12 March 2016, 4 pm
On 11 May, I will change from a Pee into an EyePeePee. I am into my final two months. It is an odd feeling, because although I can’t wait to have a bit less to do, I have also got very used to being the Pee. I have been invited to posh places that I wouldn’t normally be allowed within a mile of, and talked to eminent people who wouldn’t normally have stood next to me because of the straw. I have also got used to having stuff to grumble about. I have got almost as good at grumbling as Professor Sir Robin Jacob QC. I just hope being the EyePeePee has a bit of comedy value, otherwise what will I write about? That brings me to another point. I told people at the gala dinner that when I stopped being Pee, I would sleep. This is almost certainly true. But it is not the only thing I will do. The other thing I will do will be get back to publishing my Not-so-Secret Diary blog. I had to stop when I was Pee because someone complained that my writing was undignified and inappropriate for the President of a Chartered Institute. But when I am no longer President, I intend to be as undignified and inappropriate as I can (subject of course to the IPReg Code of Conduct). And believe me, there is plenty of material stored up, from the undignified and inappropriate moments I have lived through during the eight months since I stopped the blog posts. So, how will I spend my retirement? Publishing and being damned, of course. As opposed to being the CIPA Pee and being damned. And what will I do in these final two months? Shall I go for broke, now it’s too late for them to expel me? Now I know the Gold Leaf Man is on his way to add my name to the board of Past Presidents? Tomorrow I shall make a bucket list. But this is one document I am not going to run past the VeePee for approval. He will only say I’ve done it in too much detail. Let it be a nice surprise for him, when he becomes Pee and discovers the little “situations” I’ve cooked up. Actually, one of the things on my bucket list surprises even me. I have a sudden yearning to wear the Presidential swimming gala medal. I think it is ugly, and it does not match any of my outfits, and I would not want anyone important to see me in it. But perhaps the once, before I leave this post for good, I ought to take the opportunity to put it on, and take a selfie, just to say I’ve done it. Let’s face it, in five years’ time no one’s going to believe this really happened.
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12 March 2016, 10 am
This weekend I am taking no chances. I buy my own flowers. Pathetic as it may sound, there will be many mothers who recognise this act of desperation, and who have indeed bought themselves everything from chocolates and champagne to whole weekends of spa treatment because their loved ones couldn’t be bothered. I put up some cards too, so that it looks as though I have an adoring and appreciative family. The cards are blank inside, so we can use them again, for example on Mother’s Day next year. If the children want me to, I can write in some suitable wording and get them to sign it, which is what usually happens with greetings cards in our house. But the children don’t ask me to, so that’s alright. It is empowering, realising you can buy your own presents and cards. It is like realising that you can have whatever outcome you like from a meeting, so long as you offer to write the minutes. Buying your own gifts reduces embarrassment and disappointment. And if you are skilful, you can even treat yourself to a little surprise now and then, by drinking so much alcohol the night before that you’ve no idea what Amazon® are going to deliver the next morning. Amazon are getting very good at surprising me these days. 11 March 2016
Amazingly, I wake up. Amazingly, it is still only the start of the day. In fact, it is early enough for a run round Regent’s Park, which looks beautiful in the thin sunlight and mist. It is possible to forget that beyond the mist, people are still finishing last night’s traffic jams. I eat a big breakfast, because I missed my pudding last night (I calculated it would have arrived well after Somalia). Then I do some vacuum cleaning and fluff-pushing, and sort the laundry, and wave a wet cloth around for a bit, and head home to the Wess Curntry. On the way, I get an email from IPReg telling me it is my turn to pay the practice fees this week. I had not realised you needed to be regulated in order to be the CIPA Pee. I don’t think they are making a very good job of regulating me. Look at all the trouble I’ve caused. I want my money back. 10 March 2016, 10 pm
I am Poshness Personified. I have just the right amount of Unfeasible Frivolity, not a straw nor a cleavage in sight, and a carefully tuned blood alcohol level, designed to allow me to converse effortlessly with people I don’t know but to prevent me from helping myself to their bread rolls. I have been seated at Top Table, with many eminent people. There is Professor Sir Robin Jacob QC, who is still practising being a Grumpy Old Man because he has not yet achieved the levels of perfection he was aspiring to in this regard, but who finds I am the ideal person to practise on. There is Mr Justice Arnold, renowned for his weighty judgments (often several kilograms when printed). There are the people from Managing IP magazine, who have organised this dinner and who are my New Bestest Friends for inviting me here. And there are also several people who have actually won awards, for doing something positive with their lives instead of just getting drunk at gala dinners in honour of other people’s achievements. My job is to provide the entertainment, by asking the questions no one dared to ask but actually everyone wanted to know the answer to. People ask me questions too, such as: “When do you stop being President?” and: “What will you do next?” To which I answer: “Not soon enough for Council” and: “Sleep”. During the dinner, awards are presented to firms that have done really good IP work and for whom really good profits are insufficient recognition. There are awards – often several of them – for nearly every country in the world, or at least every country that has enough of an IP system for someone to make a profit out of it. This adds up to a lot of awards, and in turn to a lot of people going up on stage to have their photos taken looking like proud pelican crossings with glass trophies. There is much applause, and uplifting music. It is the closest I will get to The Oscars and I am so thrilled I forget to be entertaining and nearly send Mr Justice Arnold to sleep. We go through the countries alphabetically, as is only proper. When we reach France, I calculate that the taxi booked to take me home will arrive somewhere between Nigeria and Qatar. Sadly, therefore, I miss the UK part of the awards. I am however in time for a superb traffic jam on the Charing Cross Road. A traffic jam caused by taxi drivers doing seven-point turns. 10 March 2016, 7 pm
This is my first visit to The Savoy. It appears to be my taxi driver’s first visit too. His satnav, not having been instructed to steer clear of the West End on a Thursday night, delivers us straight into a traffic jam, through which – in a futile attempt at expectation management – it continues to adjust our ETA in line with the actual passage of time. Eventually we reach the point where, were it not for my unfeasible frock, it would be quicker for me to finish on foot. The driver, meanwhile, not having been programmed to take any notice of “Road ahead closed” signs, takes the opportunity to practise his seven-point turns and other people’s anger management skills. I am mightily glad I had the sip or two of gin earlier to strengthen my now threadbare nerves. 10 March 2016, 6 pm
I am getting ready to go out and be posh. This is no simple matter, so I have allowed plenty of time and plenty of gin. The event is a gala dinner, at The Savoy. Clearly this is just my type of thing. The invitation said “Black tie”, which means that the men have to dress up as pelican crossings; the women have to hold their breath all evening to avoid structural damage to their Little Black Dresses; and everyone must be sure to brush the straw from their hair before they arrive. (Well, I must anyway.) I have looked out my unfeasibly frivolous frock and carried it carefully all the way from Brizzle on the train. I have Googled “gala dinner etiquette” and found out that I must not show too much cleavage (ha ha) or eat my bread roll all in one go. Or indeed put it in my pocket for later – the bread roll, that is. I am nervous. I do not find it easy, walking into a posh party on my own. I worry I will not know anyone. I will not know what to say. What if I trip over my dress or spill my drink? What if I do that thing where you introduce yourself to someone and they immediately start looking over your shoulder for more interesting alternatives? What if I say something stupid? – It’s happened before. I take a sip or two of gin to strengthen my nerve. OK, maybe more than a sip or two. But not too much, because I do not want to risk putting the unfeasibly frivolous frock on upside down. That has also happened before. 10 March 2016, 10 am
I meet the new CIPA coffee machine. There are some other people at the meeting, too, for instance from the IPO and UKTI and the Ministry of Justice. But I am not really interested in them; it is the coffee machine I wanted to meet. It is shiny and sleek and, well, stately. And it is all lit up like it’s happy to see you, which is unusual in CIPA meetings. This is like having a new friend. For a patent attorney, anyway. The people from the EyeEllSee, who have been campaigning for a new friend like this for years, coo delightedly. They are no longer the least bit concerned about the meeting agenda. One of them says he knows all about coffee machines because he is a mechanical engineer. I say this is not a power tool. It doesn’t have spark plugs in it. The steam that comes out of it is for the cappuccino froth, not to drive pistons. But he is not listening. He is cooing. Ten minutes in, the coffee machine suddenly issues some gurgling noises and starts making drinks of its own accord. And hey presto there’s a cup of coffee, only without the cup. One of the EyeEllSee members immediately jumps up to tend to it. Solicitous cooing ensues. I do like a coffee machine that shows a bit of initiative. This is also unusual in CIPA meetings. Our agenda, which neither the EyeEllSee nor anyone else is the least bit concerned about now that there’s a coffee machine to play with, is to do with promoting the UK’s IP professions abroad. We are going to write a brochure saying how good we are, much better than the Germans, and Mr Lampert is going to make a cartoon video showing us being better than the Germans, and the IPO and their friends will travel around the world spreading these messages for us, except not in Germany, obviously. We cannot, however, finalise our messages until after the EU referendum. Only then will we know whether our brochure is to say: “The UK – A Most Exclusive IP Forum” or “The UK – A Most Excluded IP Forum” or simply “The UK – We’re Still Here, By the Way.” It is my job to write up the notes and action points from the meeting. I suspect they will be mainly about the coffee machine. 9 March 2016, 4.30 pm
Extra! Extra! Unlucky Gary tells me we have a spanking new coffee machine at CIPA! Now we can supply refreshments to our visitors, rather than anti-refreshments, ie things that make you feel worse than you did before. CIPA members across the country will be delighted to learn of this development, as will overseas attorneys the world over, if they were ever likely to have to attend an EyeEllSee event. I am a tad concerned that (a) we did not get sufficient permissions for it, (b) it was not in our Strategic Plan, (c) nor was it on our blue-sky premises wish-list and (d) Mr Davies might try to stick his head in it, thinking it is a kettle, next time he gets upset in a Council meeting. However, I think I can live with all these concerns, simply to know that CIPA is entering the 21st Century in an appropriately caffeinated condition. If a few years late. Tomorrow I will be at CIPA and I will meet the new coffee machine. If it is a success, I will consider asking for a Red Bull® dispenser. This is a diversity issue, after all: some of us do not like coffee and are obliged to get our caffeine in other, more racy, ways. 9 March 2016, 9 am
Mr Davies is off to meet the CIPA members who live and work in Munich. Yeah, right. He is absolutely not going there for the beer and the MASSIVE sausages and the beer. He is going to collect feedback, and to tell the Munich CIPA members about our new updated Sausage Plan. Sorry, I mean Strategic Plan. And about the new Beer-laws, I mean Bye-laws, which are even now being read with rapt fascination by the Privy Council. I think there may also be some bowling involved. Obviously Mr Davies will not join in with the bowling because, in his capacity as Chief Eggsek, he needs to remain aloof and professional at all times. Especially when drunk. I do not think even the Bavarians are ready for Mr Davies going bowling after six pints of Weissbier and a Doppelbocklwürstl. Apparently the journey to the airport was horrible and stormy. A perfect excuse to seek beer, I mean solace, on arrival. 8 March 2016, 3 pm
A friend points out that this week is British Pie Week. This puts things nicely into perspective. For women the world over – that’s 50% of the population, pretty much – we get a day. One measly day. For British pies (pork; steak and kidney; chicken and horsemeat) we get a week. Of which, on one of the seven days, women get a slice of the pie too. I must tell the EyeEllSee. They will want to make sure there are miniature pies on the menu for their next international liaison event. |
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