Christmas is here and as the carol enjoins us “Tis the season to be jolly”. A time to put aside the preoccupations of our daily lives and “heedless of the wind and weather” revel in the Yuletide celebrations. But is it possible, in contemplating Christmas, to distance oneself totally from the events happening around one and reported through the incessant flood of breaking news.
By any standards 2016 has not felt a great year and this week’s events in Berlin have epitomised that sense of malaise in our affairs. For those families directly affected this Christmas will be an unexpected time of grief and for the rest of us there is a dull sense of revulsion of yet another heartless attack on ordinary people and an attempt to disrupt and terrorise the traditions of civic and civilised life. The response to the attack from some quarters, is equally depressing, stirring up hatred not just of individuals but of whole groups and reinforcing the sense of terror which, by definition, it is the first objective of the terrorists to create.
In my professional life too this has been a hard year. The NHS, like many other public services, is, after many years of austerity, under considerable pressure. There is much more to do as the demand for services increases and very little in the way of new resources to do it with. A genuine interest in doing more to help people with mental health problems in society is struggling to be realised on the ground as promises to find new investment fail to materialise or are overwhelmed by the scale of unmet need for help. Change and uncertainty abound and they alongside what there is to do create a sense of weariness and hedonic deficit. I can scarcely think of a time in my working life when I have been so ready for a break.
In general I am one of life’s optimists, my temperament and by experience. I like to believe in the possibility of positive change in both individuals and society and am not naturally pessimistic about human nature, although recognising history is full of examples of human folly and frailty. The events of the last couple of years have, however, shaken some of that optimism. Getting older is undoubtedly part of the piece, particular in a context where you have a sense of some of the things you have valued throughout life disappearing or being under severe threat. The relentless of the news and its enduring focus on the negative and shocking does not help either.
I am, unashamedly, a son of the Enlightenment, a supporter of the power of reason as opposed to fear and superstition, committed to values of openness and tolerance, delighting in difference and a believer in the possibility and reality of progress, of the elimination of suffering and the increase of human happiness and well-being. For most of my adult life, with some occasional moments of retreat, this view of the world has felt justified but at the end of 2016 it feels more threatened than I have known before. That, inevitably, feels disturbing.
Other Christmases have been different. Our first married Christmas in 1989 was one when the events of the Velvet Revolution had engendered a wonderful sense of optimism in the triumph of hope over the stale and oppressive forces of tyranny. Images of Berlin were central to that Christmas as they have been to this one but images this time of a totally different atmosphere and mood.
However, Christmas is a good time for reflection so what can it offer to counter some of the inherent gloominess of the times. There are a number of hopeful messages.
First the festival itself in its Christian and pagan manifestations recognises the need for hope in the midst of the depths of winter, for light in the midst of darkness, for a brief time of plenty before we face the time of shortage. This is a festival we have designed in the knowledge of our own need for cheer and encouragement.
Second, as I’ve seen lots of time in recent weeks on the streets of London, it brings out, most of the time, the best in us, encouraging acts of charity, an interest in the less fortunate and a wider sense of good will to our neighbours and fellow citizens.
Third Christmas brings us back to what matters most in life, to those closest to us, to our families, near and extended, and to our closest and oldest friends.
Finally Christmas has a sense of timelessness. A time to reflect on other times, on times of happiness or on times of previous difficulty which have passed and have been overcome. From that can come sense of renewed purpose in facing the future.
So perhaps this year will not be a Christmas of total merriment but it is a season to be jolly and to aim and plan for what can be different in 2017.
The Alchemist by Ben Jonson is one of my favourite plays and the RSC production I went to see recently did it proud.
Written over 400 years ago, it still has much to say about human folly and our willingness, as a species, to deceive others and ourselves. The plot revolves around a trio of rascals: Subtle, Face and Dol who use the absence of the Master of the House, Lovewit, during an outbreak of the plague in London to set up a number of outrageous scams to defraud their fellow citizens.
The play is no less harsh on the victims of the fraud as it is on its perpetrators. A series of characters are displayed who through their vanity or plain stupidity are easily lulled into going along with the promises and deceits of the three villains. In the end their villainy catches up with Subtle, Dol and Face when Lovewit unexpectedly returns to the house but that is of little consolation to the victims.
The play got me thinking about the nature of human stupidity which once Einstein supposedly described as being with the Universe the only things that were genuinely infinite (although he had his doubts about the Universe). For a species distinguished by its cleverness and ingenuity it is striking how frequently our individual and collective history is coloured by episodes of folly.
From a historical perspective there are a number of distinct “types” of stupidity.
The first is what I would call the “free lunch” syndrome, the idea that there is an effortless path to wealth or success. For Sir Epicurus Mammon in the Alchemist it is the belief that the Alchemist can turn the base metal of his kitchenware into gold but how much more stupid is that belief than that which encouraged investment into sub-prime mortgages before the 2008 Financial Crash.
The second type is more subtle and relates to “cognitive dissonance”. First identified as a phenomenon looking at radar operators during the Second World War it relates to our inability to accept new pieces of information which undermine our fixed beliefs.
If cognitive dissonance is an essence a process of the unconscious there are cases of more deliberate stupidity when we chose explicitly to ignore facts or arguments which are inimical to our beliefs, values or interests. In this case we are prepared to deny rational argument or give unthinking support to those who provide an argument which is better aligned to what we want to believe.
There are times too when, privately, we can accept that the facts have changed but, in public, there we lose too much face in accepting that we were wrong and that we must change a course of action. Politicians and Governments find this particularly difficult where admitting a mistake or false belief is seen as a particular sign of weakness.
As a social species collective beliefs and behaviours are crucial in defining acts of stupidity. Peer pressure and group think play an enormous role in what we think and how we behave. It is much easier to adhere to a majority belief than to be a lone voice opposing the group position. The fate of the Trojan princess Cassandra sums it up entirely; the horror of being always right but never believed.
While education should be a protection against acts of stupidity, sadly this is not always the case. Indeed from my experience there is nothing worse than seeing a clever person, especially in a position of leadership, trapped in a position of stupidity. Their intellect and education can give them an armoury of arguments with which they can defend their views to themselves and others. At the end of the day, however, they are still wrong.
So how can we guard ourselves against being the victims or perpetrators of folly? There are no perfect answers but there are some things which might help.
The first is history and our sense of belonging to it. When things go wrong professionally or personally it is always amazing how easily a sense of hindsight can tell you what you should have done differently in a way which would have been almost impossible to determine at the time. History is our collective sense of hindsight and history is littered with the signs of folly. Indeed one of my favourite books is the American historian Barbara Tuchman’s ”The March of Folly” which analyses a series of historical episodes from the Fall of Troy to the Vietnam War to demonstrate how much stupidity has determined the course of events.
This is one of the reasons why a lack of respect for history in modern times so saddens me. Just because we have i-phones does not mean that we have disconnected ourselves from the patterns of events and behaviours which have repeated themselves over the generations. Recent political events in Europe and the USA only confirm the point.
The second protective factor is inquisitiveness. However much we know we should always be looking for new information and insights, including, challengingly, those which may be at variance with our beliefs. Sometimes, when we are least expecting it, we can see the “pearl of great price” which the poet R.S. Thomas refers to in his beautiful poem “The Bright Field” which provides real insight into what is happening and can force us to change our minds.
The final quality required to guard against stupidity is humility. It is never easy to admit we are wrong, to back track from long held beliefs and to change our course of action. It is particularly difficult to do so in positions of leadership and, sometimes, one cannot expect to do so without personal cost. The dictum of J.M. Keynes must be right though “When my information changes, I alter my conclusions. What do you do, sir?”
So all in all, Ben Jonson’s drama of human folly set in London in 1610 is all too relevant in London in 2016. The March of Folly continues but perhaps there are some things we can do to slow it down.
Autumn always comes with a jolt. August turns to September and we’re back to the busy schedule of work and school with the prospect of the long slog to Christmas. A brief moment of peace over the summer is finished for another year.
This year has been no different. Back from a wonderful holiday in the Austrian Alps it has been straight back to the demands of the STP and all the challenges of running a NHS organisation in the current climate.
Summer holidays have always had a very special place in my consciousness. Much to the annoyance of my family, I can remember the things I have done on the holidays over the years with an intensity it’s hard to bring to other aspects of my life. They are enjoyed in anticipation and retrospect just as much as they are at the time and it is always important for me to finish the summer with a clear idea of where we will be going next year.
Holidays serve many purposes. At their most basic they serve to provide a period of rest and relaxation, a chance to down tools and recharge the batteries. That is a very necessary objective and we are all the better and more productive for being able to rest from, time to time, from our work. If God needed to take a day off after the labours of creation it stands to reason that mere mortals should follow suit.
Holidays can also be the opportunity to indulge in pursuits for which there is insufficient time or occasion to follow at other times. In particular they are the time for reading and my holiday luggage is always weighed down by an enormous pile of books, some of which, at least, I manage to get through.
Holidays provide the chance to learn about new places and immerse oneself in new cultures and new histories. With a lifelong love of history I have always enjoyed stomping around archaeological sites, historic monuments, museums and art galleries, relishing the opportunity to see both the special places I have long heard about but never previously visited and the new discoveries which open a new strand of interest.
As a child many of my summer holidays were spent staying with relatives in Wales. Without their hospitality we would have probably struggled to go away and I am enormously grateful for those times which in addition to being great fun, cemented my love of Wales, its people and landscape.
In my youthful imagination there was something very special about the views of the mountains of Snowdonia across the Menai Straits from Anglesey, the Edwardian castles of Beaumaris and Caernarfon, the grey stoned chapels which peppered the roadsides, the open skies and the foam speckled sea. It expanded the bounds of my imagination and contrasted so strongly with the mundane everydayness of the city I grew up in. Being Wales there were many rainy days but if anything they did as much as the sunny ones to engender the sense of otherworldliness associated with those childhood holidays.
This potential of holidays to provide an opportunity to escape not just from the practical details of everyday life but also from its imaginative constraints is something which still remains with me in middle age. It is the time I feel again that sense of open possibilities, so easy for a child for a child to envisage and so much harder to recapture in later life. A good summer leaves one refreshed and rejuvenated both physically, psychologically and imaginatively.
However, like all good things in life holidays inevitably come to an end and, in doing so, bring a sense of grief and loss. This year we visited the Wörthersee in Austria where Gustav Mahler took his summer holidays and wrote a number of his symphonies in a small composer’s hut overlooking the lake. On the walls of the hut there was a quote from Mahler which captured the sense of sadness when the time came to leave his summer idyll and source of inspiration.
“Today I go away from here with a bitter heart. To know one must wait another year is tragic.”
As I left that special place it summed up feelings exactly.
In the first six months of this year I experienced CQC inspections as both the Chief Executive of an inspected Trust and as the Chair of an inspection at another Trust. I found it a fascinating experience being on both sides of the process and it prompted me, once both inspections were completed, to want to write about that experience and my views on where regulation sits in ensuring high quality health and care services.
CQC comes in from time to time for a bit of criticism. I, however, found the process of inspection on both occasions robust and fair. Post Francis it was inevitable that the regulator needed to adopt a more intensive process and I am probably, in any case, a supporter of a “boots on the ground” methodology as long as it is used proportionately. From my perspective there is much to be gained from an inspection team visiting services and meeting front line staff and service users as well as relying on external or internal data. The CQC process puts a lot of emphasis on the triangulation and corroboration of evidence to reinforce the validity of the judgements which are made. I welcomed the involvement of peer specialists and of experts by experience and the very significant added value they both brought to the inspection process. Finally the methodology rightly allows for a focus on good practice as well as the more rule bound aspects of quality.
Inspections are like visits to the dentist. Nobody enjoys them at the time but they are necessary to the health of the system. There are also clear benefits to the organisation being inspected if the process is embraced in the right way. At my own Trust the process of preparing for our CQC inspection was very powerful in helping us draw together the strands of our quality work and in ensuring good engagement with front line clinical teams on key issues. The report, both its validation of what we do well and the recommendations of where we can do better have been helpful in driving our decisions as an organisation of where we go next. I could see much the same at work in the organisation I was part of inspecting and very much welcomed the open way in which the senior team at that Trust received our findings, both good and bad.
In a system as complex as the NHS there will always be issues with any system of quality regulation. When the reputation and, at times, the future of senior individuals and organisations hangs on what is said by the regulator there will inevitably be tensions about negative judgements and ratings. CQC focuses on providers and providers may feel hard done by when the fundamental issues behind the judgements made about their performance relate to factors out of the provider’s direct control. This is particularly an issue when there is a blatant mismatch between the levels of demand providers are trying to manage and the level of investment made by commissioners. In an environment which is increasingly putting more and more emphasis on system performance it is appropriate that the focus of regulation should shift more in that direction. How to do so is still very much to be worked out.
Another unforgiving aspect of inspection is that judgements have to be made on the basis of what is seen at the time not what might be intended to happen in the future. That can be harsh on organisations where there is a genuine engagement with quality improvement but where there are major structural or cultural issues still to overcome. Whatever is said in the report a good inspection process will explain the context to judgements and recommendations and give recognition to the efforts of clinical and managerial leaders to tackle underlying issues.
From time to time there has been a debate about whether the strengthened system of inspection has been the right answer to the concerns about quality identified in reports about Mid Staffordshire and Morecambe Bay. I firmly believe that a robust system of inspection is a necessary feature of a good quality care system and that CQC’s regime, while it has room to develop and adapt, is fit for purpose. However at the same time inspection and regulation cannot be the only mechanism for ensuring and improving the quality of care.
First and foremost quality needs to be owned by the Boards and leaders of organisations. That ownership should be reflected in the amount of time devoted to quality in Board discussions and the level of inquisitiveness which Executives and Non-Executives have about what is really going on in their organisation. Wherever an organisation is in its quality journey a good inspection report should bring few surprises to the leadership of an organisation. If it does that is a judgement in itself. Boards should be prepared to invest in quality improvement. They also need to understand the implications for quality of other changes and pressures in their organisation and have an acute sense of where their “red lines” will be in terms of the risks of compromising quality.
However quality also needs to be owned by the system and not just seen as the business of providers. Improving quality is not always a question of additional investment but at a time of rising demand it is likely to have financial implications. One of the key roles of the regulator must be to provide an independent voice for quality standards with the willingness to “blow the whistle” when financial expediency potentially compromises the quality of care received by patients.
A regulator of quality is an essential component of a high quality system of care and if CQC did not exist it would have to be invented. It needs to do its job well and with integrity and now as much as ever it needs to be uncompromising in championing the voice of quality against other pressures in the system. However no one should assume that, on its own, CQC can be the guarantor of good quality care. That is all of our business.
Over the last week I have cycled some 500 miles along the line of the Western Front in the First World War. It’s been a trip I have wanted to make for some time and has been a powerful way in which to experience the landscape in which this terrible conflict was played out. In my panniers I carried, as well as maps and guidebooks, a volume of the First World War poetry as an emotional and psychological guide to what I was seeing.
Cycling is a perfect way to appreciate any landscape. You travel slowly enough to be able to observe the terrain around you and you do so with all five senses. You are acutely aware of gradient and intuitively stop at the top of any major climb to admire the views in front and behind you. You also travel fast enough to be able to see the changes in landscape and the subtle differences between areas and regions. You can travel far enough in a week to make sense of an area as large as that in which the First World War was fought.
I started in Belgium to the north of Ieper. Belgium was the little country whose fate was central to this becoming a World War. It was the official reason for Britain joining the conflict and the fate of Belgian civilians featured strongly in the recruiting propaganda of Lloyd George and other British politicians. For most of the war only a small part of the country remained in Allied hands but it was interesting to visit Belgian cemeteries and see memorials to the sacrifice made by Belgian soldiers to the war effort.
Cemeteries dominated the route. I stopped at lots and I have no idea how many I passed. There is a particular character to First World War cemeteries. They are scattered across the landscape because they reflect where men were buried at the time of battle. In many cases they stand alone at the roadside or across a field but in other cases, for instance the cemetery which I visited in Arras where the poet Edward Thomas is buried, they are surrounded by more modern buildings.
There is a powerful uniformity of design to the cemeteries: gravestones in serried ranks as if they are on parade. They are all immaculately maintained and there is an order and purpose in these places in such stark contrast to the circumstances in which many of those buried there ended their lives.
Some soldiers have names and ranks and others are anonymous, euphemistically in English “soldiers of the Great War known to God”, in French much more brutally “inconnu”. Yet despite this there is an irony that the occupants of these graves are better remembered than many others who have died before or since.
The cemeteries and memorials I passed also reminded me of the range of different backgrounds, nationalities and religions of those who took part. I stopped to see the beautiful memorial to soldiers from the Indian sub-continent at Neuve Chapelle (and next to it a cemetery for Portuguese soldiers), the Irish Peace Tower at Messines (commemorating the place where Catholic and Protestant Irishmen first fought alongside each other in 1917), a memorial to Australians at Peronne, another to South African troops engaged in action at Delville Wood during the early weeks of the Battle of the Somme, a monument to the Basques and, as might be expected, memorials to Welsh troops at Langemark near Ypres and to the 38th Welsh Division at Mametz Wood on the Somme.
One of the most striking cemeteries I visited however was further south on the Chemin des Dames in the French section of the front. At Cerny en Laonnais French and German cemeteries are placed directly alongside each other. I had a sense of young men, motivated to fight each other by many of the same values of patriotism now lying at peace next to each other.
La Chemin des Dames, a long ridge north of the Aisne Valley fought fiercely over during the whole period of the War, was one of a number of places which brought home to me the importance of high ground in this conflict. My route also took me over Vimy Ridge taken the Canadians in 1917. It was staggering, as I struggled to get up them on my bike, to think of soldiers attacking these positions under heavy fire.
One of the most moving things I saw was right at the beginning of my trip. In Poperinge near Ieper (and just behind the British lines) it is possible to visit the cells in which British soldiers, convicted for desertion (some suffering from shell shock), were held the night before their execution and the yard in which they were shot. Of all the brutal images in a brutal war nothing stands out as far.
The final image of my trip is that which I have used as the header for this blog. We are used to the poppy being the symbol of the conflicts of the 20th century but it was especially moving to cycle through the battlefields and see the poppies growing amidst the cornfields, such a poignant reminder of the lives of young men sacrificed a hundred years ago.
The guns are silent and all is now quiet on the Western Front. I thought that one thing which would have united young men from all the nationalities who lost their lives on these fields was that the horrors which they experienced would represent a war to end wars. Sadly a hundred years I am not sure that we have learnt this lesson.
Andrew, ever dashing, ever bold
Will never see your friends grow old.
Your mind as sharp as all the best
Now lies, eternally, at rest.
And we will never understand
Why it was the almighty’s hand
Took you with so much more to give
Left us alone on earth to grieve.
As the summer’s heat begins to fade
All nature’s work is soon decayed.
And though our mortal frames will ail
Your memory ought not ever pale
Your smile, your wit is what we knew you by
The mystery why you had to die.
My father turned 90 yesterday. Even in an age where many more people are living so much longer it remains a very significant milestone. It felt a good time to reflect on what I most admire in him.
My father came from a very different world to the one I and my children have grown up in. Born on 2nd July 1926 in Clydach Vale in the Rhondda Valley, it was the middle of the bitter Miners’ Strike. My grandfather who had caused some sort of trouble during the strike lost his job and was unemployed until the early 1940s. As a result, like many in that community in the 1930s, my father grew up in significant material poverty. His father found solace for his disappointment in life in the pub.
Despite this my father is immensely fond of his upbringing. The Rhondda was a strong community, with an enormous sense of shared identity, based on working class solidarity, Welsh culture and Nonconformist religion. Despite individual material poverty there was a network of social support and communal facilities (including libraries and healthcare funded by the Miners’ Federation). The mountain just above where my father lived provided a wonderful playground.
My father was able enough to get to Grammar School and would have easily been bright enough to go to University. Those opportunities were not open to a working class boy at that time and it remains one of his regrets that he did not have that opportunity but one of his joys that his sons and now grandchildren have had it.
After the War, and a tour of National Service in Palestine, he did get the opportunity to go to teacher training college and spent his working life as a primary school teacher, and later head teacher, moving to Birmingham where he met my mother and where he still lives. As I discovered as a child Birmingham is, or at least was, full of Welsh teachers.
I have learnt lots of things from my father over the years but here there are the things I most admire about him and which I hope I have picked up some shadow of.
The first is his sense of community and of the equality of individuals within that community. Everybody in a community matters. Nobody is too important not to bother with other members of their community. Nobody is not important enough to be bothered with.
The second is a strong commitment to help those who are disadvantaged in society. My father’s motivation to become a teacher was an encounter with a fellow soldier when he was on National Service who was unable to read. Much of his teaching career was spent in quite deprived schools in Birmingham and in working with children who often had little motivation and encouragement to learn.
However the biggest impact on my father’s life (and indeed on my own) was the disability of my elder brother. My parents had a very difficult time when my brother was young and they were discovering the extent of his difficulties and his support (and that of my mother) for Peter has been a constant source of inspiration to me. Through my brother my father became involved in the world of disabled sport and after his retirement my father spent many years running a disabled sports club.
My father is a man of great integrity, of strong values and beliefs who is prepared when necessary to stand up for what he thinks is right. I do not always agree with him on everything but it has hard not to respect his opinions. He has always been an enemy of petty authority, most notably in a clash early in his teaching career with a martinet of a head teacher. It did not look, at the time, as if it would be a great step forward in career but it did make an impression on another young teacher at the school – my mother!
I have also admired my father’s sense of interest and enquiry. While not an intellectual or with the benefits of university education as I have had he remains fiercely interested in what is happening in the world outside. It is one of the reasons why he remains sharp and with all his faculties at the age of 90.
Finally he has been a very generous father, with his time and money. He always supported the opportunities I wanted to take as a child, even if they were not those which matched his own interests. He did so when I am sure he and my mother had to make sacrifices to do so. He has also supported my children and my brother’s children and it was lovely to see yesterday, at his birthday lunch, the deep love his grandchildren have for him.
So I have been very lucky to have such a good and inspiring father. I am very conscious of the difference such an influence can play in one’s life and the fact that many, for whatever reason, are not so lucky. So in the words of the writer of the book of Ecclesiasticus :
“Let us now praise famous men, and our fathers that begat us. The Lord hath wrought great glory by them through his great power from the beginning.”