to get past the Privy Council, we do not specify that in addition to being a qualified patent attorney and a generally good egg, in order to be a Fellow of CIPA you also have to be alive. Maybe we thought that went without saying – although to be honest I have come across committees where you wouldn’t want to take such things for granted. We do, however, stipulate that you will be thrown off Council if you die, because there is no room on Council for people who can’t pull their weight. This inconsistency has been queried. It must be resolved. We are hoping to do so without resorting to a full-blown referendum. Mr Davies, who is recording the debate for posterity, and also for the Journal, glances surreptitiously around the room. He is making sure there isn’t anyone here who is already dead but hasn’t owned up to it. A few years ago, there might well have been several. These days, Council has an altogether more modern outlook. Crucial issue number two is our newly-drafted (ie drafted in the last 24 months) social media policy. Now, there are some who think that social media is the Devil’s work, and others who think it is largely Mr Davies’s work, and possibly still others who think the two are the same. These people believe we should have detailed rules about what you are allowed to say on Twitter®, and that CIPA folk should only tweet from behind a professional persona to which nothing undignified or inappropriate or humorous or indeed human can be attributed. This is like when I first went on Twitter, hiding behind an anonymised picture of a hard-boiled egg, from where I struggled to tweet anything more contentious than the local weather report. Mr Davies says: but that would be missing the whole point about social media. He says: you cannot separate the personal and the professional any more. Being a human being is kind of what people like about you. And if they like you, they do business with you. It is worth mentioning, perhaps, that in the Good Old Days, before the advent of social media, Lucifer had numerous alternative sources of work. For instance, the people who most successfully separated their personal and professional lives were often the ones who were quietly getting on, in their entirely separate personal lives, with debauchery, corruption and abuse. Sometimes a veneer of professional dignity can be far more effective than a hard-boiled egg picture, if you’re looking to hide your malpractices. So it might be said – by someone else, obviously, not me – that Twitter came not a moment too soon. In the end, we decide that if CIPA is going to Do social media, we must Do it properly, which means getting on down there with the young things and blurring our personal and professional lives just like Mr Davies does. We think the risk of Mr Davies’s abusive comments about South West Trains® being attributed to CIPA, or of his photographs of home-cooked curries causing serious reputational damage – as opposed to stomach upsets – is probably small. Certainly it is not half so worrying as having a dead person on Council. 4 May 2016, 2 pm
It is the Annual General Meeting of the CIPA Benevolent Association. This august body was established many moons ago, in the days when patent attorneys still had it in them to be benevolent. It manages a small fund with which it helps troubled CIPA members in their hours of need. There are not many troubled CIPA members, or at least not in the financial sense, but those who have arrived at the doors of the Benevolent Association have been grateful for its support. Meetings of the Association are not usually busy affairs. Today’s comprises the Secretary; Mr Davies, who is one of the Trustees; the CIPA President, who is me; and Unlucky Gary, who is writing the minutes so that the many people who missed today’s momentous proceedings can read about them later. The CIPA President has to be there because she has to be asked if she would like to chair the AGM, which invitation she should politely decline in order that the proceedings proceed properly. The Secretary has to be there because he wrote the agenda and so is best placed to get through it quickly. The Treasurer should also usually be there, but today he is not; we are hoping he is busy being benevolent as opposed to having absconded with the small fund. There is a quaint precision to the meeting. First the Secretary asks if everyone approves the minutes of the last meeting. Mr Davies proposes a motion to approve the minutes. I second it. It is carried unanimously by all three of us. Gary writes this down. Then to matters financial. I propose a motion to approve the accounts. Mr Davies seconds it. It is carried unanimously. Gary writes it down. We do the same thing with the auditors’ report, only this time it is Mr Davies’s turn to propose and mine to second. We are on a roll. This is easier than steering a Congress. Next we need to appoint a new Secretary. Mr Davies proposes the current Secretary. This seems sensible, in view of the not many other people queueing up to fill the role, so I second him. This is carried unanimously. As Treasurer for next year, I propose the current one, who is not there to argue but should have known better. This too is carried unanimously. Gary writes furiously. By which I mean he writes a lot, not that he is cross about it. I wish all meetings involved this much consensus. We are supposed to finish by electing a Council of Trustees, but we have to concede this is not practical since everybody in the room already has a job. We decide the existing Trustees are probably OK for another year, assuming they are still alive. The meeting is closed. The unanimously-elected new Secretary goes to find the VeePee, to explain to him how, when he is Pee, he will have a key part to play in meetings of the Benevolent Association. This is an aspect of the Presidential remit which they often forget to warn you about. After that, he will have to go find the Treasurer, and the small fund. Then they can get on with doing what they do best, which is not meetings at all, but benevolence. 4 May 2016, 10 am
The Congress Steering Committee meets to do some Congress steering. Whatever that is. We are pleased with ourselves because we are so far ahead with the programme compared to last year: in fact, we have shocked ourselves with our efficiency. We must quit while we’re ahead, I feel. And so, since I am chairing today because the Proper Chair is on holiday again and the Vice Proper Chair has run out of technicolour knitwear, I bring the meeting to an early close. In particular I give short shrift to the idea that perhaps we might organise a little event of some kind the night before Congress. No, no, NO!! We must not organise any more events! We have a perfectly good event already. If people want to have a drink or a pizza as well, they can go steer it for themselves. Our only problem – and it is a namby-pamby one but nevertheless I am getting a bit fierce about it – is that we do not have many female speakers. I think this may be because when you ask a woman to speak on a particular topic she says: but I’m not sure I know enough about that topic, whereas if you ask a bloke to speak, he doesn’t even ask you what the topic is; in fact, he may not bother to find out until after he’s written his presentation. There is a difference in innate confidence levels. I say: the next speaker we choose absolutely must be a patent attorneyette. I know they exist. I know they can speak. Surely it cannot be that difficult? But the others do not like this kind of selection process, because it is biased. And we cannot have that. OK, then, let’s wait and see what happens, shall we? And guess what, we’ll choose a bloke, because we haven’t heard many patent attorneyettes speak on this topic in the seminars we’ve been to before. And so another year will go by when we don’t hear many patent attorneyettes speak on this topic at the seminars we go to. And so on. I think I am becoming a trifle unpopular on the Congress Steering Committee. I suspect I am steering myself into a cul-de-sac of frustration. But I have not been a militant feminist since I was at university, and it feels good having a second attempt. 3 May 2016
Last night I dreamt I was chairing a Council meeting. This is enough to bring anyone out in a cold sweat. Of all the duties I have undertaken as President, chairing Council meetings has been the most challenging. I can stand up in front of a hall full of people and address them without notes, even on topics for which my enthusiasm outweighs my expertise by quite some margin. I can talk confidently with important heads of pan-global organisations, even if they don’t remember afterwards who I am. I can find my way to places I’ve never been, make friends with people I’ve never met, launch projects with audacity and breathe encouragement into barren committee landscapes where others fear to tread. I can cope with Mr Davies’s swearing and I can match his mad ideas one-for-one. I can discuss Learning Outcomes with Ms Sear, shout with Mr Lampert, sigh with Unlucky Gary. I am even brave enough to open the CIPA fridge. But trying to get 26 Council members to stick to an agenda, and to make sensible decisions about it, has never ceased to scare the underwear off me. So in my dream, I sat in CIPA Hall without my underwear, ceremonial gavel in trembling hand, and awaited my doom. I had forgotten to tell the others that it was a fancy dress Council meeting. But they knew anyway. And the reason they knew is that I was dressed as a Biscuit Pixie. I had made the costume myself, out of biscuits and parcel tape and an old kagoul. If you have traditionally thought of pixies as petite creatures, lightweight and fleet of foot, then you would probably not think I looked very pixie-like. But it was the best I could do on account of being too scared to sleep the night before. And the night before that. Other Council members kept stealing the biscuits off my costume. There were garibaldis and custard creams, chocolate chip-on-the-shoulder cookies, namby-pamby pink wafer biscuits, extremely rich teas, Viennese fingers for Boards of Appeal, and even low-fat shortbread with no added subject matter. But I wasn’t allowed to eat them myself because Mr Davies didn’t want me to get crumbs in the minutes. The VeePee said I’d made my costume too detailed. The Internal Governance Committee said I’d made it without permission. Mr Davies said it looked like I’d made it with my eyes shut. Someone else shouted that I should go dunk myself. I ended up quivering under the table, surrounded by chocolate chips and parcel tape. I was the first ever Council Chair to announce herself as an Apology for Absence. And also as an Apology for a President. The worse thing about this dream is that tomorrow, I really do have to chair a Council meeting. It will be the last I do as President. And even if I don’t go dressed as a Biscuit Pixie, I expect that as usual, once I start trying to exert my authority, it will be little better than pantomime. “This is a good proposal,” I will say. And the others will shout “OH NO IT ISN’T!” I may as well arrive with a custard pie in my face. Except that that would seem an awful waste of custard pie. 2 May 2016
It being another of those pesky bank holidays – and therefore cold and wet – I continue with my end-of-presidency speech. I am now up to 2,115 words, but I will forget most of them so the length is academic really. An outgoing President should always wish her successor well, preferably without going “Na na-na NA na!!” I have decided I am also going to include some words of advice for the VeePee. For instance: don’t forget to turn up to meetings. And: never underestimate the importance of DETAIL. And: don’t begin with unrealistic expectations, for example about changing things or in particular about making people like you. Also important is: Beware the CIPA Fridge. For it do contain things of indeterminate origin and of a half-life both longer than their owners’ memories yet shorter than their owners’ aspirations. Never, I must say to the new CIPA Pee, be tempted to consume anything from within this thriving organic cauldron, and only put your own food in there if you are happy for it to take part in clinical trials. I have some spare cling film if you need it. 1 May 2016
I am aware I ought to write a little end-of-presidency speech, for the AGM later this month. It is customary, for example, to say how much you’ve enjoyed being the Pee – and it is going to take some preparation to do that bit diplomatically, diplomacy being the area of my life most in need of CPD. It is also customary to thank all the people who have helped you perform the role. In my case, since there were very few aspects of the Presidential remit that I was capable of performing without assistance, there are a lot of people I need to mention. Thank you for doing meetings for me on subjects I know nothing about, like the UPC and patent harmonisation and TTIP (whatever that is). Thank you for making decisions for me. Thank you for writing my letters, and public statements, and proposals. Thank you for reminding me to be professional and stop snivelling. I did at least sign the new members’ certificates by myself. But I should still thank Unlucky Gary for lending me a pen. 30 April 2016
The CIPA Pee is at a football match, although this is not a formal engagement, you understand. I was very nearly not at the football match, because I got caught smuggling a can of Red Bull® into the stands in my handbag. The security guard, about to confiscate the can but seeing the look of panic on my face, took pity and found me a paper cup instead. The only problem now is, a paper cup full of Red Bull doesn’t fit very well in a handbag. Up in the stands, I await kick-off with barely-contained excitement (I am being sarcastic) and barely-contained Red Bull. I have decided to support the same team as the people sitting next to me, which is sensible I think because they don’t look like they would tolerate argument over, say, a penalty. My husband agrees. During the game, the blokes behind us provide an ongoing assessment of the other team’s abilities, set to music. It is a loud and robust commentary, and it contains some adverbs that my 12-year-old may not have heard before, or at least not in the context of performance appraisal. There is a lot of running around, and there are some fouls. Someone goes offside, which as far as I can tell is like going to Mornington Crescent via Beacon Hill. Then just before the interval, there is a goal. It is not the right kind of goal and the blokes behind me express their thoughts accordingly, only this time not to music. The rest of the match is a bit depressing. Our team appears to go home before the end, in spirit if not in body. There are some more of the wrong kinds of goal. The male voice choir behind us becomes subdued. My 12-year-old asks what’s for tea, which is usually a sign he has moved on from the current activity in the hope of there being something better to look forward to. I trust I will not be told off for bringing the profession into disrepute by attending a football match. In my defence, I didn’t join in the shouting – even when our team clearly needed reminding that when you’re on the pitch wearing shorts and shin pads, football isn’t a spectator sport it’s an activity – and I didn’t eat any pies or pasties or other plebeian fare in the interval. In fact, apart from the Red Bull gaffe, I was impeccably behaved throughout. Ask my 12-year-old. 29 April 2016, 8 am
Back at Studentville, we wrap our left-over leftovers in freezer bags and distribute them between us. I find space on the drying rack for another load of laundry. The other two look quizzically at their duvets, aware that there may be a Process for dealing with a bed after you have slept in it, and that this Process might in some way be a precursor to bits of the bed ending up on a drying rack smelling of flowers and chemicals. I am in too much of a rush to explain the Process to them; I am busy trying to get my laptop out of its cling film. Still, by 8.30 the flat looks completely un-student-like (ie tidy). We have not even succeeded in getting the milk to curdle. If our spouses were to drop by now, they would hardly know what squalor we have lived in for the last 48 hours – although they might wonder about the fruit cake crumbs. (Clearly, I cannot wield the vacuum cleaner without appearing to be a sexist collaborator, and the other two can’t because they daren’t risk another of my “how-to” presentations.) We head off in our separate directions, to be patent attorneys again and not students, or in one case to look after Vestal Virgins for the weekend. I have a bit of a headache, from all the confidence sharing last night, but I have been for a run and I have a rucksack full of fruit cake and cheese, which M&S® assures me are useable as lunch. Also a brain full of unprocessed, oak-panelled tittle-tattle. And less than two weeks before I can stop pretending to be the CIPA Pee. It was nice to be a student again for a couple of days, but I am glad to be going home. Smiling, I hand the train manager my ticket and leave him to unwrap the cling film. |
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