ADHD-and-me.blog

I have always loved business travel. I am a creature of habit. I arrive at Heathrow in plenty of time, usually 3 days in advance of my flight. I do this purely to enjoy my ritualistic Gordon Ramsay Terminal 4 breakfast. I have always been a fan of Mr Ramsay’s “Kitchen Nightmares” programme. I hoped to spot him loitering between the restaurant entrance and Boots the chemist. I imagined him shouting “you’re an idiot sandwich” at passers-by. But alas our paths never crossed, I guess he was avoiding me.

Rude.

I loved flying into strange airports with exotic shops bursting with things I absolutely didn’t need but somehow urgently deserved. I adored leaping into taxis perfumed with a heroic blend of mystery spice, tired upholstery and aggressive bubble-gum air freshener.

Above all, there was a peculiar thrill in presenting slides to a room full of polite strangers. They would nod thoughtfully while secretly playing candy crush under the desks. They sometimes sipped strong coffee and occasionally broke out into spontaneous chat among themselves. One lady I met had perfected her technique for unwanted meetings. She organized a stunt “intervention” during our meeting. A junior employee interrupted us ten minutes in, claiming she was needed on an “urgent call”. I admired the woman’s audacity. I also decided to add this to my file of future meeting avoidance strategies.

For most people, business travel is a bore. For someone with ADHD, however, it’s basically Disneyland with expense claims. Every trip promises novelty, unpredictability, and just enough mild peril to keep my brain engaged. Little did I know my adventures would later become stories for a blog 15 years later

One of the earliest lessons I learned about group business travel is that it can be like herding cats. As a self-confessed “mother hen,” I identified early on that running a successful business trip depended on my ability to mollycoddle experienced grown-ups. Frankly, they needed me.

I honed my craft on a trip to Turkey about 15 years ago. I took a minibus of seasoned Insurers on a field trip approximately 2 hours away from our hotel. As we pulled into the client’s office, I decided that I should do a quick headcount. (I’ve seen the minibus scene in Home Alone, so I know how this works – 3 brokers, 9 underwriters 1 driver and a partridge in a pear tree).

I counted roughly 12 people on the minibus which seemed like the right sort of number. Yes! I thought, you’ve so got this. Then, disproportionately buoyed by my ability to count into lower double digits, I thought it would be a good idea to address the group. Channeling my inner “Ted Lasso”, I began what became a sort of personalised pep talk to each person:

“You need to speak more quietly” I said to the guy with the booming voice.
“You need to keep your questions simple” I said to the chronic over-thinker (there is always one).
“You need to speak louder” I said to the softly spoken Texan, or I would have done, had he been ON THE BUS.

Disaster.

I called his mobile. He picked up instantly and appeared to be having some sort of out-of-body-experience. He was giggling like a two-year-old who has just discovered toilet humour. He seemed incapable of speech apart from muttering something which sounded oddly like “you b@st@rd!! you’ve left me behind!”, although I probably misheard him. Unsure what the rules were in this kind of situation, I decided solidarity was the best policy. We spent the next 5 minutes on the phone giggling in unison, like a couple of unhinged hyenas. On balance I reckoned was a good use of my time as it appeared to clear the air somewhat.

Immediate crisis over, I begged my Turkish colleague to jump back in her car to go and pick up our lost sheep from the hotel. In the interests of efficiency, I was concise and to the point with my meet up instructions for them both.

“She’s the one with curly hair” I told him.
“And he’s the one looking lost” I told her.

When she questioned me further, my mind went curiously blank. I tried hard not to reply on an unfair stereotype. Cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat would have made him far easier to spot.

I’m pleased to say, he eventually arrived at the meeting a little discombobulated, but none the worse for the experience. Result.

I have never taken a Texan to Turkey again.
As Oscar Wilde might have observed:

To lose one Texan may be regarded as a misfortune.
To lose two, looks like carelessness.
And I’m not taking the risk.