We called him ‘Kim’ after Kipling’s character. His surname was ‘Warwick’ but I cannot remember his real first name.

He worked as a clerk in a bank, and took pleasure and pride in his work. Why was he never promoted? I don’t know. He may not have wanted promotion. Maybe he cared too much about people. Perhaps it was the reddish scarring blotched across much of his face. Those of us who knew him no longer noticed the scars, just the warm human being. As a family man he owned an unremarkable semi-detached house on the cheaper side of our Bristol suburb.

I first met him when I joined the Cubs – now called Cub Scouts. There was a waiting list. Mum had put my name down years earlier. Then, shortly before I was old enough, there was a programme on TV about Cubs and she rigged things so I watched it. Naturally I got excited and asked if I could be a Cub. It was to be a major part of forming who I am now, and it was to introduce me to Kim who was Group Scout Leader but very much involved in working where needed with Cubs and Scouts; it was a long time before I cottoned on that he was in overall charge. He was just there when needed, happy to do any kind of job, and he was one of the few adults we felt at ease chatting with.

He once described how the father of a Scout had rung up and asked if he would talk to the son who was getting out of control at home. Father brought the son round to Kim’s home and asked if he could sit in “to find out how you do it”. He was not allowed to, and it’s sad he didn’t realise that his presence would distort the chat. Kim didn’t talk at us, he listened and we would chat as equals.

We just soaked in the rays of the setting sun, at peace, friends, maybe chatting

One of my fondest memories of growing up was when I was a Patrol Leader at our Whitsun weekend camp somewhere just outside Bristol. We were a small troop, which reduced the range of activities on offer but I think made the experience more enjoyable. There were just three patrols. Our tents were perched along the top of a gentle stream valley. That evening I think we’d had a camp fire, quite a small one, built from dead branches found nearby and chopped to size. Part of Scouting in those days was learning how to use a hand-axe effectively and safely. The fire heated up a dixie of milk which later provided cocoa as we sang our favourite songs, stuff like “Oh you’ll never get to heaven with a fat girl guide” and “Have you ever been to Wales where they brew the finest ales”.

Later the younger Scouts headed off to bed and we patrol leaders stayed sitting on the ground round the fire with Kim watching the sun set. We will have chatted but I don’t know what about and it doesn’t matter. Here was a man we respected tremendously who was one of us and at the same time a real adult. He was quiet and unassuming. He was happy to serve but able to lead. He wasn’t perfect, but he helped us all grow up to be better people.

In the previous post I chatted about what most people seem to think success is all about, and how it tends to fail. I’d like to suggest that Kim Warwick was an example of true success. He wasn’t rich, but he earned enough to look after himself and his family and never ever indicated he wanted more. He wasn’t famous, except to the people whose lives he touched. He had a little bit of power being in charge of our Scouts and Cubs, but he saw it as a valued responsibility and an opprtunity to serve. To my knowledge never did he misuse his power.

Let me try to express what I think makes a person successful in life:

• They have learned to be content with where they are and what they have at any given moment. They’re not forever waiting for something better.
• They know what really matters in life, and they know it’s not money or fame or power or…
• They respect each person they come into contact with as a unique individual.
• They are valued team members who work with people. Often they’re well able to accept a leadership role when appropriate and fulfil that role well, but they don’t value power except as a tool to use in benefiting others.
• They are humble. They don’t see themselves as anything special, but they use the talents, abilities and experience they’ve got.
• They have real friends as opposed to lots of acquaintances. Often, depending on their role in life, there are hundreds or even thousands of people who have been blessed by their presence and who would drop whatever they’re doing to help that person if in need.
• They aren’t dependent on  the people round them or independent of everyone else, but interdependant. The help and are helped. They’re involved.

I don’t know many people like that, but am privileged to know and have known a few. To them, thank you so much for enriching our lives.

PS: have I missed anything significant from the list above? Oh, and to those of you who know him, yes of course Peter Jolly is another example.

This article is # 3 in the effective goal-setting series.

If you want more articles like this please click the Thank you button just below.

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Durham cathedral and castle (Photo from Wikipedia under GNU Free Document Licence)

Where is teacher #2 you ask.

He’s called Ron Cockitt and I wrote about him right here. I just called the post something else.

And just to prove I’m mad, great teacher #3 wasn’t a teacher, he was Vice Principal of Bede College in Durham (UK). His name was George Smith, aka G.N.G.Smith, aka Ganges.

When I arrived there in October 1968 we were told that if we had a major problem of any sort and were desperate, he was the guy to see. “His apartment is on the first floor corridor. His office is near reception. Knock on his door at any time of day or night, and since you think it’s that important so will he.”

This advice was accurate.

He smoked heavily and was probably too partial to drink (port? sherry?). He was overweight, and wheezed as he moved around. He was the most important person in our college. He had the gift of believing he was there to serve his students, and that was his life. He was very much in charge but he made us believe that in the sense that matters we were his equal. I remember at the end of one of our termly formal dinners he stood up to speak. The hall was full of students who had already drunk a fair amount and where having a good time. The instant he stood there was silence. “Thank you for sharing this dinner with me. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company, but I’m afraid I must now leave you to enjoy the rest of the evening. One thing I would ask if I may. Some of you may be tempted to call in next door this evening.” The girl’s college was the other side of a moth-eaten hedge. “The best of luck, but please be discreet. It’s better the Vice Principal there doesn’t get to hear your arrival or departure. She is so tiresome when she phones in the morning to complain. Enjoy yourselves.”

When I folded with a breakdown early in my final year he was there behind the scenes ensuring I was being looked after and liaising with the Maths department. At the end of the year he heard my mother was planning to come up from Bristol for graduation and insisted she be his personal guest using his own guest room and dining with him on high table. I guess she was the oldest parent there at 65. I was still very depressed, and his kindness and gentle courtesies with Mum made me feel better at least for a while.

You may know of Peter Jolly who for many years was Deputy Head of Leeds Grammar School. George was almost certainly one of Peter’s role models. He was certainly one of mine.

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Don’t know is of course not remotely the same as can’t find out.

An acquaintance recently described part of his medical training following a Consultant around hospital wards. Seriously ill people often have questions. Sometimes the consultant would be asked something he didn’t happen to know the answer to. This is to be expected. We can’t know everything, even about stuff we specialise in; unless our specialist area is something trivial and finite like ‘the works of John Donne’. This Consultant however would never admit to ignorance in front of a patient. If he didn’t know then he’d make up an answer that sounded plausible.

The only thing that partly redeemed him was that occasionally, once away from the patient, he’d turn to his students and say, “Don’t quote that answer in an examination”.

Hmmm. My hands don't look dirty sir.

In 1964 I was privileged to be one of a pioneer class trying out Nuffield Biology. Our text book was a ring binder, and every month or two we’d receive a wadge of extra pages ready punched. The course was fantastic, not least because we had an incredibly able and enthusiastic teacher. (Oi, Ron Cockitt, you know who you are. Thank you.)

Instead of being lectured, or told to read stuff up, we did experiments. I know this has become far more common, but in the sixties it was not how Biology was taught. One experiment involved assessing the quantity of bacteria on our hands by wiping them across the jelly-like substance in petri dishes, covering the dishes, and putting them in a warm environment where nasty bugs would multiply. Half the class just swiped the gel. The other half washed their hands first.

And lo and behold, those with the most bacteria on their hands were the ones who – wait for it – did wash their hands.

What a teaching opportunity, and Ron used it to maximum effect. He expressed genuine surpise and then asked us to suggest possible explanations. After some discussion we figured out the probable error. After washing our hands we’d dutifully dried them – on a towel that happened to be lying around. Washing your hands and then using a dirty towel is likely to be worse in bacterial terms than not washing them at all.

This was the most powerful experiment of many hundred we did at school because it gave the wrong answer, and because our teacher wasn’t afraid to say “I don’t know, but let’s see if we can find out”.

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I’m bad on names and faces. Sorry. I do know he died some years back, and if I’d known I’d have travelled the 250 miles to be at his funeral.

He was the first teacher who treated us as equals, although he was able to retain our respect at the same time. To him we were younger, less experienced, his role was to teach and ours to learn, but we were just human beings like himself, of equal significance in the universe. For a year he was my form tutor. When my mother and I were evicted from our flat and I ended up in council care he arranged for me to stay with a friend instead of in the council place.

In our room the blackboard had an area a couple of metres deep behind it, which naturally formed part of the landscape in which we fooled about at lunchtime. Technically we weren’t allowed behind it, even though it was wide open. One day we were playing with the board duster – thick felting attached to wood – behind the board when he came in to collect something. Most other teachers would have shouted at us to behave. Some would have been embarassed and gone straight back out. He caught the duster in mid air, zipped it round his back, turned, and passed it to someone else as if he were playing rugby. For a minute he joined in the game before saying, “I’m sorry, I must get on with some work. By the way, I see someone’s been writing on the back of the board with chalk. It all looks polite and acceptable to me but some of my colleagues might get upset, so make sure you don’t get caught.” We cleaned all the comments off that day.

He made me feel like I counted, that I wasn’t just a tiny component on a large conveyer belt. He got me thinking that you could achieve something really important as a teacher. He was one of my models for how to be a teacher. I wish I’d told him so.

Ah, I think I now have his name, though I may not be spelling it correctly: Mr. Dunnicliffe.

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