World class

I had no idea the sector even existed. D, as usual, led the way. She interned and then worked in that field before I knew a job like that even existed. I was happy living the expat life in the travel industry. 

She was instrumental in introducing someone who then introduced me to someone who gave me the job. I liked it. And then liked it so much I thought I'd move up, into a more prestigious firm. Kind of like moving from the championship into the premier league.

That became my third job, and one that I've held now for 17 years. Amazing, for a someone who in school was regarded as non-conformist enough to earn the label "non corporate guy". Well, to start with, management consulting is not really a corporate job... Well, not initially anyway. For the first six years, I worked with a number of clients across multiple industries on a variety of topics, so it seemed like a new job every quarter or so. No time to get bored. 

Then as a partner, for the next six years, I had to build up my client base, run an office, build the team. It was hard work and all my life lessons, courtesy of generous mentors, were out to good use here and especially in the subsequent 5 years as I was appointed to lead the region.

Earlier this month, I was asked to lead our practice globally. Happy and humbled, it felt like a lifetime achievement in a way. Like KH who headlined my interview with him in the Straits Times, "small town boy who learnt to dream big".

Yes, I had constantly aspired for more: for my team and for myself. Whether to bring my scout troop abroad on our own resources or to go to a bigger city for better educational and economic opportunities.  And with help of mentors, I learned how to calibrate those goals. I harboured dreams as of being a captain of industry and was most intrigued by the notion of world class. 

My first inkling of what it meant to be world class was in Seoul. I had been dispatched there by my boss to help colleagues there figure out a National IT Agenda, based on my experiences in Malaysia, in particular the learnings from the Multimedia Super Corridor.

As I was savouring a Japanese lunch alone and enjoying views across the expansive Millennium Seoul Hilton hotel gardens (their photo above), I thought to myself that this is what being world class meant, ie to have an expertise that is useful and applicable to other parts of the world, even the developed world. 

That was nearly 20 years ago and I had just got into my 30's. Now, at the cusp of my final year in my 40's, I am asked to lead the Public Sector practice across the world. Yet strangely, world class doesn't seem the appropriate description anymore for this global role. At this juncture, the job feels more like a mission and I am fully aware of what I can and more importantly what I cannot do. It's not about what experiences of mine that can scale across the globe, but rather how I enable such that the collective capabilities of all my partners, directors, principals, managers can be enhanced and deployed effectively to great impact. 

So, if there's one thing this small town boy has learned, it is this: everyone can and will contribute to this world. We all just need to find our platform. Some of us are lucky enough to be shaping and managing the platform. But everyone contributes, in their own small and not so small but always special way.

Why we grieve artists

Just a little over a year ago, I wrote about the LKY, recording what he had meant to me, in life rather than in his death. He did have a great impact as I was attracted to come to the more progressive country that is Singapore as a student in the 80's. 

Then, in quick succession, Bowie and Frey died. They weren't statesmen who provided the education nor infrastructure for my development but yet I felt the vacuum they left behind. Today, yet another genius of a musician passed. These artists provided the soundtrack to my youth in the 80's.

There were the usual tributes but this one from Vox.com by Caroline Framke really hit the mark. I decided the extract it below for posterity.

"Any time a revered person dies, the established stages of grief seem to launch into hyperdrive. The second the news drops, final and cutting to the quick, the ripples start to spread. Soon enough, the grief feels magnified, becoming an ever-complicated web of shifting memory, gutted despair, muddled controversy over their worth, stark regret. Maybe there will even be some joy.

But as the deceased begins to settle into the past tense, a couple of questions remain: Why did this person matter so much? How hard are we allowed to grieve, if we're just one among so many?

Juliette @ElusiveJ Tweet

Thinking about how we mourn artists we've never met. We don't cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves.

And that's it. That's it, completely.

Great artists give voice to both the huge emotions that threaten to consume you and the fuzzy ones lying in wait in your periphery, indistinct but just as urgent. Great artists reach into their own hearts, brains, and guts to wrench out what's most vital and hold it out for you to grasp. Then you can decide what — if anything — it means for you.

Even if multiple people posted about the same song, their reason for doing so varied wildly. My friends and celebrities alike talked about how Bowie and Prince expanded their horizons and made them feel less alone. They talked about how they created thrilling, limitless universes they could visit on demand, within the comfort of their headphones. They talked about how much they meant to them — how much they helped them get to know themselves.

Grieving en masse might intensify the initial reaction, but every single response to a public figure's death is an individual one. We all experience art from our own singular place. That's true whether you're hearing the joyful, soaring chorus of Prince's "I Would Die 4 U" or the fierce zip of Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" for the first time. It's true whether you're feeling an ecstatic jolt at Michael Jackson's "Thriller," clutching your face to keep from smiling too hard at Robin Williams's performance in The Birdcage, giving in to the chills inspired by Heath Ledger's smile in 10 Things I Hate About You, or closing your eyes and letting the smoke of Amy Winehouse's voice curl around you and squeeze, just a little too hard.

Or maybe you don't quite recognize any of these experiences. After all, they're mine. In these moments, I learned a little bit more about myself thanks to people I never met and never knew beyond the art they presented to the world. But I'm still grateful they passed through my solar system, even if their orbits were worlds away — and so, I suspect, are you."

Thank you, Prince, for Purple Rain, for When Doves Cry, for Little Red Corvette, for Cream, for 1999, for I Would Die 4 U, for Darling Nikki, for Raspberry Beret, for Sign O' The Times, for Nothing Compares 2 U and heart achingly prophetic Sometimes It Snows In April. This April day, the music died. 

The best things in life are free

We live in a cynical world. Growing up nowadays, I think kids hear more of "there is no such thing as a free lunch" rather than "the best things in life are free".That quote, by the way, went on to list things that are priceless: hugs, smiles, friends, family, love...

Last Saturday must have been my lucky day. For in the course of a mere ten hours, I was repeatedly shown unexpected kindness by strangers and loved ones alike. 

First, after lunch, D and I brought the car to get the side mirror fixed, to our neighbourhood service station at the petrol kiosk. The mechanic fumbled at it for awhile, then used some pliers and 5 minutes later, it's all reattached. Good as new! And when I offered to pay him, he declined saying its a simple job. You bet that with this earnest gesture he has now earned my loyalty as a customer!

I should tell you about this mirror: this side mirror is special because it got scratched, as a 3-month old car no less, on the wall of the porch of Opus Dei house through some 'too close to call' parking. And on Friday, I took too sharp a turn into the left lane exiting the Havelock Road CTE tunnel and rubbed against the side of a passing truck. This very mirror got clipped. The glass snapped off. Landed in the drain between the hood and the windscreen. The Fullerton Hotel where I parked was a km away so I managed to park and retrieve this miraculously uncracked mirror. I do think the adjective is aptly used here :-)

The weather these days are oppressively hot. In fact, nearly the hottest ever based on official records. Just shy of 37 degrees one day last week. So, imagine my relief when the sun was hidden away by clouds in the late afternoon, which quickly got me to put my running shoes on. I was having to travel on Sunday which means I can't do the usual circuit when M is at her Aikido class, so if I was to reach my target of running 365kms this year, I have to run at least once this week. And off I went and in less than 10 minutes, the clouds let out. Huge tropical rain poured from above. I was only a km into my run and decided to continue. The rain didn't let up and in fact got heavier with lightning and thunder of biblical proportions crackling all around me. I thought the better of my run and I turned around. As I was running back, not just one but two cars who passed by (the only two by the way) stopped to offer me a ride. I declined but am so heartened by three strangers (the first car was a couple) who were prepared to wet their car seats for me.

I did manage to get home safely having covered 4.6kms in 30mins and changed to receive old friends, P&M and then L&S, whom we were hosting for the night. Over dinner we chatted and laughed, and after dessert the boys went downstairs and listened to P's vinyls (songs of our youth), drank whisky and played pool. That what friends are for. Oh by the way, did I mention that friendship comes free. Priceless