I visited a brothel in a Kampala slum and I'm proud of it

 Today I visited a notorious brothel in the red light district of Kampala, Uganda and I don't care who knows it!

Do you have any idea what a brothel in a Kampala slum is like? Can you imagine being trapped in that environment, too deep in to claw you way out and not even being sure what you would be climbing out to if you could?

And what about your children? Born and raised in a slum brothel. What are the odds that your child will break the cycle and not end up in the same circumstances? Pretty slim I would say.

Except for the amazing efforts of a young lady, Harriet Kamashanyu and her team, Derrick and Allan, at Rhythm of Life.

The team work with sex workers and their daughters deep in the red light areas of Kampala. They focus on health issues for the sex workers and on trying to create educational opportunities for the children in an effort to break the never ending cycle. This really is the front line of charity work and the team deserves our support

 The Rhythm of Life team took me to the Daido Brothel in Makindye. They hand out male and female condoms, vitamins and other medicines to the sex workers and explain how to use them.

With their partners, such as a healthcare organisation called Touch they conduct HIV and STI testing and put the women in touch with hospitals if needed.

Keep in mind that the three team members are all in their twenties. I know a few young people in their twenties. Many are hunting for jobs in banking or management consulting. They think if they wear a suit and tie and go to work in a shiny office they've made it. The RoL team have more impact on real lives in a week than some of these folk will have in their entire career. But they pay a tough price. They juggle studies with this volunteer work. They face threats from pimps and disdain from some of the die-hard sex workers who just want customers. They hardly earn anything. But I've listened to them talk about their work and they are changing and saving lives one at a time. One at a time. It's humbling.

Let me tell you about being an African sex worker. If you are lucky - yes lucky - you live in the brothel in the picture. You pay your pimp/landlord 5,000 Ugandan Shillings a night to live in a small room with may be four or five other women. You pay that whether you work or not, so you had better hustle for business or you'll literally be out on the streets. So you fight for custom against the thousands of other sex workers out there. Fight. Struggle. Hustle. If you are very lucky you might hit the big time and earn 50,000 UG Shillings for a single session. Happy Days eh! How else are you ever going to earn that sort of money (that's about £12 by the way).

And you dull the pain with alcohol. So much alcohol. But not when you are working. Because you've got to keep a clear head or the customers will refuse to pay, trick you, beat you. abuse you. So they might be high on drink and drugs but you are fighting for survival so keep a clear head at night and drink in the day to forget the last night and tomorrow night.

The women we met ranged in age from 16 to 40's. Many had small children running around the slum. Some of the small children had even smaller children on their backs. A lot of these sex workers came from outside Kampala, looking for what the bright lights of the big city had to offer. It turned out what it had to offer was a tiny room in a brothel and a life locked into a cycle of alcohol, sex and survival.

One of the few signs that the world out there has not completely abandoned them is when the Rhythm of Life team turn up with supplies to help them manage their health and advice, guidance and support. And not a word of judgement. These women are where they are. They need support. Thank goodness someone is willing to give them that support as best they can. I attending one of the sessions as the women were taught how to use female condoms. These hardened women who have seen things that I can only imagine giggled like a group of schoolgirls as the healthworker explain some of the, errr, mechanics.

But as Harriet explains, even simple things like female condoms are empowering. The (stupid) men often refuse to wear condoms (can you believe it?!). And the women can't make them. But they can take matters into their own hands and use female condoms to protect themselves. So much of what RoL do is about trying to empower the women as much as possible to make their own decisions.

Sometimes that decision might be that a sex worker
wants to leave the business. But it's not that easy. What are they going to do instead? They have no or few qualifications. There are no jobs. So do you leave and starve (along with your children) or stay and work? What would you do?

I met a sex worker and chatted to her. She a young lady but already has four children, aged between 9 years and 6 months, and she's working again to keep body and soul together and feed her kids.

But when I asked her what her dream is she opened up. She desperately wants to get out. She dreams of starting a hair salon. But it's an impossible dream. She would need 2 MILLION Ugandan Shillings to set up a salon. let's be brutal about it. If she could save 10 percent of her earnings then she might need to have sex with perhaps 800 drunk, drugged strangers to turn that dream into a reality. So it's just a dream.

Except that 2 Million Shillings is about £500 ($750). Yes, £500. If you've got a spare £500 let me know and we'll stop her having to sleep with 800 more men to achieve her dream. Shall we do that? Or is that a bit much for us? How about we go halves on it?

I asked her whether she would really set up a salon if someone gave her 2m shillings. For the first time she became really clear. She said that she would rent a store to work from by that same evening. She wants out. But she dare not believe. She can't let her guard down. How can she hope and then have it crushed?


It's the children though. Rhythm of Life try to help some of the children into schools if they can. They want to break the cycle. Change the rhythm of life for these girls. Open up another route for them.

Sometimes it works. This young lady is now doing A levels and plans to study accounting and finance at University with the help of Rhythm of Life. She is a strong, delightful student and very proud of what she has achieved and so, so thankful for the help she has received.

Huge cost though. It can cost £150 a term in fees to put a girl into primary school instead of leaving them to run around the brothel. So far Rhythm of Life have managed to raise enough money to put 5 girls into schools. They would love to increase this by another five next year. But you're talking big money - that's 5 times £150 per term right there. I mean, who is going to stump up that sort of cash, just to stop a little girl from being prepared for her life as a sex worker in a Kampala slum? You? No. We've got better things to do haven't we. Have we?

I do like these stock photos of smiling little African kids. I've always wondered where photographers get them from. Well I know where this one comes from. These three little girls were playing around the Kampala brothel that we visited. So happy. Having such fun as they skipped around together and laughing at the funny looking stranger from London.

So, which way do they go? School outside the brothel and a chance at a life. Or follow in their mothers' footsteps. My call. Your call.




We can't get to them. But Rhythm of Life can, do and will if we want them too. And if we do, then we'll really touch some lives.

Some people say "what' the point, you can't solve the problem". But I'm not trying to solve the problem. I like the Starfish principle. Tens of thousands of starfish are washed up onto the beach one day. The tide goes out and leaves thousands trapped in little pools of water in the sand. A little girls picks them up one by one and starts putting them back in the sea. Worldly wise Dad says "there's no point, love, you can't save then all. It really doesn't matter". Daughter who knows no better shows him the one in her cupped hands. "Well, it matters to this one Daddy. It matters to this one"

How I found my racist again after 25 years

It's always nice to catch up with an old friend after a long time. This week, after 25 years, I have been reacquainted with an old racist of mine.

Well, I say he's my racist but I think that's a bit greedy of me. He probably shares his racism around generously. In fact that's a bit unfair. I don't know that for sure. I only know that I was on the receiving end of it in 1988. It all played out quite predictably I suppose and he won in the end.

So, imagine my delight when, thanks to the power of social media, he was suggested as a possible contact for me! The ability to reconnect with him and chat about old times is almost irresistible. Oh, what fun we shall  have.

It's 1988. I am half way through my MBA and it's time to start job hunting. Off I got to chat to executive search folk and start the process of getting a much needed job to pay of my MBA loan.

I had a very promising chat with one firm. The lady seemed quite impressed and promised to put me forward for a few roles. Imagine my surprise when I got this letter a few days later

Gosh! What do I do now? The organisation is one of the most powerful firms in the City at the time. Do I let this pass or do I take on the fight? I've taken out a big loan to do my MBA and several people advise me that if I get in a public fight it's going to be really hard to get a job whether I win or lose. But given the recruitment consultants strength of feeling and commitment, how can I let it pass? Who is going to be the next victim of this sort of blatant racism? Someone has to act.

After much agonising, I conclude that I have to take the fight to them. I mentally kiss goodbye to my career in the City and contact the (then) Commission for Racial Equality.

It was really interested to find that I had to convince the CRE that this was a genuine case, that I was a credible person and that the organisation was worth taking on. Clearly they had limited resources so they had to pick their fights. Maximum, public impact. This organisation was a global player and dominated finance at the time. They decided it was worth tackling and took on the case.

The next step is that I am assigned a lawyer to review and prepare the case. He did a great job. We had this racist guy bang to rights and we were going to force some changes. No one, individual or organisation, is above the law. This is 1980s Britain for goodness sake not 1940s Deep South. Company policy not to hire black people? Come on, Get real! 

At least, that's what I thought.

Then, things took a slightly odd turn. My lawyer sent me the following letter after a chat with the recruitment lady...

Finally, the recruitment executive called me up. She was in tears.

Her Director at the agency had called her in. The message was delivered straight. If the recruitment firm ever wanted to do any work for this company in the City again it would withdraw the case. If her firm did not withdraw the case, then they would send the word around the City and recruitment work would dry up overnight.

My recruitment executive was told that if she wanted to work in recruitment now or ever she had to withdraw her allegation. Her Director would ring around all the other recruitment firms and make sure she never worked in that industry again. She was ordered to withdraw.

In fact they went further. She was told to call the executive and apologise in person for her outrageous allegation and appeal for forgiveness. This she did. And I don't blame her. Was I going to pay her wages for the next 30 years? Was she supposed to go into shops and say "I'd like to buy that dress please. I have no money but I have principles"?

So, she did what she had to do and then wrote me the following letter.

And so it came to an end. My lawyer formally withdrew the case. My racist carried on with his work. The organisation carried on doing whatever the organisation does, and I put the whole episode in the file marked "It's only a bit of racist banter, what's the big deal, Don't be so sensitive Tom" and got on with the task of building a career.

Until the social media site Linkedin decided that I and my racist ought to get back together and catch up on old times. Perhaps share recommendations. I don't really do recommendations on linkedin but I'm considering making an exception. My racist is now a very senior technology guy at the same bank in the City. I wonder if he uses the same recruitment policy or if he's grown out of it. I'm surprised that I haven't bumped into him before now as most of my career has been in financial services technology. 

Fortunately Nigel Farage assures us that workplace racism is done and dusted and we don't need these silly anti-discrimination laws that people like me use to waste companies time. There are no more racists in the workplace. The young racists haven't grown up into old racists in senior positions. No, I am sure my racist has grown out of his young racist phase. It's a phase we all go through isn't it? I should give him a call. We'd have a giggle about it and may be enjoy a pint together.

Anyway, that's real life folks. We used to have proper racists in the good old days. None of this weak "I'm not sure his face fits" nonsense. A direct "He's black. We don't employ blacks. If you don't like it, go to hell."

(Shall I send him a link to my blog? Stop it, Tom. Don't be naughty :)

The First Line of your story

They say first impressions count. How you enter the room. How you shake hands. Whether you look the other person straight in the eye.

The first line of a story matters too. I have never written a story, but I imagine that authors take extra special care to make sure that very first line (okay, perhaps we'll allow them a couple of lines and call it the first phrase) says exactly what they want it to say.

I've had a look at the first lines of three of my favourite novels. In doing this, I discovered something interesting (to me). I don't have many novels. I have lots of technical books, business books, science books, history books but very few novels. Strange. I hadn't realised that before.

But I do have three books. And they have great opening lines. Here are mine. What are yours?

Smiley's People by John Le Carre

My favourite spy book. I love the slightly bemused way George Smiley wanders through the murky shadow world of cold war spying. This is the first line of Smiley's People:

"Two seemingly unconnected events heralded the summons of Mr.George Smiley from his dubious retirement"

I love this line. It introduces Smiley, but with appropriate formality as Mr. George Smiley. That tells us a lot straight way. This isn't someone you casually refer to as "George". It's Mr. Smiley to you if you don't mind.

And why did Mr Smiley need to be summoned from his retirement? Why was his retirement dubious? What are these two events? Seemingly unconnected, but how are they actually connected?

This is a slow, intricate wander through a complex world of questions through the eyes of Mr. Smiley. The first line captures the whole flavour of the story in that one opening line.

The Famished Road by Ben Okri

One of my all time favourite books. Some people don't warm to this book but I like it a lot. I think on the few occasions that I do read a novel, I like to drift away into a magical mystery world and you know from the first line that you are in for an interesting journey:

"In the beginning there was a river. The river became a road and the road branched out to the whole world"

There is a biblical power to this opening statement. "In the beginning was the Word" is the first verse of the Gospel according to John. Here we have a river, which becomes a road. It feels alive. It is in control of it's own destiny and it has a purpose, almost a sinister purpose, branching out unbidden to the whole world. Or perhaps it has a message. Either way, it invites us to go on the journey and see what we find along this road that used to be a river.

Notice that we are not immediately introduced to any characters. Rather it emphasises that the road that used to be a river is the central character in this book. If you haven't read this book, I can assure you that within a paragraph of reading this opening, you will either put this book down and check what's on TV instead or you will be up all night, drifting as the magical road that used to be a river sweeps you along.

The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien

I lift the huge tome that is The Lord of the Rings down from my bookshelves with great reverence. This three volume book helped me at some difficult times. I hid inside it and let the high wall of Gondor protect me. Mine is the Harper Collins edition, beautifully illustrated by Alan Lee. I hardly need to open it to quote the first line but here it is:

"When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton"

Ah, so much, so much to enjoy in this line.This is an invitation to you, the reader, to attending this party of special magnificence. I dream of throwing a party of special magnificence and perhaps one day I will. When I am eleventy-one may be. I urge you to accept the invitation and come to this book's party. You won't regret it.

It does make you wonder. If you think of your life as a story (Tua Fabula) what would your opening line be?

My New Philosophy: The Juicy Mango of Life

Have you ever eaten a juicy mango? I mean a juicy mango straight from the tree. Well, if you have then my new philosophy: The Juicy Mango of Life will make perfect sense to you. If not, let me explain.

When I was young, we went to live in Kampala, Uganda for a few years. That is where I first discovered mango trees. We had some in our garden. We would circle those trees with sticks like hunters as the mangoes grew, painfully slowly. First they were green and hard. But gradually they ripened into juicy mangoes with green, red and yellow skins.

And then they fell.

Or rather they floated down whispering sweet nothings to your taste-buds. "I am the juicy mango of life. I am yours. Take me". And we did.

Eating a juicy mango is a full contact sport. You can't sit on the sidelines. You plunge your face into the juiciest part of the juicy mango. Juice dribbles down your chin. Bits of mango get stuck in your teeth. For a few moments, Man and Mango become One. The rest of the world ceases to exist as you focus your undivided attention on the juicy mango. You might hear the distant sound of your father's voice shouting "Thomas, Thomas, come and clean your room, boy" but The Mango owns you!

And so to my New Philosophy: The Juicy Mango of Life.

We work. We strive. We stress and strain. We hustle and bustle. We win. We lose. But when do we LIVE?

With the Juicy Mango of Life you seek out short, sharp moments of complete delight and you allow them to embrace you completely. You grab your juicy mangoes with both hands, plunge your face in, let the juice run down your chin, let the bits get stuck in your teeth and let The Mango own you for a few brief moments. Why? Because "juicy mango dude", that's all.

Now like all good mass movements destined to sweep the world, Juicy Mango has some strict rules passed down by Ancient Prophets of Old (by which I mean I just made them up). We call these rules MINE.

M stands for ME. Me, me, me. Juicy Mango is a purely selfish philosophy. Who ever heard of someone sharing a juicy mango? Never, never. Your brother or sister might stand there looking longingly while you gorge on your mango but you must never share. Remember: You work hard. You Deserve The Mango. That's not to say that your best friend can't sit down with you while you both gorge on your own juicy mangoes together, grinning at each other out of sheer enjoyment. That's allowed.

I stands for Interval. Leave time between your juicy mangoes. If you have a juicy mango every day you will get sick. Sick of mangoes. Sick of life. Just sick. But if you leave an interval between mangoes, you will start to look forward excitedly to the next mango and the mango after that, and so on. The daily grind merely becomes the bridge between mangoes. I suggest granting yourself a Juicy Mango every two months. You should certainly never be more than three months away from your next Juicy Mango.

N stands for Naughty. Juicy Mangoes are intrinsically naughty. Not very naughty. Not Capital N Naughty. Just naughty enough. Eating a juicy mango when, really you should be doing your homework makes it that tiny bit sweeter. Your eyes should be darting around (metaphorically) in case you are spotted enjoying your mango too much. You should grin sheepishly if caught, like waiting for your partner to go to bed, saying you'll be up in a minute, then breaking out the treacle pudding and custard only to see the door swing open as they come back downstairs to get something.

E stands for Exceptional. There are lots of green mangoes. But a Juicy Mango is special. It stands out. It's not business as usual. It's something different. It's three days at a Spa in Marrakesh. It's an afternoon off work wandering around your favourite bookshop. It's a back and shoulder massage slipped into the diary between important business meetings. It's reading a book that no-one finds funny but makes you literally cry with laughter. Short, sharp moments of delight. Three hours to three days of real joy and pleasure.

So, as you strive and struggle through the harsh realities of life, look out for the Juicy Mangoes. Seek them out and when one falls into your hands, or you knock one off your neighbour's tree with a stick, grasp it with both hands, chant "it's Mine Mine Mine" and plunge yourself into it with such abandon that for a few brief moments you and your juicy mango become one and the world and it's challenges fade into the background

The other day, me and one of my best friends were lounging in the sun on deckchairs by a pool, reading books and doing nothing. We looked at each other. "Juicy Mango, dude" he said. "Juicy Mango" I replied. Then we laughed and went back to our books and nothing.

Rule 1 of the Gym Changing Room: Dangle

January is the time of year when many of you will have joined a gym for the first time, determined to get in shape in time for strolling along the beach front this summer.

I know this because exactly one year ago I joined a gym and started to work out. I have learnt from personal experience that it is possible to transform how you look within a year. I'm delighted to say that I look like a new man, as you can see from the photo. Yes, in case you are wondering, that is definitely all me. Oh yes it is!

The other thing I have learnt is how to behave in men's gym changing rooms. There are things you do and things you don't do. I offer this helpful advice to all you newcomers to the world of gyms.

The first thing to understand is that the people you share the changing room with are not your friends. They are your rivals. You are in a competition as soon as you step into the changing room. You must never forget this.

There are two distinct phases to be aware of. I think of them as pre-workout and apres-workout.

When you arrive pre-workout the focus is on life outside the gym. It is important to establish how busy you are. So make sure you arrive in a suit and tie and march in confidently. Even if you don't work in a suit and tie, keep one in your car. Change into your suit and tie in your car in the carpark, march into the changing room and then change out of them again. This will establish you as a dominant male right from the word go.

You can enhance this by striding in whilst on the phone. Obviously there doesn't need to be anyone at the other end of your call. As you bash the door open, bark into your phone something like "...and I want it done YESTERDAY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" Then switch you phone off, sigh and smile whilst shaking your head sadly. Try to catch someone's eye and say "difficult to get good staff these days". Thus you have announced yourself to the changing room and everyone knows - a MAN has arrived.

Change slowly. MAN is not in a hury. MAN does not have to rush home to put children to bed. Besides it is important that you stretch and flex as you change. People need to know that you are pushing yourself to the limit. So look for the opportunity to say something like "damn, I shouldn't have run that 10k this morning". This will intimidate other lesser men around you who have not been out for a long run before coming to the gym. Well done!

Make sure you have an injury. Ideally this should be a leg or ankle injury. But it can be a wrist problem as well. Basically it should be an injury that you tape up. Do this carefully and deliberately so that everyone in the changing room can see your technique (you can practice this at home). The message you are sending is "Guys, I don't just exercise in the gym, I am out there doing a MAN'S sport where you get injured".

Then put in your headphones and turn your music on. But not in that order. Turn the music on first. Make sure it is hard driving music with a thumping baseline. It only needs to be on for a few seconds but they will get the message - you train HARD and by the sound of things you CLUB hard too. YOU ARE A PLAYER! (Once your headphones are in feel free to change the music back to a nice classical piece or perhaps a smooth Burt Bacharach number).

After all that you are ready to go and jump about a bit in the gym. Apparently that's important. But what's even more important is the apres-workout.

Makes sure you slam your way through that changing room door as if you are going to take it off its hinges. Because you are PUMPED after that fierce workout (even if like me you've only done 15 minutes walking on the treadmill whilst watching TV). If heads don't jerk up sharply as you barge in your are not putting the right level of effort into your entry. Practice at home but not when your wife is home or you will get in trouble.

Then peel your t-shirt off. You t-shirt must be at least one size smaller than your actual size so that it is difficult to peel off. This gives the impression that your muscles have expanded and are threatening to rip your t-shirt apart like the hulk. (Note: if you have a fat sticking out belly, don't do the tight t-shirt thing. Wear a loose t-shirt. I have a few of them that I can lend to you if required).

At this point you need to bring out your protein shake. Now I will be totally honest with you here. I don't know what a protein shake is. Or why you need to drink them all the time. But MEN do this. So you must do it too. However I have discovered that if you hold a water bottle and shake it and it makes some sort of clanking noise then everyone assumes its a protein shake. So simply fill your bottle with water, drop a (clean) stone into it and shake hard. Or you can try another drink such as  hot chocolate with marshmellow and perhaps some extra cream on top. But make sure you walk around the changing room shaking your container so that everyone thinks that you are drinking a protein shake.

Finally, go and have a shower. Now this is where you need to make a hard decision. You can't fake this and everyone knows that this is the big test. You come out of the shower. Where do yo dry yourself? This depends purely on your, ahem..errr.."equipment".

If you are "modest" then I advise you to dry in the shower cubicle. Lower your profile. Come out from the shower, get dressed and shuffle off to your car without too much fanfare.

But if you are "substantial" then (and I have see this with my own eyes) stride out of the shower stark naked and dripping wet. Take your time. When you reach your locker, place one leg proudly up on the bench in front of you and DANGLE. Yes, my friend, DANGLE  and let your rivals know that they are in the presence of A MAN!

Coat of Arms: Tell Your Story

On 17th January, 2015 we were granted a Coat of Arms by the College of Arms in the City of London.

Creating a coat of arms has been a fascinating and thought provoking process, in our case under the skilled guidance of the Windsor Herald, a post that has existed since 1364 and is currently occupied by William Hunt.

Historically, coats of arms were used by medieval knights to identify the wearer in battle and tournaments, so that you didn't bash someone on your own side over the head! Today I look at a coat of arms as a way of telling your story. Hundreds of years in the future one of your descendants might wonder who you were and what you and your family stood for. The challenge that I and my brother, Roland, faced was to come up with a heraldic design that tells our family's story and that is what I feel we have achieved.

I will explain the various elements to you, but first and most significant is the fact that it was granted today, the 17th January. Today is our elder brother, Jim Stanfield's birthday. If you know me at all you know that our big brother died way too early in 2012 after a short illness. But he is still our guide and inspiration and we wanted to anchor this coat of arms to his birthday so that forever more if anyone wonders what the roots of it are, it will lead straight back to the great man himself.

At the heart of our Arms is a Griffin. A griffin has the head of an eagle and the body of a lion. My brother and I and also our father are leos, born in July/August hence the lion. Our father was Nigerian and even though the eagle is not the official national bird of Nigeria, it is closely connected with the country - even the football team are the Super Eagles. So a griffin captures us well.

In our case we have a Sinister Griffin i.e. it faces left instead of right. It is very unusual for the central beast on a coat of arms to be sinister, because if it was on a shield and you were riding into battle your fearsome beast would be facing the wrong way and look like it was trying to escape! However, we don't actually plan to carry shields into battle (perhaps the occasional meeting...). We chose a sinister griffin because both my brother and I are left-handed.

Above the helm is a stag. The stag represents Richmond upon Thames. Richmond is know for stags and deer in Richmond Park. We are a Richmond family. Our great grandparents moved here over a hundred years ago. Our grandparents grew up here. Our mother grew up here. We grew up here. Our children are growing up here. Five generations in the same borough and no plans to move! We love the borough and wherever any of us travel in the world we always find our way back here.

The stag is holding a lightening bolt and has its hoof on a ball. The lightening bolt represents me and my career in technology and my fascination with science. The ball is a cricket ball and represents Roland's lifelong passion for cricket.

On one side of the griffin is a oak branch with acorns. Acorns are used to signify learning. Education is a theme that runs through our family, starting with our mother who was a teacher for over 30 years in the UK, Uganda and Nigeria. Literally hundreds of students have sat in her classrooms and she taught in a teacher training institute for many years so her impact is being felt by generations of students.

There are five leaves on the branch. They represent the five brothers and sisters, Liz, Jay (Jim), Sue, Tom (me) and Rol. We are a tight unit and always will be, even though Jay is no longer with us.

On the other side of the griffin is a branch from the Okha tree. My father was born in a tiny village deep in the countryside in Nigeria called Uokha. This means "near the Okha tree" so this branch represents him and his roots. Actually I wasn't sure what an Okha tree looked like so I contacted Kew Gardens and asked them. The librarians at Kew did an excellent job in researching the question and sent me diagrams and explanations which I forwarded to the College of Arms to produce the design.

We have chosen the colours carefully too. Red and white is for England. Green and white is for Nigeria. Black, gold and green is for Jamaica because co-incidentally both Roland and I married British women with Jamaican origins, so Jamaica has become very much part of our family.

We wrestled for months, literally, with the motto before settling on Tua Fabula which is Latin for Your Story.

It is really hard to sum up ones philosophy of life in three or four words. try it! I ended up going back to a parable that I occasionally bore my children with (just to watch them roll their eyes!). It says "until lions have their own storytellers, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter".

If you don't tell your story, someone else will and they will tell it from their perspective. But Tua Fabula goes deeper than that. We want to encourage our family to live lives full of stories worth telling. Don't be boring. Never do what you are "supposed" to do. Go out there, explore the world and everything it has to offer. Live, love, laugh and be fabulous. Fill your lives with stories and then tell Your Story.

Tua Fabula

Thank You to the Unknown Doctors

Forty years ago my life was saved by an unknown Doctor in a village in East Africa. I would like to say Thank You.

On Saturday mornings there is a BBC Radio 4 programme called "Saturday Live". One of their segments is a piece called "Thank you" where listeners have the opportunity to say thank you to someone who did a good deed for them and they never had a chance to thank. Every Saturday, when I listen  to this, I feel I should say thank you to the young Doctor who saved my life after a car accident out in the bush.

Forty years ago my father and I went on safari. At the time we lived in Kampala, Uganda. We set out in my dad's Volkwagen Type 3 with the aim of driving from Uganda, through Kenya and ending up in Tanzania. Just the two of us, driving for thousands of miles. Father and son ROAD TRIIIIPPPPP !

We had some fascinating experiences on that trip. We were almost crushed by a bull elephant in the night as rain crashed down around us. We sat with pygmies and chatted about life. We met our first ever real life Black America who sat as bold as brass on the veranda of an ostensibly whites-only Nairobi hotel and invited us to join him for a drink.

But one day as we drove along a bumpy, dusty road towards the the Kenya/Tanzania border tragedy (nearly) happened. In the blink of an eye, we hit a bump at high speed and the car flipped over. Amongst the dust and the wreckage I remember hearing my Dad's voice saying "are you okay, boy?". I pushed him and we struggled out of the car.

Amazingly, he was fine. Not a scratch. I. on the other hand had blood streaming down the left side of my head. I had not been wearing a seatbelt and my head had smashed the side window. My whole left side was covered in blood and I fell to the ground as my Dad looked on in horror.

We were miles and miles out in the savannah. Not a car, person, building in site. No mobile phones in those days. Nothing but a wrecked car in its roof, a terrified father and a young boy in a very bad way.

Two things happened.

Firstly a Maasi man with a stick and a spear appeared in the distance. My Dad called him and he walked towards us. This was risky. Was he friend or foe? But there was really no option. The man came. We didn't speak his language and he didn't speak English. My dad cried, shouted, gesticulated towards me and the car. The man looked silently for a while, then without saying anything he turned and walked away leaving us alone. He didn't help us. But nor did he kill and rob us.

Some time later a coach came down the road. My Dad jumped into the road, waving like a mad man. The coach stopped. It was filled with local folk, baggage, chickens, even some goats!

In what he freely admits was one of the oddest decisions he ever made, my father simply lifted me up, walked over to the coach, placed me on the floor of the coach, stepped off and begged the driver "Please take him, please take him".

He told me much later that as the coach drove away, leaving him standing alone in the bush with the smashed car as evening drew in, with his bleeding, dying son being driven away in the company of strangers to God knows where he thought "what on earth did I just do?"

But those strangers took me to a village. In that village there was a Kenyan medical student who had been sent to serve in the village for a few months as part of his training. He was the only medically trained person for hundreds of miles on any direction.

I have flashes of memory of this episode. There was no anaesthetic. No pain killers. I remember five or six strong men holding me as I screamed. I remember the first stitch going into the side of my head. Then nothing else.

Much, much later I heard my father's side of the story. After he hitched a ride along the road, he had started dashing from village to village searching for me. Asking questions. "Was a boy brought here?"

Eventually he arrived at the village. They took him to a hut. It was literally a hut. It was late evening The whole family was sitting outside the front of the hut. Inside, they had made up a bed for me and left their home for me to lie in, waiting until someone came for me. That is where he found me.

We rested there for a time. I don't know whether it was a day or two days. But finally we left and as we left, that young Doctor came to see me. He showed me the large, curved, wooden needle that he had used to sew up my head. He said he put in eight stitches and forty years later I still have a long, ugly scar along the left side of my head.

That Doctor was a young man. Early twenties I think. I hope he had a wonderful career as a Doctor in Kenya. I never knew his name but I want to say "THANK YOU" to the unknown Doctor for being there in that village when he might have avoided such duties and stayed in the City. For saving my life without a thought when a group of strangers dumped a bleeding boy on his doorstep. And, when my father thanked him tearfully and tried to give him some money as a gift for what he had done, for laughing and saying "ah ha, Sir, I am a Doctor. This is what I do".

With Ebola striking countries in West Africa and young Doctors volunteering to risk their lives to save lives, I want to say THANK YOU to all of you on behalf of the people who you have saved and tried to save who may never know your name.

To The Unknown Doctors. Thank You. It's what you do.

The Restroom Rules of Being A Man

The other day I stood at a urinal in Westfield Shopping Centre. A chap came in and stood next to me DESPITE THE FACT THAT THERE WERE AT LEAST SEVEN OTHER FREE URINALS.

Yes, people, he broke one of the basic rules of BEING A MAN.

It is pretty obvious to me why he made this fundamental error. He was brought up without a MAN in his life. I know this because the rules of the public toilet are completely different when it comes to men and women. For a start, women are not even aware that there are rules, whereas every man knows there are rules that must not be broken under any circumstances (except, obviously, for this poor chap).

Let me highlight the key differences. I was at a Christmas Party in December and at one point three of the four women got up and marched off to the toilet together. What's that about? When they returned, a colleague and I interrogated them to try and gain a rudimentary grasp of their rules. It turns out there are none!

For a start women chat to each other in the restroom. They actually talk out loud!! One even told me that she goes into the cubicle with a friend and they keep chatting whilst they swap position. Have you ever heard anything like it!!!!

So, I assume the friendly fellow at Westfield must have been briefed by his mother on these issues. As a MAN, I will share some of the basic rules and I invite all women to share these with their sons so as to avoid future embarrassment of this nature.

Firstly - there must be no speaking in the restroom. The Men's Room is like a Religious Order that has sworn a vow of silence. No one speaks. Even if you are walking towards the door with a friend, discussing football, women, beer or other things of great male importance, you must fall silent as soon as you pass through the portal.

Secondly - there must be no looking sideways. When standing at a urinal, you must look straight ahead, with a level of intensity that implies you can actually see through the wall in front of you. Resist the temptation to allow your eyes to flicker to the left or right. If necessary, pluck out your own eyeball but never, ever glance to the side and down however strong the desire to compare. (Frankly, if you feel the need to compare, you are liable to lose anyway).

Thirdly - when complete, you must perform the completion rituals. You have two options. You can "shake". Or you can "tug". The choice is yours so I will give no further advice on this matter, except to say that you must restrict yourself to a maximum of five consecutive "actions". Anything over and above that total is likely to result in your instant arrest by the authorities.

Fourthly (and this step depends on your location) - you may spit. If you are attending a football game, you "flob". This is a particular type of spit, involving phlegm being fired out at about 100 miles an hour. MEN can do this. It is a skill that we learn from a young age. But do not do this if you are at a five star hotel such as The Savoy.

Finally, we come to possibly the most important area. Where do you stand?

This is complicated because there are not firm rules here. But it is understood intuitively by MEN.

Let us assume that there are five urinals - A, B, C, D, E. You enter the loo.

Scenario 1 - someone is standing at position C. This is relatively easy. You can choose A or E. Both are fine. (It gets a bit more complicated if you take into account the position of the door, but we will keep it simple for now)

Scenario 2 - someone is standing at position A. You may think E is the best option. I would not advise this. If you go all the way over to E you are basically saying "I am not confident in the size of my manhood, so I will hid as far away as I can". You obviously cannot go to B. So you consider C or D. This is tricky. Each has its merits. The advantage of C is that the next person can go to E and still leave a space between you all. However, C is an aggressive play. It is surprisingly close to A. So, my judgement is that you go D and live with the risk of The Next Man.

Scenario 3 - there are two people "in action" when you arrive. One at position A, one at position D. This needs careful and rapid thought. Let me explain what would go through my head if I encountered this tricky scenario.

If I go B and then D departs, that leaves me and my fellow occupant standing next to each other in the corner. Not good. Even if A departs, and me and the chap in position D are left, that forces The Next Man to stand next to one of us. So B is not a good option. Do not be tempted.

If I go E, and A departs then that leaves me and D squeezed up at one end. Again, not great. But if D departs then there is a lot of distance between me and A and The Next Man can go to C. So, you see, that E is a better option that B.

Personally I would go C. I know, I know, some men reading this will see this as a radical move. But stay with me. If D departs, we are fine because The Next Man can play E. If A leaves then me and D are standing next to each other, but we are next to each other, confidently in the middle rather than huddled up in a corner. So, yes, I grant that it's a bold move but I think that C is the optimal play.

All these considerations must be made in a split second. You cannot go into the restroom and get out a calculator to work out the options. You must stride in, take in the whole situation, weight up the options, consider what The Next Man will do and make your choice. Split second timing is vital. Eyes front. Three shakes. Confident spit. No messing about.

If you can master these rules, then you are a MAN, my son. A True Man.

The First World War Ended My Acting Career

2014 is the 100th anniversary of the First World War. Contrary to popular opinion I did not fight in that war. I'm not that old.

However, I do have a connection with the First World War that goes back forty years (so perhaps I am pretty old after all). The First World War ended my acting career.

In 1974, on the 60th anniversary of The Great War, my school, Teddington decided to put on the musical production "Oh What A Lovely War", a hard hitting satire on World War One ( and the vulgarity of war in general).

It was the first and in fact the only play that I have appeared in. It could have been the start of a great acting career. Other great actors started their careers at Teddington. Whenever I see Kiera Knightley on screen I delight in saying "I went to school with her". (My annoying children then feel obliged to point out that she was not actually born at the time I was at that school, but these are minor details that should not get in the way of the fact that both Kiera and I went to Teddington and performed on the stage there).

I was a tender, impressionable, young first year pupil (okay, I admit it. I wasn't very tender). I was excited to be chosen to be in the play and even more excited that I was given the part of Young Johnny Jones. I loved the play and forty years later I can still sing along to most of the songs, which have delightfully re-surfaced on youtube!

Young Johnny Jones was an important part. I like to think of it as the lead part in the play (others, including the original writers, might well disagree but, hey, what do they know?). The song "Row, Row, Row" is the first song of the play and Young Johnny Jones (that's me) is the first person to appear on the stage and dance around with an umbrella. A big responsibility for an 11 year old, first year student I think you'll agree. But, fear not. I was up to the task. No pre-opening night nerves for me. I was ready to wow the crowds.

As we prepared for opening night, I took my turn on the chair in make-up. Now before you read on, bear in mind that this was 1974. Things were a bit different in 1974.

The make-up ladies were doing a tremendous job. They wanted to make sure we all looked our best under the stage lights. Fake blood for the lads who were going to die in the battle scenes. Lipstick for the lads who had to play the part of girls (we were an all boys school then. Before Kiera's time).

When it came to me, the make up ladies had a bright idea. They thought it would get the play of to a tremendous start and have the audience laughing in the aisles if Young Johnny Jones (aka me) was "Blacked Up" like a minstrel. Bear in mind that this was 1974. The Black and White Minstrel Show was still on TV in 1974 and it was very popular. So, why wouldn't you black up the 11 year old Young Johnny Jones on the opening night of Oh What A Lovely War and stick him on stage in front of the whole school and everyone's parents, including his own mother, whilst they screamed with laughter? I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time. The time was 1974.

So, I did as I was told and sat quietly whilst I was duly blacked up. Then, with satisfied giggles, they sent me out of the room to wait with the other actors. As I stepped out of the room with my shiny blacked up face, the whole cast fell about laughing! It was the funniest thing they had seen in ages.

Sad to report, I couldn't quite join in the hilarity. Sorry about that, chaps. Perhaps I was just too young and tender to embrace it. Instead I'm afraid to admit it but I burst into tears and ran away to hide. The play's director, our drama teacher, a really nice chap,  arrived on the scene and asked where Young Johnny Jones was as it was nearly time to open the show. Someone told him that Silly Johnny Jones was sobbing in a classroom somewhere and wouldn't come out.

When he saw what they had done, the Director hit the roof. He had them wipe the nonsense off immediately and shouted at the lads who were still throwing sambo jokes in my direction (bear in mind this was 1974. The odd sambo joke was par for the course in the good old days).

There wasn't time to put new make up on me before the show started, so I was launched onto the stage as Young Johnny Jones for the jolly, opening number "Row, Row, Row" with only dried tears for make up. I performed for the masses. The masses loved it.

My mum mentioned that I looked a bit pale on the stage. Yes, I explained, I didn't have any make up on.

Oh, What a Lovely War. I love that play. I really do. I can sing almost all the tunes. The last song still brings a tear to my eye "And when they ask us, how dangerous it was, oh we'll never tell them, no we'll never tell them". Bear in mind this was 1974. Things were different then.

I haven't been in any plays since.

A 10% increase in the THI (Tom Happiness Index) in 2013

After a turbulent year, the THI (Tom Happiness Index) ended a full 10% higher at the end of 2013. Buyers of "Tom Happiness" will have made a tidy profit, even though the index got off to a shaky start.

Analysts are optimistic that 2014 could yield similarly positive results, possibly even delivering a bumper happiness year, providing the fundamentals stay on track and there are no major JRS (Joy-Related Shocks).

The THI opened 2013 at a level of 111,111 but plummeted in late January when the death of Tom's Dad was announced, falling 23% and ending the month at 85,556. Things didn't look good and several faint-hearted investors sold Tom at that point, driving the index even lower, at one point dipping below 80,000!

The index bounced back powerfully following the funeral when the pall-bearers danced down the high street with my Dad's coffin hoisted aloft. THI closed at 92,153 at the end of February.

Tom Happiness Index drifted sideways in March, but leapt again in April to over 100,000 as Tom celebrated his 20th wedding anniversary with a wonderful weekend break in Monaco followed by a lovely family lunch at Kettners for his mother's birthday in May. (Professional investors in happiness should note that a luxury weekend in Monaco can add over 10,000 Happiness Index points).

Over the next couple of months, the THI drifted down as we approached the first anniversary of the death of Tom's Big Brother, Jim. But by skillful happiness day-trading, taking a smile here, a giggle there, we were able to stop the decline from going too far. Tom's strategy of planning his huge, Cuban themed 50th Birthday Party for July surrounded by friends and family to counter the downward pressure of the first anniversary worked well. But it took the additional excitement of making the huge decision to book a seat on board Virgin Galactic to fly into space to drive the THI upward, in the face of the emotional storm, closing July a shade under 100,000 at 98,529.

August was a bumper month for the Tom Happiness Index. The African Gifted Foundation Academy took place in Accra, Ghana with nearly 100 students from ten different countries and Tom rode the wave of excitement and potential to add an amazing 15,037 happiness points, lifting him into positive territory for the first time in 2013 with an index of 113,568!

September was a solid month for the Tom Happiness Index. The index continued to climb as big plans continued to come together nicely. The decision to build a brand new school for gifted young people in Africa and kick off that project boosted the Index nicely. That coupled with donations continuing to roll in to the Jim Stanfield Memorial Fund that will support a disadvantaged student at Jim's old college in Oxford pushed more happiness Tom's way. The Index closed higher again at 116,751 at the end of September.

October and November drove the THI index over the 120,000 mark for the first time. The opportunity to speak at a major conference in Nigeria on African Gifted education and the receipt of some large donations towards the permanent African Academy all contributed to the inflow of happiness.

Finally, a big family wedding in December kicked the THI nearly 2,000 points higher and thus the Tom Happiness Index ends December at 123,417 - a 12,306 point increase on the opening position and an 11% growth in overall happiness.

Not a bad return on investment.

I hope you had a Net Happy 2013 and look forward to a continued upward trend to your index in 2014

Five of the best

I have been asked to give a talk at work next week about blogging.

I am a rather sporadic blogger (I aim for one or two posts a month and I don't usually achieve that!). I don't write about business stuff so I'm not sure I'm the right person to give this talk but I'll give it a go.

Reflecting on what I should say, I've taken a look back at my 181 posts since I started blogging in 2008. What do people read most? What are the top five most popular posts, by number of views? I've taken a look and it's a rather odd collection.

Here they are, starting with the most popular...

1) Are jeans smart casual? (posted 27 July, 2011)

2) Mid-life crisis (May 2011)

3) Kim Jong-il, Beyonce and me (May 2009)

4) Teenagers in Top Hats (April 2013)

5) In favour of a Big Brother Society (July 2012)

Now, why would people find this set the most popular?  Only one of these gets into my own Top Five. I think I would go with these

1) In favour of a Big Brother Society (July 2012)

2) Physics: The One True Science (September 2008)

3) Welcome to my World (May 2008)

4) The Big Quiz: I Have a Dream (April 2008)

5) I'm Good at Failing (June 2011)

And the lesson I can draw from this when I give my talk on blogging at work next week? Simple - always remember to add the words "THIS IS A REALLY GOOD ONE. PLEASE READ IT. PRETTY PLEASE" after your best posts, otherwise those pesky readers will just go ahead and read whatever they like.

A bright flash of light seen in 500 years time

I was at a dinner this week.

It was in memory of my brother, Jim, and brought together a few of his old friends. One of the things we are doing is creating a memorial fund in his name at his Oxford College, St Anne's. We are creating a fund "in perpetuity". Every year the Jim Stanfield Memorial Fund bursary will be awarded to a deserving chemistry undergraduate.

And when I say "every year" I mean "every year". It will literally continue for hundreds of years and the great thing about doing this with an Oxford College is that they will be around in 500 years time and a new undergraduate in 2513 will be beamed up to Oxford to study "The Laughable Way they used to do Chemistry in the 21st Century" and will be awarded the Jim Stanfield Memorial Fund bursary.

As a (failed) physicist I do enjoy thinking about the passage of time. I sometimes read relativity for fun and think to myself "I used to understand that stuff thirty years ago". I find it fascinating that the light we see from the stars left millions of years ago. Flashes of light echoing down the ages.

So, I was moved nearly to tears when our delightful guest speaker, Clarissa Farr, the High Mistress of St Paul's Girls School, closed her speech with a poem by Elizabeth Jennings, who coincidentally also attended St Anne's College. It is called Delay.

Delay

The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how

Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.

In 500 years time a young undergraduate at St Anne's College, Oxford will receive a letter telling them that they have been awarded the Jim Stanfield Memorial Fund bursary in honour of a wonderful man and in their own way will think "The radiance of the star that leans on me was shining years ago"

Why I am travelling into space on Virgin Galactic

Recently I took the decision to reserve a seat on Virgin Galactic's spaceship. At some point in the next few years, all being well, I am going to travel in space.

At this point, if you are like my wife you will be speechless. Literally. No words will come out of your mouth. You will walk away slowly shaking your head. If you are like my son you will say "cool, can I go instead of you?". If you are like my brother, who I tried to impress by saying I was going to tell him something completely unexpected, you will say, with a shrug "yes, that's exactly the sort of thing I'd expect you to do." If you were like the chap in the bank who asked what the reason for the large funds transfer was you will have turn red, burst out laughing, stood up and shook my hand. If you are like my daughter, you will listen carefully to my reasons and then, understanding what drives me, thoughtfully give me permission to go.

For those who don't know, Virgin Galactic is Sir Richard Branson's venture to introduce space travel to folk like you and me. The spacecraft is carried high into the atmosphere by a mothership, and then when the mothership reaches maximum height it will release the small spaceship capable of carrying six passengers. The spaceship then blasts its rockets carrying it 100 km above sea level, which is the Karman Line, the commonly accepted definition of where space begins.

Did I mention that I am scared of heights? Really.

So why on earth (pun intended) have I decided to jump aboard and experience this journey?

Gosh, that's a hard question. But I think the answer lies in the word journey.

I am on a journey. From where, to where, I don't really know. But what I do know is that I can't seem to stop. I can't relax. Whatever I have done is just not good enough. I must do more. I must prove that I am "good enough". I don't know what happens if I stop and am judged to be not good enough, but hey, why take the risk? Better keep moving.

I've done quite a lot of things I suppose over the years. Built schools. Created companies. Run charities. Travelled from Hong Kong to Hawaii, Mumbai to Mauritius, London to Lagos, Albuquerque to Afuze and all sorts of places in between. I have had champagne breakfast at dawn in the wild Maasai Mara surrounded by wildebeest and I have had lunch in the Palace of Westminster surrounded by Royalty. I have presented alongside Bill Gates to a thousand strong audience and I have sat on the floor with young orphans in Kenya chatting about life. Yes, I've done a few things.

But it's not good enough. I must keep moving. Because if I stop, then what will happen? I don't know, but I'm not going to take the risk of stopping and finding out.

So, as I turned 50 this year, and after a very challenging year when I lost my Big Brother and my father within months of each other, I started to ponder. What next? What do I work towards? What can I do that I will find exciting and truly daunting for years to come? Something that will keep me driving forwards, even when the sadness of my losses tries to drag me down. Something that will really stretch me in all sorts of directions. Something that perhaps when I've done it, I will be able to sit down in my rocking chair, in the autumn, smile to myself and say "okay, that's enough. That's good enough. You tried, Tom. You can rest."

I'm a scientist. Not a very good one. But I did study Physics to degree level and I do know what quantum entanglement is (I think!). If someone said "all the writers go over there, economists over there, artists there and scientists there" I would go and stand with the scientists. I love science. The analytical scientific process. The vast body of scientific knowledge. The totally counterintuitive findings. The fact that, as Richard Feynman, my favourite physicist (and who has a favourite physicist?) explains you can't prove anything to be abosolutely true. Whatever you think is true just hasn't been proven wrong yet! So stop being so damn certain about everything and have a bit of intellectual humility.

As a scientist, I want to inspire others to engage with the great subjects too. Everyone needs a BIG project. What's your BIG project? My BIG project is education in Africa. I am interested in science education and particularly in seeking out the brightest young minds from across the Continent and engaging them in deeply challenging discussions and debates on the nature of the world we live in, the universe around us and the laws that govern it. My African Gifted Foundation is all about that and the iconic permanent Academy that we will go on to build on the continent will be a hot bed of scientific intellectual creativity for years to come.

So, this step into space is part of my personal scientific journey of exploration and discovery. In the future I am looking forward to visiting every single country in Africa and inspiring young people with the story of my own scientific journey. From a troublesome teenage scientist who battled with his teacher and was thrown out of class any number of times for being disruptive, to touching the edge of space and seeing the earth itself from the outside.

I hope what I do helps inspire young scientists to push their boundaries too. My father grew up as a farmer's son in Afuze, a tiny village in West Africa, in a level of poverty that you can barely imagine. I am going into space. What a wonderful world we live in, that such a thing is possible in one generation.

If I can do that, imagine what you can do! What are you going to do when you grow up? And what stories will you tell?

When I grow up, I am going to travel in space and when I've done it, I'm going to tell the story.