My Brief Fascination with Yo-Yos: Setting Aside Time for Atelic Planning

'The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.’
Laurence J Peter

When I was young I had a brief fascination with yo-yos.

Loafing around the house or garden, I would focus intently on the repetitive, mesmerising motion - spooling and unspooling, winding and rewinding, over and over again. The world around me disappeared. Time stood still. Not understanding the physics, it all seemed rather magical.

Though mine was not a fancy yo-yo, I kept it as a constant companion. I learned how to make it ‘sleep’ – spinning at the end of its uncoiled string – and even endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to ‘walk the dog.’ 

Bored one summer, I decided to invent an evolution of the yo-yo: a device that had a more erratic, random movement. I imagined this would have a beguiling charm. For my prototype I tied a piece of string to a wooden cotton reel and bounced it up and down, revelling in its haphazard trajectory. 

After a while I determined that my wayward yo-yo didn’t really work, and in fact made me look rather foolish. I’d been wasting my time…

'In his youth Albert Einstein spent a year loafing aimlessly. You don’t get anywhere by not ‘wasting’ time - something, unfortunately, that the parents of teenagers tend frequently to forget.'
Carlo Rovelli

I read recently in the FT (Tim Harford, ‘Why You Shouldn’t Strive,’ 15 December, 2022) about the distinction between telic and atelic projects established by philosopher Kieran Setiya ('Midlife: A Philosophical Guide').

Telos is the ancient Greek word for end or goal. Telic activities are those that have an objective in mind: distance run, mountain climbed, contract signed, promotion attained. Atelic activities have no specific objective. They tend to be pastimes we enjoy for themselves. Reading the paper, visiting a gallery, snoozing in the afternoon, or having a beer with My-Mate-Andy come to mind. We used to call these things hobbies.

It’s possible to engage with the same enterprise in a telic or atelic way. High achievers see most activities as a competition or challenge. They create aims and ambitions, lists and leagues whatever they’re up to. On the other hand, while sport is for the most part telic in character, my football team, the South Indies, generally played in an atelic fashion.

Setiya observes that telic projects can result in disappointment and dissatisfaction: the stress of striving; the frustration of failing; the hunger for another goal once a first has been achieved. There is a risk that an obsession with objectives can rid an activity of its inherent charms. One becomes more concerned with scores and measurement; with ticking a box or crossing off a list. 

And so Setiya concludes that if we want to avoid a midlife crisis, then we should invest more heavily in atelic projects. 

‘We can escape the self-destructive cycle of pursuit, resolution and renewal, of attainments archived or unachieved. The way out is to find sufficient value in atelic activities, activities that have no point of conclusion or limit, ones whose fulfilment lies in the moment of action itself.'
Kieran Setiya, 'Midlife: A Philosophical Guide'

Of course, you can argue this both ways. If you spend your youth only engaging in atelic projects, you’ll probably not achieve very much at all. Another route to a mid-life crisis. 

Inevitably I suspect the answer resides somewhere in the middle: the path to contentment lies in striking a balance between telic and atelic undertakings: sometimes striving for attainment, pushing ourselves to perform; and sometimes merely passing the time, enjoying the distractions that the day affords us.

'Time isn't the main thing. It's the only thing.’
Miles Davis

I found myself wondering about telic and atelic projects in the world of work. 

Work is necessarily a field of timesheets and targets, ambitions and accountability. Shouldn’t all professional activities be telic?

Actually I think it’s important that a Planner occasionally steps back from specific Client responsibilities and tasks - to take a look at social and industry change; to review competitive output; to learn of the latest technological innovations; to consider different ways of working. Such activities may not be particularly telic. But they serve to recharge our strategic batteries; to broaden our professional outlook; to refresh our enthusiasm and revive our appetite.

We all need to set aside time for Atelic Planning.

'If I had six hours to chop down a tree, I would spend the first four hours sharpening the axe.'
Abraham Lincoln

On reflection, I’m not sure there’s much risk of my suffering Setiya’s midlife crisis. If anything I need to embrace more telic activity in order to generate a little more momentum in my week. Perhaps I should put away that yo-yo and invest in a Strava…

'Take it easy, take it easy.
Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.
Lighten up while you still can.
Don't even try to understand.
Just find a place to make your stand and take it easy.’
Jackson Browne, ‘Take It Easy’ (J Browne, G Frey)

No. 407

‘You’ve Got to Back It Up’: An Encounter with the Tasmanian Devil

Late one winter’s night in the mid-1980s, I was making my way home from Hornchurch Station with Thommo and My-Mate-Andy. Inevitably we were chatting about Lloyd Cole and Laughing Brew, fu shoes and The Face. Thommo and I were wearing the heavy tweed overcoats that marked us out as students. My-Mate-Andy was sporting his sheepskin-lined, Forza 12 bleached denim jacket, collar-up. We were high-spirited and a little the worse for wear.

As we progressed down the High Street, a young lad and his girlfriend passed us going in the opposite direction.

Something about us clearly irritated the bloke. We may have given him the impression that our good humour was directed at them. We may have brushed into them, or not created enough space for them to pass. We may have just looked a bit too studenty for that time and place.

In any case, he was not very happy, and in a thrice he became a mad whirring tornado of punches, pokes and prods; ducking in and out of us, throwing fast and furious fists; jabbing and clouting, slapping and bashing. He had turned into the Tasmanian Devil.

Now I’m somewhat ashamed to tell you this. My-Mate-Andy and I quickly recognised that we had met a superior force. There may only have been one of him, and he wasn’t the tallest lad. But we knew we couldn’t compete with the Tasmanian Devil.

And so, setting aside our masculine pride and the deep bonds of friendship, we scarpered in different directions, past bins and down alleyways, off into the cold, dark night.

Thommo meanwhile stood his ground. He took one blow after another. A lightning-fast jab to the left; a lusty upper-cut to the right. Biff! Bang! Pow! Soon his eye was bruised, his nose was bleeding, and his beloved student coat was ripped from end to end.

Eventually the young lad’s girlfriend pleaded for clemency. The Tasmanian Devil stood over the now prone Thommo, paused, took a breath and said:

‘Look. You and your mates have got to learn a lesson. You’ve got to learn one thing: you’ve got to back it up.’

Whilst we never quite established what we had done to upset the Tasmanian Devil, and what precisely we were supposed to be backing up, these words struck me as rather profound. And they haunted me for a good while after that shameful night had passed.

A few years later I entered the world of advertising. I discovered it was a land of hunch and hypothesis, supposition and speculation. And I was myself somewhat inclined to make sweeping generalisations about cultural change; confident conjectures about strategic and brand truths. And yet every time I made such an assertion, I heard a sinister voice, whispering quietly into my ear: ‘You’ve got to back it up.’

And so I would reluctantly reach for the research surveys and category reports. I’d consider commissioning a poll, staging a demonstration. I’d go in search of illustration and evidence. I’d do my damnedest to verify my claims.

Now I’m not saying I ever really became the most rigorous of strategists. But it is true that there’s too much hollow theorising and empty guesswork in our world. And, despite the ubiquity of data, things seem to be getting worse.

If you really want to succeed in this profession, you’ve got to fall in love with proof and validation. You’ve got to befriend supporting evidence and corroborating facts. The Tasmanian Devil was right: you’ve got to back it up.

I recently came across my old tweed overcoat packed away in a box. I tried it on and, remarkably, it still fits. It’s not in too bad a nick, and, with a new button and lining, it could even merit a few outings. I’m not so sure Thommo will be impressed.

No. 173

Random Usually Has Its Reasons: The Mystery of the Three Routes Home

Winslow Homer, Boys in a Pasture

I was delighted to have My-Mate-Andy as a friend.

At first glance you wouldn’t imagine we had a lot in common.

My-Mate-Andy was the coolest kid in school. He had a golden tan, artfully ripped jeans, and was a connoisseur of the immaculate white t-shirt. He experimented with Sun-In in his hair and only wore Fu Shoes on his feet. He’d painted a Coca-Cola can in art class and decorated his parka with a replica of The Beat logo. He had a way with words, a lust for life, an enthusiasm for Marks & Spencer prawn cocktail crisps and George Benson records.

I was a swotty kid who helped people with their Latin homework in order to earn affection. I was always carrying books and kit in random Sainsbury’s bags. I was generally awkward, introverted, poorly shod. And my hair was a mess.

One thing we certainly had in common was our walk home from school. Every afternoon we traipsed along the Southend Arterial, past the tatty allotments and through the suburban semis of Cecil Avenue. We’d chat about music, football, politics and telly; about Evelyn ‘Champagne’ King, Boys from the Black Stuff, cold turkey, chips and beans. My-Mate-Andy would recite Jam lyrics and break into impromptu dance moves. He’d run through his impersonations of Ferg, Perc and Tony Papp. He’d tell me about the parties he’d attended, the girls he fancied and more besides. (I wasn’t very advanced in that department.)

My-Mate-Andy lived closer to the school, and so I would be left to walk the latter part of the journey home on my own. He had three slightly different, equidistant routes available to him, and each one required him to say farewell at a different point. With time I became quite fascinated by his choice of these three routes. He seemed to select a different option from one day to the next. But I couldn’t work out why.

Was his preference driven by meteorological conditions, his homework obligations, or what was on the telly? Was it related to road traffic, star signs, or what Jean had planned for dinner that night?

None of my hypotheses quite worked. There didn’t seem to be a particular pattern or logic. My-Mate-Andy’s route home was just completely random.

And then one day I cracked it. I realised that his decision on when to split was determined by the quality of our conversation. If words were flowing freely, and laughs were coming spontaneously, then he’d hang on ‘til the last possible exit. But if I was serving up rather dull discussion, mediocre fare, he’d take the first chance to break free.

This put the pressure on. I wondered: Could I make him select the farthest point of departure more often? Could I sustain his interest with the force of my witty repartee? Each afternoon I embarked on the walk home with a selection of perfectly polished conversational gambits to hand, in hope and expectation. But the harder I tried, the more likely he was to leave early.

I concluded that I ought be more natural with my friends.

But the real lesson was this: that cryptic or mysterious events often have a motive or explanation; that in the midst of seeming disorder there is sometimes shape and design; that random usually has its reasons.

And I think that is the challenge for a Strategist: find connections, causes, method and meaning in the everyday. Where others see chance and happenstance, we should seek rhyme and reason; where others see accident and the arbitrary, we should find patterns and plans.

Why is that sector behaving oddly? Why is the data different at that time of year? Why is that segment out of step with everyone else? Keep asking: Why? Why? Why? There’s usually a perfectly sensible explanation just over the horizon - if you have the instinct and appetite to look.

I’m still very good friends with My-Mate-Andy. We meet occasionally for a non-artisanal beer, and talk about music, football, politics and telly. He still has a healthy glow, and my hair’s still a mess. He denies that there was ever any logic to his route home - he was just ringing the changes. I maintain that he’s suffering from ‘unconscious bias.’

There’s no substitute for old friends. Old school is the best school. Or as George Benson once elegantly put it: ‘Never give up on a good thing.’

‘Never give up on a good thing.
Remember what makes you happy.
Never give up on a good thing.
If love is what you got, you got the lot.’

George Benson, Never Give Up on a Good Thing (Michael Garvin/Tom Shapiro)

No. 153