THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Young Manager arrived at the Collective earlier than usual, and went straight to the Courtyard Coffee Shack. He told himself that he needed the early start to catch up after the previous day, and that a good strong coffee would kick-start him into action, but in fact, he was itching to talk to the Barista again. He’d had a decent night’s sleep—his best for a while—but he had woken up with a head still full of strange dreams.
The Barista welcomed him warmly, and listened patiently as the Young Manager poured forth about the visions he had seen.
“For starters,” he said, “my staff all had pigs’ heads where theirs should have been! Big, wet bristly snouts…piggy little eyes!” He shuddered as he sipped his coffee. “They were taking it in turns to wrestle on the boardroom floor. Becky from Sales was brutal! The rest were cheering her. Baying for blood, practically!” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge the image from his mind.
“It seems to me you have a wonderfully vivid imagination, sir,” said the Barista, wiping the counter with a clean white cloth, “a fine attribute in business.”
“It’s all that stuff you said yesterday,” said the Young Manager. “You really got me thinking. Is now a good time to pick the conversation up?”
“Now is always the right time, when there’s a problem to be solved.” The Barista smiled.
The Young Manager pulled a small tablet device and an electronic stylus from his pocket, so that he could take notes this time. The Barista nodded his approval and began.
“To begin with,” he said in his warm, sonorous voice, “I’d like you to picture yourself standing in a lush, green field, at the bottom of a hill. At the top of the hill you can see a pig pen with a wooden fence running round it.”
The Young Manager frowned. “Hang on,” he said. “This isn’t some sort of hypnosis thing, is it? I’m looking for practical solutions. A framework, you said, not past life regression.”
The Barista chuckled, warmly. “It’s nothing like that, I can assure you,” he replied. “Now, if you’ll only listen, all will become clear. Engage that marvellous imagination of yours. Close your eyes if it helps.”
The Young Manager scanned the hall, self-consciously. He wasn’t sure he’d want his staff to come across him immersed in a metaphorical meadow. “I’m all right, thanks.” he said.
The Barista nodded, cleared his throat and continued:
“As I was saying, imagine yourself in a verdant field at the foot of a hill. And on top of the hill, a fenced pig pen, about the size of a wrestling ring. You climb the hill and approach the pen. You place one foot on the bottom rung of the fence and peer over into the enclosure.”
The Young Manager jotted notes as the Barista continued.
“Inside the pen is a huge pig. A real county-fair prize winner, at least three hundred pounds of prime pork, wallowing in the mud.
Then you notice that there’s something strange about this particular pig. Its head is sticking through an old wooden picture frame. The frame is wedged tight around the pig’s neck. The pig himself seems not to mind, but you can’t help feeling that it looks uncomfortable.
With your curiosity piqued, you glance around the pen and, to your left, you find a red plastic bucket, filled with soapy water, and a large sponge. Your gaze moves to the far left corner of the pen, where there is a large, tin feeding trough, filled to the brim with slops. On its side are emblazoned the words Made in Hanoi. How are you doing?”
“Pen. Pig. Picture frame. Bucket and sponge. Tin trough. Got it,” said the Young Manager.
“Good,” the Barista continued, “Now, on the fence post to your right—goodness knows how you missed it before—you notice a gleaming crystal ball, fizzing with magical energy.”
The Young Manager furrowed his brow, but the Barista ignored him and went on:
“And opposite it, in the far right corner of the pen, where the soil is firmer and less churned up, you spot a number of gleaming gold nuggets, poking up out of the ground. The pig, you now realise, is eager to reach the gold, but whatever he does, he cannot get any closer. Not just because of the mud, you see, but because of two bright pink bungee cords holding him in place.”
“This is getting properly weird,” the Young Manager mumbled, as he scribbled on his tablet.
“Stepping back from the fence to take in the whole, bizarre scene, you almost trip over a child’s Spot the Difference book that has been left on the ground behind you.
Satisfied that you have the measure of the scene before you, you walk to your right, around the pen, passing a large, green recycling bin.
Finally, as you turn to walk away, you notice a bright-yellow warning sign that strikes you as particularly important.”
There was a long pause.
“And?” asked the Young Manager.
“And that’s it,” said the Barista.
“That’s what?”
“The framework you asked for,” said the Barista, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Every step you need to take to resolve your current problems, or indeed, any problems you might encounter.”
“Riiiight” drawled the Young Manager, doubtfully, glancing at the list of nonsensical words he had written down.
“Allow me to explain,” said the Barista as he laughed. “The pig pen is merely a memory device used to remember the core elements of our method.” He nodded towards the bronze pig statue, back in pride of place, on its shelf behind the counter. “We needed an image that was striking and a bit, well, a bit silly really. Wilbur here fitted the bill.”
“I see,” the Young Manager replied, though he wasn’t sure he did.
“It’s called the Method of Loci,” the Barista explained. “Have you heard of it before?”
The Young Manager shook his head.
“A system of memory that dates back to the ancient Greeks and Romans. Perhaps the term memory palace is more familiar to you, although it hardly suits our pig pen, does it?”
“Memory palace. That is familiar. So how does it work?” asked the Young Manager.
“It’s a marvellous trick,” the Barista explained, “You place each item that you want to remember at a point along an imaginary journey. The facts to be memorised are converted into bizarre, exaggerated, visual images that are placed along the imaginary journey, fooling your mind into behaving as though it has actually made that journey, and storing the information accordingly in a way that it would not for dry facts alone. To recall the information, one walks back through the journey, replacing the visual images that you have memorised with the original facts or items that you associated with them. The more vivid the images you conjure, the more effective they are for retrieving the original data.”
“This is all a bit Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?” said the Young Manager.
“Precisely,” said the Barista, “Holmes had his own memory palace. Most of us all fall short of the great detective’s mental faculties however. Nevertheless, a modest bungalow will suffice. Indeed, even a pig pen.”
Rooting around in the pocket of his jacket, the Barista pulled out a piece of paper.
“Ah, here it is,” he boomed, “I knew I had it somewhere.”
He spread the sheet of paper out flat on the counter and smoothed down the crumpled edges.
“This is a diagram of the pig pen. You can have it, if you like. Run a copy and slip it into your wallet. It will act as an aide memoir, until the layout of the pen becomes second nature.”
“You can hang onto the original,” said the Young Manager, scrolling to the camera function on his device and taking a snap of the diagram, which he copied across to his notes. “So how do I use this pig pen to solve my problems?”
“Every element represents a part of a process,” said the Barista, “A set of tools to clean up your thinking and generate new insights. For instance, do you remember the first thing you did after you’d climbed the hill?”
The Young Manager nodded, “I put one foot on the fence, didn’t I?”
“Spot on!” beamed the Barista, “Step one of problem solving is what we call Foot on the Fence Checks. They’re key to ensuring that you’re tackling the right problem. Let me explain…”
“This first step in the process is perhaps the most critical of all,” said the Barista, tapping one large finger on the paper in front of him, “Without assessing things fully with your foot on the fence, you might as well dive into the pen and start rolling in the mud with that pig. You won’t get anywhere.”
“That’s certainly how I’ve felt,” replied the Young Manager. “All effort for no reward.”
“Well, it’s time to stop pig wrestling and climb back out of the pen so you can get a sense of perspective. Give yourself a little distance, and take a good look at this whole picture.”
“Standing back from the situation, with one foot on the fence, this is a valuable moment,” the Barista said, “Press pause and ask yourself some fundamental questions.” He paused for a moment himself before continuing. “The first question to ask yourself is…”
How specifically is this a problem for me?
“This helps to focus in on your personal experience of the problem, and the specific issue that you need to address.”
The Young Manager nodded and scribbled some notes.
“So much time and energy is wasted in business wrestling with problems that concern us but don’t actually belong to us,” said the Barista, “So step one is ensuring that we focus on our experience of the problem and that the right person or team is on the case.”
“That certainly makes sense,” the Young Manager agreed, “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve allowed myself to be drawn into problems that don’t affect me directly.”
“And that can be very dangerous,” explained the Barista. “Because it leads to a culture of gossip and recrimination, and the labelling of colleagues. None of which are remotely helpful.”
“But shouldn’t I always lend a hand to colleagues who are struggling with their own problems?” asked the Young Manager.
“Of course you should,” insisted the Barista. “But you must know where the line is drawn between helping out and shouldering the burden yourself. You’ll be much more useful to your staff by helping them clean up their own thinking. You’re there to guide, not take over. Anyway, let’s assume you have identified the aspect of the problem that is yours to own. That brings us to the second Foot on the Fence Check.”
“Which is?”
The Barista pointed to the pig in in the middle of his diagram. “One must always ask oneself…”
Have I seen the whites of the pig’s eyes?
The Young Manager stopped note-writing and looked up questioningly.
The Barista smiled. “In a team or organisation of any size, a manager will receive an awful lot of their information from second-hand sources. That’s inevitable; you can’t be everywhere at once. But when it comes to tackling problematic situations, people or processes, second-hand isn’t good enough. It’s tempting for a well-informed manager with good lines of communication to assume they have the full picture from the moment they hear about a problem, and rush in to try to fix things immediately.”
“But isn’t that exactly what a leader should do?” asked the Young Manager, “Fix things quickly, I mean.”
“As quickly as possible. But that’s not going to happen without staring the problem straight in the eye. First-hand information. Don’t rely on anyone else’s account of the situation; get in there, and take a look at things for yourself.”
“Ah, now I see what you mean,” said the Young Manager.
“Good,” said the Barista, “Let’s focus in for a moment. Take people problems. The fact is, you can never hope to understand someone’s behaviour, let alone change it, without knowing the specific context in which the behaviour occurred.”
“I get that,” nodded the Young Manager, “But that’s not always possible, is it?”
“Not always,” agreed the Barista. “But it is your duty to gain access to as much concrete, first-hand information as possible, not just second, or third-hand storytelling. Storytelling is one of humanity’s most wonderful gifts, but we do have a tendency to run away with ourselves, and there’s often a tall tale at the heart of a pig-wrestling problem. Misguided attempts to create change often start with a second hand misinterpretation of events.”
“So by performing this check, you’re making sure you understand the problem first hand.” said the Young Manager.
“Precisely,” nodded the Barista. “Much less room for misinterpretation that way, and far more scope for influence. Once you’ve done that, you can move on to the last Foot on the Fence Check…”
Should I tackle this thing right now?
“None of us have unlimited time or energy,” the Barista explained. “So what matters is how wisely we put to use the time and energy that we do have.”
“I get it,” said the Young Manager, “Make a judgement call about what really needs doing. Prioritising problems is as important as identifying them in the first place.”
“You’re quite right,” the Barista replied, “If the problem has been knocking around for some time already, it might be that you can afford to ignore it, either in the short term or even permanently. It’s always worth asking yourself what would happen if you consciously chose to do nothing. Let sleeping pigs lie, so to speak, while you deal with the frontline issues.”
“This is taking shape,” said the Young Manager swiping the screen of his device to scroll back through his notes, “Let me run through the bullet points so I’ve got it straight so far.”
“Be my guest,” said the Barista, with a broad grin.
The Young Manager glanced at the Barista who nodded encouragingly.
Check 1: How specifically is it a problem for me?
Check 2: Have I actually seen the whites of its eyes and got the whole picture?
Check 3: Should I prioritise this pig right now, and what would truly happen if I did nothing?
“Excellent,” boomed the Barista, clapping his hands, “Now, if one were of a cynical disposition, one might consider the ground we’ve covered so far to be little more than common sense. But in my experience, common sense isn’t as common as it should be. Formalising these steps trains one to think in a certain way and facilitates latent talent. Merely keeping these simple principles in mind can avoid wasted weeks, months even entire careers.”
“So,” said the Young Manager, eagerly, “What’s the next step?”
“The next step,” the Barista said with a smile, “is for you to meet a few of the people who first climbed into the pig pen with me, so to speak. My original pig wrestlers in this building.”
The Young Manager looked at him with surprise. “Really?” he asked, “I had hoped you would explain everything.” He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine. A trickle of workers had already started to arrive, and the place would be filling up soon.
“I could,” said the Barista with a twinkle in his eye, “However, firstly I believe the lessons ahead will sink in faster if they come from the source. Secondly, it will be good for you to make the acquaintance of other young managers here. And thirdly, in case you hadn’t noticed, I have a coffee shack to run.”
The Young Manager bounced nervously on his heels, hoping the Barista would have a change of heart, instead, he was handed a thick cream business card with embossed lettering that read:
Gary Cleverly
Picture Framing Service
Unit 4—The Collective
“A couple of hours of your time at most,” said the Barista, patting the Young Manager’s shoulder, “To learn the habits that will save you time and energy every subsequent day of your working life! If you can’t recognise that as a good deal then, my friend, business really isn’t your thing,” he chuckled. “Now, Mr. Cleverly is waiting for you. When you’re done there, he’ll point you in the right direction.”
The Young Manager sighed inwardly and forced a smile. He liked the Barista, and the old guy had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to sort these meetings out. But was he really about to spend his morning touring the building when he should have been buckling down at his desk? What was it the Barista had said about priorities? He turned the business card over in his hand, and read the name again: Gary Cleverly.
“Picture Framing, eh?” he said aloud, but the Barista was not listening. The morning rush hour had begun, and he had customers to serve.
Feeling as if he had just been formally dismissed, the Young Manager mumbled a thank you, came to a decision, and set off towards the address on the card.