2 + 2 = 5

happy birthday

2012-01-26T00:44:00.011Z

Having recorded, edited and published a podcast in record time today, I wanted to write a few words about the rather remarkable woman I met and talked to in that podcast.

You can hear a little excerpt of it here:

Don"t be frightened of it (mp3)

Her name is Jess Thom.

And her life - in her own words - is enriched by Tourette's Syndrome.

Jess is one of the 10% or so of people with Tourette's who have what's called coprolalia. In plain terms that's the kind of Tourette's that makes you swear and say strange things out loud.

There are many hundreds of thousands of people with other versions of Tourette's that have less sensational symptoms. Physical spasms. Verbal spasms. Twitches, twists and turns.

But it seems that most people with whatever strain of this bizarre neurological quirk they're blessed with have in common, is that they are not in control of their tics.

Take a moment to consider what that might mean. Imagine yourself energetically or forcefully swearing or shouting your pin number out, or coming out with extraordinary combinations of words like "Fourteenth century alien birds dangle before your eyes." Or indeed continuously punching yourself. Or convulsing.

Not when you choose to.

But when your messed up neurosystem chooses to.

I heard Jess speak on the radio after David Cameron's insanely clumsy insult aimed at Ed Balls. Cameron claimed that facing the Shadow Chancellor in the Commons was like sitting opposite someone with Tourette's. (Nice work by the way David. Where did that one come from? From you of all people? Who has good reason to understand as a father what it's like to deal with a genetic badly dealt hand. Well done for apologising so quickly. Must try harder.)

The reaction of the British public was immediate and strong. People were appalled at Cameron's insensitivity. So the media, sensing a story, jumped on board and within just a few hours Jess and other people with Tourette's were being given air space.

Some air space.

The interviews I heard with Jess were short, which obviously compressed any hope of a rich understanding of something so complex. But I heard through the compression and the crazy noises a powerful, determined and positive voice. She talked about the project Tourettes Hero which reclaims the absurd tics, laughs at them and celebrates them as a spur for creativity. (Like Ratboy's brilliant drawing of one of Jess's tics at the top of this post.)

And as I listened to Jess, I began to wonder what would happen if I invited her to talk for longer.

I wondered if this positive, life affirming voice might have even more to say given more space, more time and less of a news based agenda.

So I got in touch. And we arranged a time to talk.

You can hear our conversation here if you like. (It's called "Happy Birthday" which is one of Jess's more regular tics.)

Someone commented on hearing it that as the conversation went on, it became less about having Tourette's and more about being a human.

And Jess's philosophy in terms of dealing with her condition (and her advice to anyone else who's frightened of their own disability) is a pretty human one. And it goes a bit like this:

1. Find a language to express yourself.

2. Expect more from others.

3. Take responsibility for yourself.

As I heard those words, I released that what she was saying was touching me quite profoundly.

But at the time I wasn't sure why. I was busy having a conversation after all.

But I think now, having listened back to it a lot and having mixed and published the conversation - which I barely edited by the way - now I know why I was touched so personally by these simple ideas.

And it's to do with fear.

Jess's approach counteracts fear.

The fear around disability; for sure.

But also: the fear around difference.

And that's where I got hooked.

For years I've said that The Dialogue Project's work is about understanding difference. It's even the title of this blog.

For me that is the human project: to try and understand more about people who aren't like us.

Whoever we are. And whoever they are.

Not because it's a nice thing to do. But because if you look around, most of our problems come from not understanding each other.

The wealthy CEO doesn't understand (or imagine) the loss of dignity in the sacked worker.

The sacked worker doesn't understand (or see) the wealthy CEO's passion for creating jobs.

The mother doesn't understand (or interpret) the recklessness of her teenage daughter.

The husband doesn't understand (or know about) his wife's depression.

And the audio obsessed son doesn't understand (even though he tries to) the restriction of his mother's tinnitus.

A lack of understanding is I suspect the norm.

And that's okay sometimes. As I get older I'm realising it's not necessary to understand everything. (Damn it, that hurts.)

But sometimes, dangerous things are drawn into the vacuum that a lack of understanding creates.

Things like fear, frustration, an overbearing desire to solve or resolve. Anger, hatred and apathy can all fill that available space. With consequence.

So, for someone who's interested in how to understand difference, to hear such a crystal clear definition of what action you can take to overcome the fear of it had a powerful effect on me. I felt a little bit shaken up. In a good way.

And in our conversation, Jess reminded me that understanding difference isn't just an idea.

It's a practical thing.

So, as I got home and unpacked my microphones, I felt motivated to share the conversation in its long form as soon as possible.

So I stayed up late and did it.

And now it's out there. Here.

And already people are telling me it's having an effect on them too.

Oh yes. And Jess reminded me of something else too.

It's okay to laugh.

Thanks Jess.

Power to your sharp elbows.

(And next time stop talking about biscuits all the time and offer me one.)

four strokes

2012-01-15T17:21:00.021Z

A short post to accompany a conversation that's not made it to the blog until today.

It's a short edit and an unusual one.

It's called four strokes. You can listen to it here (on iTunes) or here. And read it here.

It's about two people who've both been beaten with a cane.

For one of them it was agonisingly painful.

For the other it was exquisitely pleasurable.

Nikki is a thoughtful woman and a pro-sub which means she enjoys being dominated sexually. She's a liberated, intelligent and sensitive person with a gentle gaze and an incredible focus when you talk to her.

Stephen is a philosophical man and enjoys many things, including talking and listening, but as far as I know he has no particular attachment to dominating or being dominated. What he does have is a rather wonderful capacity for describing intense personal experiences in such a way that genuinely 'takes you there.'

And I suppose why I wanted to publish it today is that I'm particularly interested at the moment in how we perceive things. And how much influence we have over our experience of life.

What is it that can make something so painful for one person and so pleasurable for another?

Are we really such powerful interpreters of our own experiences?

Can we really determine how good or bad something feels?

And if we can - why don't we do it more often?

Have a listen.

Have a think.

And feel free to let me know if you're someone who's consciously changed the way you perceive pain.

(Or pleasure.)

thank you

2011-12-31T10:44:00.012Z

A friend of mine said to me last week: "It's not the choices that are hard in life. Making the choices is easy. What's hard is dealing with the consequences of those choices.

So if I look back at two thousand and eleven it feels like I should consider not just the conversations I've had, but the consequences of those conversations.

Some of them.

A conversation with the new Chair of a big business that ended up with her saying: “Why don’t we just talk to each other in front of everyone, instead of me making a big speech?” And the consequence of her being reappraised by a few people who'd already made up their mind about what she was like.

A conversation with an ex TV man who's gone creative and invited me to do something at a brilliant event called The Story. And the consequence of me making a speech, instead of having a conversation with everyone. And sharing publicly some of my work that's been kept under wraps for ages. With a bunch of people I’d never met.

A conversation with a friend that ended up with me not going to Los Angeles.

A conversation that ended up with a woman called Lisa grabbing the Prime Minister by the arm and telling him her story.

A conversation with eleven other jurors that ended up with someone not going to prison.

A conversation with an author in a tent in a field at Latitude Festival that ended up with me realising that sometimes the only work you have to do is to prepare.

A conversation with a producer that ended up with me doing a series on the radio.

A series of conversations with people all over the country when I tried to share some of my best secrets, which ended up with some of my best secrets being put into practice when I wasn’t there. And loving that.

A series of conversations with people about beauty, that ended up with people telling me they’d cried when they heard it.

A conversation with a group of women in Reculver WI that ended up with me realising I was mostly telling them stuff they already knew, but that it can be good to be reminded of things.

And lots of other conversations.

And lots of other consequences.

So – looking back in order to look forward, from a man who tries hard to have the best conversations possible and who certainly doesn't always succeed, I want to say thank you to the people who’ve helped me have some amazing conversations this year.

To be crude and concise: for someone who does dialogue to people, it’s been a year of being dialogued too. Sometimes.

So thank you to the people who’ve listened to me. Really listened to me.

To the people who’ve had the courage to challenge me with probing questions.

To the people who’ve checked they understand what I mean.

To the people who’ve balanced my thinking with an alternative way of looking at things.

To the people who’ve been honest with me and told me what they’re really thinking.

To the people who’ve parked their own agenda and built new things with me, new possibilities.

To the people who’ve had the confidence to let things just fall quiet for a while.

To the people who’ve shared with me the responsibility to look after the health of the conversation.

To the people who’ve had the generosity to temporarily withhold their judgement.

To the people who’ve taken the time and energy to consider their words and help me by putting themselves into what they’re saying.

And to the people who’ve created time and space. With me. And for me.

Thank you.

Here’s to a New Year of a little more.

With a little less.

reading conversations

2011-10-18T21:53:00.033+01:00

I'm finally releasing transcriptions of some of the conversations I've recorded, edited and published.

And here's the first. It's the conversation between Adrian Howells and myself. It's called prepared to love. (You can read more about the conversation here and download the audio here.)

I created and designed the audio edit to be listened to.

Obviously.

My work is essentially audio. And I'm delighted to say it has been listened to. A lot. It's been downloaded, played online and via iTunes more than a thousand times so far.

But some people have said they'd like to read some of the conversations I've had.

So I'm responding to those requests by publishing some of the transcriptions.

But what started as a way of giving people what they were asking for has become more than that, in two ways worth mentioning.

First, as I've begun to read the conversations, I've noticed how different they are in visual form. How uninflected. How neutral.

And I'm surprised by how much the written word objectifies the content. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised by that, but it's caught me off guard to see how much is missing in the written word that's provided through the audio word.

But the second thing is exactly the opposite of the first.

It seems to me that the written form is revealing the content as well as concealing it.

I've noticed things I haven't noticed before.

I've seen things I haven't heard.

I've noticed things about my questions. And their answers.

Missed opportunities.

Seized and unseized moments.

So that's been interesting. And educational.

And one other thing that's been interesting for me: the spaces in the conversations. And how to mark them.

When people talk, they often stop briefly in unusual places. In a way that people don't do when they write.

And sometimes it's in those little gaps people leave (rather than in the words they say) that you catch the mood, the emotion, the uncertainty, the difficulty or simply the choices they make. Those small signals in what's not said that can indicate more sometimes than what is said.

But the question is: how to mark these subtle spaces in the written form?

I don't much like dot dot dot...

It makes it look like a drifting away. And often when people pause briefly, it's anything but a drifting or a fade away. Often the breaks are unexpected. And they certainly don't make sense to read. Not at first anyway. Which is why I think they're so important. There's something very spoken about these written words.

So I wanted to preserve the breaks. I think they tell the listener that someone needed to stop talking just for a short time, maybe simply in order to say the next thing.

So, after much thought, I've gone for a slash. A light grey slash.

Like this /

And it seems to be working /

so I'll keep going with that if that's okay.

Finally, I want to say thank you to Miss Molly Grier who's been working on the transcriptions with me recently. Molly and her family have come into my life in a very gentle way this year. Apart from the fact that Molly's intelligence and honesty have been a fresh and lovely influence in the way I think about some of the conversations I've been having recently, she's also been listening and transcribing some of the podcasts for me. And she's doing a grand job. So thanks Molly. You and your work are much appreciated.

So - enjoy the transcriptions if you're visually inclined.

Adrian and prepared to love will soon be joined by:

Anjelo and when saw myself on fire here. (Audio on iTunes here.)

Jane in why not me? (Audio here).

Another Adrian (a pain doctor) in you don't talk here. (Audio on iTunes here.)

And Chris and Jacqui in normal people here. (Audio on iTunes here.) And you can read more about this conversation on the blog here.

Thanks for listening.

And for reading.

free music

2011-09-30T07:00:00.019+01:00

Sometimes it's worth just putting a bit of good music up and around.

And apart from their exceptionally good musical qualities, one of the things I most like about Radiohead is their refusal to comply with the usual commercial restrictions of the music industry and the media.

So, after I listened to their recent session on the Colbert show in the States, I thought in the spirit of free access I'd put the audio up on the internet.

There's a good dirty version of Bloom to warm up with...

Check out two magnificently tight drummers holding the bounce together on Little by Little.

We got a bit of healthy contempt in The Daily Mail with some saxy chords coming from behind...

And finally a fantastic version of The National Anthem with a nice brass section on it...

Download. Enjoy.

(And forgive the horrendous amount of compression on the recording - that's American TV for you. How lucky we are to have Later with Jools and the BBC.)

If I get arrested, look after my children for me.

I did it in the name of music.

And freeness.

generous descriptions

2011-08-06T15:18:00.025+01:00

Whenever I'm asked what makes a good listener, I often end up talking about generosity.

But today, I want to highlight the generosity of describing well.

And in doing so I'm also trying to modestly offer something to anyone who's in pain; physical or emotional. Listening to Anjelo has helped me deal with pain. And I'd love it to help you too.

Pain can often be a lonely experience. Because as a listener, no matter how much of our own pain we've been through, we can't actually feel someone else's. We can't.

As well-intentioned and as nice as we are, we cannot step inside someone's body and feel what they're feeling. We can't even feel where they're feeling it, never mind the level of it, or how debilitating or even depressing it might be.

So we're destined - all of us - to have from time to time what we'll often call 'indescribable' pain. That migraine or toothache, that torn ligament, or that heartbreak and anguish that hurts us so profoundly, so intensely and it's often made worse by the fact that it feels unshareable.

So on top of our pain, we get loneliness.

Ouch.

That can really hurt.

So, today I'm publishing a podcast of my conversation with a man who managed to share with me (better than most) not just an account of his pain, but his perspective on it.

He's called Anjelo. He's a beautiful man. A gentle man. A sensitive man.

And he's someone whose words and voice have been with me in recent times.

In essence, Anjelo's story is all about pain and about how he understands it. Professionally and personally.

Originally from Sri Lanka and after training as a physio in Australia, Anjelo came to London to train as a pain doctor. (Something he was once told he didn't have the right qualifications for.)

And in London, out of nowhere, he came close to death three times in just a few months.

First, his lung collapsed on a weekend flight to Budapest.

Then, he had a life-threatening operation to repair the damage in his lung.

Then, as he was recovering, while he was watching a World Cup match on TV in his ground floor Victorian flat in Hackney, a fire-bomb was thrown through his open sash window.

And it landed in his lap.

(They got the wrong house by the way. It wasn't meant for him.)

Anjelo's descriptions of what happened and how he dealt with it are extraordinary. Not because they're dramatic and astonishing. But because he takes time to recall - not just for himself, but for me the listener - what actually happened and how he coped with it.

His language is careful and precise. (That's not unusual in itself.)

But what I find rare, powerful and moving is the effect of the energy and commitment he puts into describing his experience. By dedicating himself to sharing his story he creates both a perspective and a presence, at the same time.

He remembers and helps me to imagine.

He pictures and describes.

He wonders and he questions; with me and for me (us) - the listener(s).

And because he describes so generously, he makes of me the listener someone who sees it.

I have my own picture of what happened. You will too if you listen to it.

And I have my own sense of who Anjelo was and now is.

And I have a sense of what he went through on that day and in the subsequent weeks and months.

I often find myself asking people to put more energy into descriptions. I think we're all of us a bit lazy in that way sometimes. And this is such a great example of what can happen if we really invest more than usual in the way we take someone somewhere they've not been to themselves.

The listener can become the viewer.

They can understand so much more richly what that experience might have been like. And as a result they become so much more empathetic. And able to help.

Instead of hijacking a story with their own references like:

"Oh I remember when I fell off a ladder..."

Or:

"I'll never forget how much pain I was in when my girlfriend dumped me..."

Instead, we begin to find ourselves genuinely imagining what that must have been like.

For them. Not for us.

And in that moment, we transform ourselves, from merely listening to understanding.

We can check, we can dig deeper, we can wonder with instead of simply gawking at.

We can attend to someone, instead of waiting for them to finish so we can jump in with our own loosely attached story that we've been reminded of.

So - of course generous listening is important.

But generous describing is important too. They're connected. They support each other.

And I want to share Anjelo's story because he's probably the most generous describer I've come across. And by describing well, he enabled me to listen well. In fact I felt compelled to listen well.

So - my hope is that listening to this will encourage anyone who's in pain right now to consider how they share it. Because if we can describe our pain well, I suspect we increase our chances of being heard.

And supported.

And helped.

So - enjoy Anjelo if you feel that way inclined.

You can listen to it here.

(Or via iTunes here.)

Thanks for listening.

And thanks to Anjelo for describing.

P.S. I'm aware that many people don't or can't find time to listen to the podcasts I put out, so I wanted to do something I wouldn't normally do and that's publish the transcript of what he says as well as the audio. I'll do that soon. Watch this space.

altogether better

2011-05-14T16:21:00.052+01:00

If a story's any good, it's worth hearing more than once.

And on Thursday, I heard a good story three times.

I'd been asked to facilitate part of an event where the aim was to celebrate ordinary people who've been doing extraordinary things for others.

But it was about more than celebration. This was an event about grabbing people by the arm and saying "Look: this is happening. And with the right kind of help, it can happen more."

So it was partly about congratulation and reward. But it was about inspiration too, courtesy of some hard core living proof that great and small things are happening every day.

My role on the day was a simple one: to help a few people tell their stories. But we weren't interested in statistics and set-pieces. What we wanted to create was an authentic, powerful conversation that might capture both the head and the heart.

A public conversation.

A conversation that would get behind the facts, the figures and headlines.

A conversation that might reveal some of the passion and desire and humanity behind the blurb.

So - I spent the welcome lunch trawling the room, asking people about their projects, their stories and their lives.

And in amongst the hundred or so award winners, sat a group of people from a programme called Altogether Better. (Good name. Great people.)

And to one side and sitting alone was Lisa.

She looked a little edgy. And a tiny bit overawed by the glamour and elegance of Somerset House.

After a quick chat with the people running the project, I caught Lisa's eye, sat down and asked her about her story.

"I'm a bit shy." she said. "And I've got a bit of a stammer."

"That's okay" I replied. "I've got plenty of time. And it's just you and me."

(I think I might have smiled at her.)

"Okay." she said.

And slowly she told me her story, for the first time:

I'd been away for ten years /

In Canada.

And when I came back /

I bumped into my abuser.

And as a result /

I started to /

Self-harm.

It took 18 months to get any counselling.

But I had a wonderful doctor /

Who said come in every other day /

Until we get can get you sorted out with someone.

Just check in with us.

Every other day.

So I did.

And eventually /

Well /

I got better.

And now /

Now /

I run a group for young women with mental disorders. Day to day life changing things.

That's how I earn a living.

I'm not on the dole any more.

And /

I haven't self-harmed for two years.

A short silence fell between us. I found myself looking at Lisa intently. I think I was looking for clues as to how okay she was or wasn't feeling about disclosing so much so soon.

"That's an amazing story Lisa" I said. "You know that don't you?"

"I'm not very confident." she replied. "I trip over my words sometimes."

She smiled.

"And I have a stammer."

I'm sure Lisa did have a stammer once. But I couldn't hear a trace of it. And maybe her sense of confidence wasn't as strong as some in the room, but it sounded to me like it might be ready to grow.

I put my cards on the table:

"Lisa. How would you feel about telling your story again? To everyone. If it makes it any easier, we could have a conversation about it, rather than you feeling you have to spill it all out.

"A conversation? In front of everyone?""

"Yes. In front of everyone."

We kept looking at each other. I was conscious of not wanting to push Lisa. But it felt like this might be an important moment for her, to say yes. Or to say no.

So I told her that I thought what she'd achieved was amazing. And I I told her that I thought other people might think so too; that she might inspire other people. I told her that of course it was her choice. And then I asked if she felt she might be ready.

Her eyes smiled.

"Try me."

So, after some fabulous stories of swimming pools reclaimed, bus-shelters rebuilt and able bodied teenagers learning how to help disabled bodied teenagers, it felt like the moment to give Lisa the opportunity to speak.

So I turned to her.

Her face was as pale as a sheet.

"Lisa. We were talking earlier weren't we?"

She nodded.

"How do you feel about sharing your story? About how you got to be here today?"

Without a pause, she breathed in to speak.

"Take your time" I think I said.

And she started.

Concisely, gently and with Sheffield steel in her eyes.

I'd been away for ten years /

In Canada....

And I heard the story for the second time, while a hundred people heard it for the first time. But this time - towards the end - she stopped.

In mid-flow.

Perhaps I should step in and rescue her?

Perhaps she'd been too brave.

Perhaps she wasn't ready after all.

I looked back at her again. And it was clear.

She was ready.

She was ready. And she was pausing. She was taking her time.

And she'd saved her big line till the end:

And for two years now /

I haven't self-harmed.

How to describe what happened next?

Honestly I suppose.

The room burst into applause.

Co-workers. Government ministers. Journalists. Bloggers. Tweeters and techies alike.

If it hadn't been so genuine, it would have been tacky.

But it wasn't tacky. Far from it. It was one of those rare moments when a bit of something real happens in front of you. And we all knew it.

But Lisa hadn't finished.

Lisa was on a roll.

The reception that evening was at No 10 Downing St.

The famous black door was thrown open to everyone who'd won an award.

Champagne, orange juice and fizzy water flowed. Canapes were served while eyes widened at the sight of the portraits, the furniture and the chandeliers.

David Cameron arrived as promised, shook hands, showed interest and made a heartfelt and witty speech.

It was all going to plan.

And then, as DC (as he's called at home) began to leave, surrounded by his modest entourage of small neat women, he felt a hand reach out and grab the sleeve of his jacket.

"Mr Cameron?"

It was Lisa.

"Have you got two minutes? I'd like to tell you my story."

And I heard Lisa's story a third time, while David Cameron heard it for the first time.

And he listened. And he was respectful in his reply.

And then he had to go. And celebrate his first year in office.

Which left Lisa and me, looking at each other, surrounded by astonished guests and No.10 staff. Her face was beetroot red. And beaming.

I honestly wondered if she might explode.

But she didn't explode. She grabbed me with her great big gorgeous arms gave me a hug I'll never forget.

"What have I done?" she squealed.

"You just grabbed the Prime Minister and you told him your story" I said.

"But, I could never have done that before!" she said, tears streaming down her face now.

"Well. You just did it now" I said. "And you did it pretty well."

Naturally I've asked Lisa's permission to tell this story. And I've also asked if she'll record a conversation with me. And she's said yes. So soon you'll be able to listen to her speak for herself about her experiences and her journey in life so far. Not just about the day in London and to No. 10, but the many, many days that led up to it.

So for now - thank you Lisa.

You are an inspiration.

To me and many others no doubt.

You seized the day.

And grabbed the jacket of power.

(And by all accounts you got to sit in DC's chair in the Cabinet Office.)

And it feels to me like you are well on the way to being truly altogether better.

An addendum

I could have started this post by telling you that the event in question was run by Steve Moore, Lucy Windmill and the brilliant team of people at Big Society Network.

I could have told you the day was all part of David Cameron's passion for the Big Society.

But I chose not to.

And I wonder how differently you might have read this story if I had.

Or whether you'd have read it at all.

As anyone who knows me will testify, I'm not a big fan of the Conservative Party (which as a friend recently pointed out to me probably makes me a better facilitator at events like these.) But I don't think I'm alone in disagreeing with most political parties about something important at the moment.

And for me, the idea of a policy that sets out to encourage us to look out for and after others, to be humane, to take responsibility, to act and challenge constructively rather than criticise from the sidelines is something worth beginning.

And that's all the Big Society is. A beginning. And like many beginnings it's having some false starts. Some clumsy articulations. It's being confused with other things. And it's fallen through some trap doors.

But whatever the ins and outs and rights and wrongs of branding and perceptions, last Thursday was not a day about political parties or government. Not really.

It was a day when I experienced for myself ordinary people creating change. Here. On these shores, where resistance to change always has (and probably always will be) strong and useful.

Some of the people I met were creating change long before the phrase Big Society was coined. But some people have only just started, like Lisa.

And if some of the change we need is going to come from people like Lisa, who's found the courage to take on her past, learn from the good people around her and transform her new growing confidence into action and helping others...

I'm up for that.

Because it's altogether better.

Altogether Better is run from Yorkshire and Humber Public Health Observatory who are about turning information into health intelligence.

You can read a full list of the fabulously inspiring organisations and individuals who won a Big Society award here.

empathy erosion

2011-04-20T23:48:00.030+01:00

Last night I was lucky enough to be at a talk by Simon Baron-Cohen at the Royal Institution. And it was a fabulous way to spend 90 minutes on a warm Spring night in London. (What a great Christmas present! Thank you.)

Professor Baron-Cohen is probably best known as an expert in autism, but he's also interested and works in the field of psychopathic behaviour.

And in his talk last night, he proposed a fascinating idea: that we should think less about 'evil' and more about 'empathy erosion.'

The Professor's latest book Zero Degrees of Empathy is just out (you can buy it here) and his talk was one hell of an appetiser for it.

If you're interested, then here's an article he wrote in The Observer this March, which will give you an idea of where his thinking is, plus some great stories and examples that will help illuminate his ideas if (like me) you're relatively uninitiated in the science of autism and empathic response.

So, his content was fascinating. And essentially his key points were three simple ones:

First, our capacity to empathise is on a spectrum. Some of us do it more, some less.

Secondly, where we lie on that spectrum depends on how well what Simon Baron-Cohen calls our ‘empathy circuit’ functions.

Thirdly, empathy is something we can learn. (But it's helped or hindered by the genes we're given.)

Nothing particularly revolutionary there.

Except that his work seems to be proving these things to be true. These are true things. Not assertions with make-up on to make them presentable. Not hunches that might buckle under any real pressure. These things that we might have suspected were real - are actually real.

So that got us all thinking.

And it got us asking some questions too.

Like: if empathy erosion is what allows someone to glass someone else in a pub, then might that same lack of empathy be required (or at least helpful) to be a fighter pilot?

And if we perceive (say) a physical disability as a stroke of terrible bad luck and something to be worked with and adapted to and sensitively considered in hundreds of ways, from buildings to social situations, shouldn't we also consider those who suffer empathy erosion in the same way?

And is it possible for someone to have their empathy eroded to the extent that their ability to harm or abuse another living being without so much as a flicker of remorse, regard or regret becomes... irreparable?

There were some big old questions knocking around. Which in my book makes for a good night.

But I found the evening more than just fascinating.

It felt incredibly relevant to me. Almost personal. I felt moved.

It got to me.

The scientist got to me.

He must have got to me because I found myself afterwards that evening and during the day today re-evaluating what I do and why I do it.

Listening intently, I began (then or now) to realise three things about myself and my work:

1) Compassion is becoming more important to me.

2) I am extremely lucky to love what I do.

3) I need to work harder if I want to achieve anything like my ambition.

But I'm not going to wang on about that now, because they're thoughts that are forming and need a bit of space.

And I won't try to distill the content any more here either, because it's not the content of Professor Baron-Cohen's talk that's got me.

What's stayed with me more than any of what he said, is how he said it.

That's what struck me really profoundly.

This was a self-confessed scientist talking. Someone who believes first and foremost in theory, evidence and measurement.

But his talk was more than the presentation of a hypothesis; more than a case to be made, proved or disproved.

Underneath his elegantly composed sentences, through the careful poise and structure of the 60 minutes, beyond the sheer meaning of what he was saying lay something else. Something other than logic and layout.

I listened carefully. Really carefully. With my eyes and my ears.

And I heard and saw that this was a man who cared deeply about the purpose of his work. A man for whom what he was doing had cause, reason and intention.

How could I tell this?

What did I hear? What did I see?

Perhaps it was just a 'sense' of something? An aura? A romantic notion or self-projection?

Perhaps it was one of these?

Bollocks was it.

I heard and saw some tangible, measurable, scientifically gaugeable evidence that he was a compassionate man.

I saw the tilt of his head to the side when he was asked a question about restorative justice in Rwanda.

I noticed the wicked smile that flickered across his face as he considered his answer to a question about whether the English law might be an ass when it comes to dealing with teenage criminals. (My words, not his.)

I heard the change of tone in his voice from something gentle and tender to something warmer and richer when he talked about how important it is that we consider how we bring up and socialise children.

This was a compassionate man. We heard him. And we saw him.

And I would like to thank Professor Simon Baron-Cohen for lots of things to do with how he spoke, not what he spoke.

Things that inspired me.

Things that will stay with me, long after I've forgotten which parts of the brain it is where empathy sits.

I want to thank him for his preparation, for his years of hard work.

I want to thank him for name-checking all of the people who've worked with him along the way.

I want to thank him for crediting everyone (by name and institution) who's doing any other work in his field that he referenced.

I want to thank him for his consideration of the audience and our varied levels of understanding of what is a huge subject.

I want to thank him for being explicit about whether he was answering with fact or speculation.

And I want to thank him for carrying with him and showing us so clearly that he was more than a man of science, he was a man of passion.

And a man of compassion.

So thank you Professor Simon Baron-Cohen.

You got to me.

And you inspired me.

P.S. Oh and Professor Simon Baron-Cohen, I've written to you asking if I can record a conversation with you. Because I think you're working with and thinking about something that's truly important and truly a difficult subject to deal with. And I'd like as many people to hear you think aloud about it.

You're a busy man I'm sure so I'll understand if you don't have time.

I'll be empathic to how busy you are.

I promise.

But maybe you'll be empathic to me too.

And say yes.

(He said yes. Sort of. I'm working on it.)

placing podcasts

2011-03-11T01:26:00.006Z

In the name of finding different ways to get all of the conversations that I've recorded and edited in the last few years actually listened to, I'm currently in the process of publishing some of our conversations on iTunes.

It's an interesting process. Finickety, bothersome and difficult when it should (and could) be so easy.

Anyhow. I'm doing it.

If you like you can be one of the first to subscribe to our free podcast that we're putting up there just by clicking here and following the instructions.

The first two conversations I've put up there are the one I had with Stephen on Listening and then the one I had with Adrian on his first encounter with an escort in a hotel in London. They're both gorgeous, generous men. And while they'll be followed by many others I'm very happy to put these two up first!

Enjoy - and let me know if you find it easy to listen and subscribe in this way.

More soon.

Thanks for listening.

test audioboo

2011-02-26T10:36:00.019Z

I'm testing the lovely Audioboo on the blog. This is an extended version of my conversation with Stephen on listening:

Listen!

And here it is again, in stereo this time:

If quality stereo is your thing and you have a nice pair of headphones then download it here.

Thanks for listening.

Oh - and if iTunes is your thing, subscribe to our podcasts by clicking here.

quite magical

2011-02-25T09:38:00.006Z

A week on from the The Story, I thought I'd respond to the requests I've had with a fuller 17 minute version of my conversation with Stephen on listening, in which we talk about freedom, space and silence.

Stephen is one of the gentlest people I know. And his capacity to describe what listening feels like, what it creates and what it gives others is as natural as it is articulate.

Our conversation took place one evening before supper at the second Round Table I ran in France. It's a modest but - for me at least - a rather special conversation. And I'd like to dedicate it to everyone who's ever listened to me.

Really listened.

Here it is to download.

the story

2011-02-18T01:58:00.014Z

Once a year, the lovely Matt Locke warms the hearts of a few hundred people or so at Conway Hall in London with an event he calls The Story.

Matt asks a select and varied pool of story lovers, practitioners and tellers to share their thoughts on how and why what they do. The slots are 20 minute long. The money raised goes to the bizarre and brilliant Ministry of Stories And anyone can come along. It sells out. It's a once a year thing. And I'd never heard of it until last Autumn when Matt invited me to be one of the speakers.

The line-up was a truly tasty one. My slot fell between Adam Curtis (you scared me Adam - thank you) and Cornelia Parker (who stole my power supply - I'm after you Cornelia, but happy to settle for a piece of your beautiful artwork as recompense.)

One of Matt's brilliant (or terrible) ideas is not to video the day. Brilliant because it's a live event and the sense of commitment people had made to be there is part of its uniqueness; terrible because the content was of such great quality and richness that I need to see everyone's session again.

Anyway - last night as a way of rehearsing it really - to make sure I was close enough to hitting the 20 minute mark - I recorded an audio only version.

So here it is; for anyone who couldn't be there today and for anyone who was but who wants to hear it again or share it with someone else.

And if you want to see the slides in gorgeous HD along with the sound, here they are.

The short clips of conversation I use in the podcast might be familiar to the small band of people who've occasionally followed The Dialogue Project's work at the real and beautiful Latitude Festival or in the less real (and less beautiful?) worlds of Twitter, Facebook or anywhere else virtual.

But I've framed up the clips in this podcast a bit differently - as examples of my work as a story listener, rather than a story teller.

I loved being part of @thestory2011.

Thanks for asking me Matt. Thanks for hosting it Margaret. And thank you to Richard, Rebecca, Holly and everyone else who went out of their way to make today such a pleasure for me to be part of.

And thanks to all 400 of you in the audience today for giving such an incredible sense of attention for (what was apparently slightly longer than) 20 minutes.

I'm glowing a little bit with the responses so far. I hope the session was as stimulating to listen to as it was to do.

While it's fresh: things I want to remember about how I prepared.

1) I'm glad I rehearsed - it meant I could relax, enjoy it and tune in a bit to the audience.

2) I'm glad I had my standby Mac in my bag - having a Plan B doesn't make Plan A any less exciting.

3) I'm glad I had two cups of coffee on the go: one stage left, one stage right. It meant I didn't have to walk across the stage holding a cup of coffee.

Thank you to Billy, Stephen, Chris, Jane and Dan for letting me share your voices with some new people.

And thanks too to the young people whose voices I also used but can't name.

You were heard today.

Lots.

who knew...

2011-01-31T20:17:00.014Z

So - after an extended lack of blogging. It's time to briefly update things.

The picture above is of me on the BBC Breakfast show.

(You can watch the video here if you like.)

That's me. On the red sofa.

Why?

Because the ten core skills of dialogue were suddenly perceived as being newsworthy?

No.

Because it was felt that enough was enough and there should be no more trivial conversations on Breakfast TV? That it was time for an in-depth analysis of what it might mean to co-create fresh new alternatives to the stale, binary combat between journalists and politicians?

No.

It was because the work I'd done for PIzza Express had been slightly thin-sliced by various journalists and I ended up being quoted (and mis-quoted) in newspapers about my expertise in the art of flirting.

Yes, flirting.

Now, while I'm perfectly happy to admit I enjoy a good flirt as much as the next woman, I've never really considered myself an expert in the field.

So, I found it a little odd to be presented as someone who could help people with 'chat up' lines. A little odd, but not objectionable.

Harder to take was the perception that it was this skill that I'd spent years perfecting and dedicating my professional life to. (By the way, what a great idea - a company specifically designed to help people flirt. In another life maybe.)

But most people who know me - while they might point out that it was only a matter of time before my hobby became exposed - might also know that my passion is for dialogue; for conversations that go somewhere; that create movement, shift, opportunities and new ideas.

Creative conversations.

Conversations that count.

Conversations that create new possibilities, satisfaction and strengthened relationships.

(Actually this all sounds very much like flirting doesn't it? Oh well - maybe I'll live with my new label after all.)

Anyhow - the good news is that as a result of my unsought after press coverage, I've come into contact with some fascinating people and some new opportunities.

So - I have no regrets about appearing on Breakfast telly. Or in any of the newspapers that claimed to have spoken to me when they hadn't. I'm a big boy now and it was good for me to be reminded that I'm as naive as I ever was.

On the live shows at least, I got a chance to talk about what I really wanted to talk about and that was good for me. It was good for me to have to be on my mettle.

The one thing I would have liked I suppose, would have been to have a little book to point to. A lasting physical reference to the work I've actually been doing in the last ten years or so rather than touring the country helping people to come on to each other. (Read that sentence carefully.)

And the good news is (partly thanks to the attention I got), it looks like I might get a chance to make that very thing a possibility.

And so, after a 8 weeks of a long serious corporate job, I'm now facing the exciting and slightly daunting challenge of putting into the written word some of the things I've been thinking about and talking about since I started The Dialogue Project, as a direct response to the events of Sept 11th, 2001.

Blimey - a book.

Will it be any good? Who knows.

Will it be read by anyone except me? Maybe not.

Is it something I want to do? Very much so.

I love a challenge.

And anyway, at least in a few months time I can sidle up to the fascinating woman sitting in a cafe and casually remark: "Sorry for interrupting you but... I just couldn't help but notice how beautiful your ten core dialogue skills were."

express yourself

2010-10-03T21:06:00.027+01:00

Among other things, I find myself right now helping the wonderful people at Pizza Express to launch their new restaurants in a project called Think Big.

Why would I be doing that? (Apart from the fact that I love American with extra tuna.)

Well, believe it or not, Pizza Express have decided to put great conversation at the heart of their restaurants.We started in Richmond and now we're spreading the love of conversation to Fulham, Balham, Newbury, Bournemouth and St Ives with Sheffield, Brighton and Brent Cross to come.

What Pizza Express have realised is that what people want when they go out to eat is a chance to talk - to really talk and to really be with friends, families, lovers and partners. To embrace conversation; to listen to each other, to celebrate the experience of actually being together.

Not virtually. Real-ly.

They've engaged an incredible team of people including Abe Rogers to totally redesign the physical spaces and make them acoustically conducive to conversation.

And they've asked me to help every single member of staff to understand the essential ingredients of conversation. (They even let me help them develop a new process for deciding who to bring into the team, in one of the most enlightened series of talent assessments I've ever come across.)

And... (which is for me the most important thing and my barometer for working with any commercial organisation) they actually believe in what they're doing.

Will it help them make money? I hope so - they're an ethical business.

Will it catch the media's attention? Maybe - it's a good story.

Since first writing this post the media attention has well and truly been captured and I am now fully versed in the wicked ways of sloppy journalism and certain people's predilection for fiction reported as fact. Oh well, I'm a big boy, I can take it. Here's a slightly less absurd piece by Reuters:

So never mind the hype. Does it matter? Well actually yes, in a small way I believe it does.

I can honestly say that this is a business that looks after its people. That values its people. That believes in its people. (The Head of HR started as a waitress.)

So - a company of integrity that creates great food, that believes good conversation is an important thing and a business that's putting its money where its customer's mouths are...

Why would I say no?

So - for the new teams - this is your chance to make your mark; to be exceptional; to express yourselves and to be part of something genuinely fresh and imaginative. Grasp it with both your floury hands.

And here, in the new language we've created are the podcasts I told you about, to help you get those dialogue skills running through your bodies like oxygen:

First, here's an introduction to great conversation. A big download for a small but lovely animation or you can watch it right here:

Then there's Time and Space - what we need to create in the beautiful surroundings of the Pizza Express in Richmond.

The first big skill we talked about was Step In Step Out or the way we navigate our way through a conversation..Making sure we start and stay together on the journey.

We talked about using our Eyes and Ears in the ways we listen.

There's the skill we called Take Me There - the ways we can describe things to people and enjoy the richness and variety of language.

We talked about how to Stay Close, checking that we understand exactly what it is that people are trying to express.

And then there's how to Dig Deeper, probing gently to open doors and find out more.

There's the skill of asking the question: Who Knows? which is all about keeping an open mind, resisting the temptation to assume we know who someone is and what they're going to say. Suspending that deep instinct to make quick judgements.

Don't forget how important it is to Make It Together; to build ideas and allowing even the most fragile of suggestions to grow and blossom before our eyes.

We talked about how Everyone Counts and how important it is to keep a conversation balanced by making sure we gently ask those smaller voices to take part too.

Dare to Share is the name we gave to honestly saying what's on your mind (and sharing it). Disclosing what you're thinking to everyone else.

And finally, we reminded ourselves that sometimes the most important thing we can give to anyone (including ourselves) in a conversation is Time to Think

Enjoy listening to them. And use them.

Express yourself.

in parts

2010-09-16T15:55:00.027+01:00

So today I have finished editing the conversation between Jane Prinsep and I.

(If you want to read Jane's own words I heartily recommend her site Splintered Reflections to you.)

Jane was raped when she was a teenager and in June this year I went to Switzerland and recorded the conversation we had about that time in her life. And a few other times in her life.

Since then, the first edit of what we called why not me? has had many hundreds of listens.

It's a tough story to listen to but an important one.

It's about someone who's survived something.

Someone who's learning to be the fullest version of herself she can be.

Most conversations I record comfortably come down to a short edit of around 15 mins.

But not this one.

After I first let why not me? out of the bag at Latitude Festival this summer, it attracted a lot of attention.

Mostly for very good reasons.

Mostly because Jane's voice is one that people wanted to hear. Because (I think) it's a voice that's capable of bringing hope to anyone whose life has contained some kind of catastrophe; an event from which you might think there is no coming back.

But there is coming back. Plenty of it. And Jane is an example of someone who knows that's true.

So - partly because there was so much interest and partly because the conversation was such a rich one, I've now edited it into four parts.

In Part 1 Jane describes to me in graphic detail the rape itself. It's not an easy listen, so please if you're not in a robust place, think twice before listening to it.

But if you are in a robust place and you choose to take time to listen to someone describe an extraordinary event that you've probably never experienced, I urge you to listen to it. Your understanding and appreciation of what it is to be violated sexually will be that much greater if you listen. And that might change the way you consider things in your own life.

But if you listen to it - or you can download it here - you'll hear more than just a description of an event. You'll hear another human being dealing with what she's describing as she describes it. Change is happening in the conversation.

And it's a dialogue because that's happening.

In Part 2, Jane talks more about the immediate after effects of what she calls 'the attack'. She talks about her reaction to it. Her decision to survive. Her immediate and unconsidered defiance. She talks about the court case. The moment the perpetrator of the rape was convicted. The moment her eyes met his. And of her collapse in the court room as he left.

And then, she describes the realisation - even as she toasted the demise of the prisoner with her friends and family - that her recovery hadn't even really begun.

It's a powerful and compelling unfolding of a life beginning again. There are more details of the rape, more things remembered. Almost nothing forgotten. And a sense of a woman talking so clearly about herself that you can hear the way in which she consciously carries her journey with her every day.

Every day.

You can listen to Part 2 here.

And now today... I'm putting Part 3 out into the world. You can download it here.

In a way, this is the most 'listenable to' part of the conversation. The most ordinary.

In another way it's the most shocking. Precisely because it's the most ordinary.

Jane talks with seering honesty about what might well be construed as an ordinary marriage - is there any such thing? - on the surface. But just beneath the surface, she reveals that there are extraordinary things happening.

Jane describes to me a relationship that's unhealthy, destructive and ultimately doomed to failure but it's a relationship perhaps that many people who haven;t been raped will recognise. A relationship in which one person feels that everything is their fault. The resonance of the rape was ringing into Jane's adult life.

But again... Jane finds the courage to step out of one place and into the next.

She acknowledges that her attitude to men, sex and her own self esteem wasn't what she wanted to be. So she moves on...

And Part 4, is now here.

And after starting our conversation by talking about the act of violence that traumatised Jane as a teenager, we ended up talking about the gentleness of childhood and how she now talks to her children.

There's a short Audioboo here where I talk briefly about the title we've given to our conversation - why not me? - and how it's resonated with me personally.

But now, I just want to say thank you again to Jane, for sharing time with me and for allowing our conversation which felt so intimate and private - to be made public.

Already many people have told us both that just hearing your voice and your 'story' (which of course is not a story but your life) has been an inspiration to people. As life continues to throw its challenges towards you, I wish you all the love in the world.

Let's hope that other people keep thinking. And imagining.

And listening.

And sometimes asking the question: why not me?

green thoughts

2010-09-13T16:46:00.005+01:00

I had a very enjoyable day last week working with the good people of Green Alliance, a group of (mostly) young men and women - mostly women actually - whose everyday job is to harness the thinking and energy of various partners and help them to bring big green issues to the ears of those who need to listen.

It all happened at the beautiful location of Bore Place (what a place).

It was fascinating and surprising to see, hear and experience how in some ways they're facing some very old fashioned problems. Issues that you might hope were things of the past but in fact are very much things of the present.

About getting taken seriously.

About getting an inconvenient truth through to a public who'd rather believe a more comfortable set of reassuring lies.

And how to recognise that while your own environment might be one in which trust, respect and open-mindedness are rigorously and consciously applied... the very people you need to reach out to and create dialogue with may not have the same culture.

So that makes your job hard. Really hard.

But it's a job worth doing.

10,000 times over.

So - power to your elbows Green Alliance.

And I'm happy to help you again. Any time.

Oh and I promised you all access to all the podcasts on dialogue...

And here they are.

Now go dialogue the hell out of a few people.

part 2

2010-08-12T07:48:00.014+01:00

So here's the next part of my dialogue with Jane Prinsep which we've called why not me? part 2

You can download it here.

For anyone who's coming to this new, you should know that this dialogue was part of a series of Intimate Conversations on the subject of sex that we recorded in May and June, edited in July and shared initially at Latitude Festival's Fifth Edition earlier this summer in the UK.

And so you know what you're getting into, Jane's story begins with a description of being raped when she was 14.

Her story is a powerful one. And in some ways a disturbing one.

But it's not a story about being a victim. Far from it.

And for me it's not just a story about recovery.

It's about one woman's journey, moving from a time when she had control seized from her in the most horrible way to a place where she reclaims her life, her identity and her future.

Jane is a remarkable woman. I went over to Switzerland to meet her earlier this summer and after lunch by the lake we sat down and recorded a conversation. A dialogue.

Most conversations I record, I subsequently edit down to a 10-15 minutes version and share it with the world. But sometimes a conversation is so rich that it merits more than just a one part. And this is one of those.

Part 1 which you can download here received a lot of attention and downloads and for many people Jane has been already been an inspiration as you'll see by visiting her blog.

So here's Part 2.

Parts 3 and 4 will come in the next few weeks.

Thanks again Jane.

an audience

2010-08-01T00:16:00.004+01:00

So here I am on the brink of going to Edinburgh Festival, to open a play called The Author.

It's a brilliant piece.

There's genuinely nothing I've ever seen that's remotely like it.

The play is about many things. And one of the things it's about is an audience.

What does it mean to be an audience? Not just in a theatre - in our lives.

When we see something - when we witness something, when we meet something, how much of that act are we not just viewing (or hearing) but creating?

In a world of beautiful things like hope, love, care, tenderness, richness, curiosity, pleasure...

How responsible are we for making these things happen? In our every day behaviours? In the way we choose to say hello to the stranger we bump into? In choosing to thank the bus driver? In choosing to smile at someone because we think they're beautiful or brave or simply present?

And in a world of terrible things like terror, fear, violence, despair, illness, depression, war, rape and child abuse...

How responsible are we for making these things happen? In our every day behaviours? Not just in what we choose to do, but also in what we choose not to do? In our choice to ignore the loneliest looking person in a room. In choosing not to ask the question we know might need asking? In our choice to not see what is staring us in the face?

It takes courage to participate. To be with others. To truly be with others. And ourselves.

Every one of these questions is inside the body of The Author.

And every one of these questions has come up in rehearsals for The Author. Some very unexpectedly. But all the more keenly.

So - if you fancy a bit of sensory deprivation, if you want to sit back and let the actors entertain you, if you fancy a night off...

Don't come and see The Author.

tears, gravity and distance

2010-07-26T22:19:00.020+01:00

"We are one crew of 6 billion people."

This weekend I enjoyed my first quiet couple of days for a while and a full moon in France.

And I found myself thinking that maybe after all the recent posts and edits on and around the subject of sex, (and don't worry there'll be more coming soon), I though I'd just pop up with something a bit different.

A little something I did a while ago but haven't published until today.

This is something all children can listen to.

And something perhaps all adults should listen to.

This is my conversation with Jean-Francois Clervoy. You can listen to it here and read a transcript of it here.

An astronaut.

I recorded Jean-Francois in his office in Paris last Spring.

His mellifluous French accent serves only to highlight his sense of wonder at the planet's beauty from space.

His passion for the environment comes from a place not many of us will ever have the opportunity to occupy.

He talks with equal dexterity about adventure, borders and fragility.

And finally he shares with me just about as delicate and economic a description of the atmosphere as I could ever imagine hearing.

So - please do enjoy the edit I've called: tears, gravity and distance.

Ceci n'est pas un dialogue. It's an interview.

But like many of the people I've spoken to as part of the Intimate Conversations series, this one off is a conversation I feel privileged to have had.

few words

2010-07-20T02:00:00.008+01:00

A nice little review for Intimate Conversations at Latitude today:

“Entrancing. Each year the topic of the conversations changes and this year it's sex. One might expect lewdness from such a subject - either that or sentimentality - but in fact, the tone of these interviews was so gentle and honest that I was almost moved to tears.”

Whatsonstage.com 2010

dear listeners

2010-07-19T07:19:00.027+01:00

Welcome to a special page for anyone who's curious about listening to the series of Intimate Conversations on sex that we first released at Latitude Festival 2010.

Just click on the titles to download...

(Or subscribe to our podcasts on iTunes by clicking here.)

Enjoy.

almost as good

Olivia's first sexual partners led her to think that sex with men wasn't as interesting as it was on her own. Even at University, she wasn't getting what she wanted or needed. And then, things changed.

Editor's Notes

Olivia was a great woman to meet. We were maybe a little nervous in each other's company at first. And we tackled some juicy subjects that never made it to the edit: female ejaculation, the techniques of clitoral stimulation, radical ideas around sex education. But the edit here is really centred on what became the core of our conversation: which was about the confidence it takes to say what you want and what you need. So this is a frank, tender and personal conversation. And at Latitude we had a lot of men keen to listen to this and a lot of young women who said everyone should listen to it. I'm really glad to have met Olivia. She's a great woman. And a beautiful one. And as a man I'm extremely glad to have had the conversation we did. I just wish I'd had it 25 years ago...

prepared to love

At the age of 42, Adrian decided it was about time he had penetrative sex. So he saved up £500 and hired a male escort for just one night. What he got was an experience he'll never forget.

Editor's Notes

Adrian is one of the most beautiful men I know. Beautiful in that he has a heart so full of love that sometimes you doubt he's actually a real person. This man must be a persona created to divert attention from the 'real' thing. But he's not. Not at all. He has a camp, very funny side to him but when that mask drops... it reveals one of the most authentic partners in conversation I've ever met. So when I asked him to be on my list of people to talk to, I secretly knew (or hoped at least) that I would get candour, openness and honesty. And I did. But I got so much more. Adrian 'gave' himself to this conversation. Gently; quietly; tenderly. But fully - and without prejudice. So of course what happened was the dialogue grew and grew. So much so, that this is just Part 1. Later this summer, I'll publish Parts 2 and 3. (If you can handle the love...)

why not me?

At the age of 14, Jane lost her virginity to a man who attacked her and her mother. Now, nearly 24 years later, she feels ready to talk openly about her experience and what it's taught her.

Editor's Notes

When someone has a life story as compelling as Jane's, it's hard not to be more taken by the story than the person. And yet as I edited this conversation, I kept finding that I wasn't listening to the narrative. Instead I kept being drawn to the woman describing it, occupying it. So this edit took a long, long time. And actually, this is only the first section of what will be a three or four part series, because there's not much of our conversation I want to cut out, so full and potent as it was. So yes, the content is powerful - incredibly powerful and sometimes almost unbearably so. But through the harrowing details, beyond the nightmarish plot and behind the unfolding story you hear someone who is a survivor. A powerful, passionate, life loving survivor. Please don't listen to this conversation if you're feeling vulnerable or if the subject of rape is too personal or raw for you. But if you're robust enough to hear someone who's been through hell and who's coming out the other end, I urge you to listen and breathe in about as much inspiration as it's possible to take. And then when you've listened, check out Jane's brilliant blog.

just with him

Giles has been straight, bi-sexual and gay. He's always had a strong relationship with sex and his physical and spiritual journey through life has been hugely informed by who he shares himself with.

Editor's Notes

I didn't interview Giles; Julie did: "The first time I met Giles was in a dance workshop. To dance with him is to be gathered into his generous, inclusive, sensual, laughing energy. I lost all self-consciousness and tuned in to the joyous body, surrendered to music and movement and the flowing patterns of my feet and his. This was dialogue like I’d never experienced it before. Conversation in words was trickier, less direct. But as we talked I kept hearing the same qualities: a courageous, playful, improvisational approach to both life and sex; a fierce desire to express himself truthfully, to connect; and the courage to be witnessed standing in that truth. And on top of all that, a infectious humour and lots of love. I hope you get to dance with Giles one day, but until then, I hope you enjoy listening to him as much as I do."

a beautiful tension

Brian is in his early forties. An Englishman living in America, for most of his life he's had a lot of sex with a lot of women. Then, just six months ago he met Dana. And fell in love.

Editor's Notes

Brian and I met while he was in London in June 2010. We'd met only once before, very briefly at a mutual friend's party. Within just a few minutes, we were exchanging incredibly personal details. I think maybe in a way we recognised aspects of ourselves in each other. We share a love of great sex, of women, we share a tubby round the tummy rejuvenation in our lives that slightly belies our age. And I think we both share a deep, energised passionate wish to have our spoken language serve our thoughts and feelings. And we both know that words can't do it all. So in a very boisterous way... we met. And then something more happened. After lots of graphic stories, questions and curiosities we got into something a little bit deeper. And when I began to listen (really listen) back to the tape, the change in Brian's voice was extraordinary. His tone softened, his breathing slowed and his rhythms began to settle. And so did mine. I started to listen. And I was listening to a man in love.

To all of you who came to Latitude - thank you! We had a really wonderful series of sessions each morning, with hundreds of you choosing which conversation you'd like to listen to, sitting down in the woods with your iPod and headphones and listening. It's great to share these same conversations now, beyond those few days in Suffolk.

Wherever you are or were - thank you for listening.

2 + 2 = 5

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dear listeners