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I have written before about people claiming to have learnt lessons only for similar mistakes to occur again, and again - and again. Now we have an independent review into the tragic case of a family where, despite contact from 100 care professionals of 28 agencies, a father was free to rape his daughters over a 35-year period. The author of the review, Professor Pat Cantrill, notes that the authorities pledge to learn from their mistakes every time a horrific case of child abuse leads to a serious review. “But”, she says, “we never seem to learn from them.”

I can think of a number of reasons why it is far from straightforward to actually learn from these reports. One reason is undoubtedly that the reports are often published as executive summaries. Inevitably, this must mean that lots of potentially valuable details are missing. I also suspect that summarised recommendations lose their bite and become bland – perhaps sufficiently bland to be easily dismissed: “We knew that before, tell us something new.” I have observed a similar reaction to case studies (and, after all, that’s essentially what a report is) where people distance themselves from the events described because they can’t imagine they would ever have got into such a pickle. A case study, ie, a description of something that happened to someone else, isn’t real.

Even when reports are published in full, there are still some major hazards to overcome if lessons are to be learnt. For example, there are usually far too many recommendations - inviting “recommendation fatigue”. Three absolutely critical “must do” recommendations would suffice. And, regardless of the number of recommendations, the reports need to be worked at, not just read. They need to be trawled through, again and again by different people, with different perspectives, to extract relevant lessons; then the lessons have to be adapted and customised to suit local circumstances; then they have to be sold to whoever needs to implement them; then the resultant actions will need to be monitored to ensure they actually happen and to measure their impact. Lots of “thens”. All this is damned-hard, daunting work that is unlikely to be tackled with the seriousness it deserves – especially if you are convinced that the events described could never happen to you.

Learning lessons from other people’s mishaps seems an obvious and straightforward thing to do, but it clearly isn’t as easy as it seems. Learning from your own mistakes is difficult enough. Learning from other people’s mistakes (second-hand learning), when you haven’t experienced the pain first-hand and have little real incentive to do the work involved, is much tougher; so tough, that it doesn’t happen often.
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Years ago, while working on an action learning project with Imperial Chemical Industries, I met a remarkable fellow occupational psychologist, Sylvia Downs. At the time, I was experimenting with matching different learning methods to learning style preferences. I quickly realised that Sylvia was way ahead of me. She used an extraordinarily simple – yet profound – mnemonic to distinguish between different ways of learning; MUD. Facts need Memorising, concepts need Understanding, skills need Doing. I have never been able to better this. Her little book Making Learning Happen is full of good sense.

Sylvia has recently had her long and varied career celebrated by The British Psychological Society with a lifetime achievement award. Her acceptance speech was typically pragmatic and witty. Among others, she thanked her family for being her “research unit” and told how her daughter had particularly disliked discovery learning. Exasperated by not getting a straight answer to a question, her daughter used to shout, “Just tell me!”

Sylvia’s anecdote reminded me of my early attempts at coaching executives. At the time, I was stubbornly wedded to the non-directive approach, convinced that the “right way” was to act as a sounding board and help clients find their own answers to problems. Sticking rigidly to a non-directive approach sometimes worked, but often didn’t. Sanguine managers could be driven to distraction; they never actually shrieked, “Just tell me!”, but they should have done.

After a while, it dawned on me (not for the first time) that one size doesn’t fit all and I made a simple adjustment. I’d start coaching sessions by explaining my role and offering clients a choice. After briefing me on their problem they could:

1. Ask for my advice.
2. Tell me their preferred solution and ask for my reaction.
3. Ask me to help them explore possible ways forward.

The first assumed I was an expert with worthwhile advice to offer (very dodgy). The second assumed that I, as an uninvolved person, would be able to give some useful feedback (less dodgy). The third assumed that I was a helpful listener/facilitator (much safer).

Amusingly, it was noticeable that when clients opted for the first choice, my advice would invariably meet resistance. I’d then switch to the second and, if that didn’t do the trick, the third. This was better than stubbornly insisting on the third approach when clients believed, often mistakenly, that they wanted to be told what to do.

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I see Gordon Brown is being criticised for playing politics by holding occasional cabinet meetings outside London – not to mention the increased costs associated with nomadic meetings. Be that as it may, I have a completely different observation that applies to all cabinet meetings - wherever they are held. It is the shape of the table.

I have never been invited to a cabinet meeting – pity really, I could run a feedback session about their processes and behaviour that would hold them enthralled – but I have seen photographs. In the Times, for example, there was a photograph of the cabinet meeting held recently at Exeter Racecourse. I have also seen photographs of the cabinet meeting at their regular venue, 10 Downing Street. In every photograph they are always sitting along two sides of a rectangular table; a hopeless set up if people want to engage in meaningful discourse.

I realise that I am making an assumption here: namely, that to engage in meaningful discourse would be a good idea at cabinet meetings. Perhaps the whole thing is deliberately designed to minimise the risk of engaging in meaningful discourse? Perhaps all that is called for is a bit of rubber-stamping, everything going through on the nod?

But just suppose, for one wild moment, that it is desirable for cabinet meetings to be organised so that genuine dialogue is actively encouraged prior to reaching informed collective decisions. Surely a round table would be a must where the participants can actually see and hear each other? The cabinet are not alone. I have visited numerous boardrooms with large – sometimes very large – rectangular tables and have never come across a round one. I once worked with an organisation where a round table was offered as part of a refurbishment programme. To my astonishment, the offer was turned down and they elected to stick with their rectangular table. Only afterwards did I find out why. The CEO was a bully and he always sat in the middle of one side of the table (that’s funny, this is the same seat that prime ministers traditionally occupy!). The CEO had a habit of picking on people seated on the opposite side of the table to him and giving them a particularly hard time. People on his side of the table were only in his periphery vision and tended to escape his wrath. So, unbeknown to him, they had a “victim’s rota” whereby people would take it in turns to be sacrificial offerings by sitting in the seats opposite him. A round table would have mucked up their secret arrangement.

Might, I wonder mischievously, this explain the cabinet’s apparent liking for a large rectangular table?

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Clare Short’s description (to the Chilcot inquiry) of the way cabinet meetings were run when Tony Blair was prime minister sounded horribly familiar. She claims that an open discussion about the decision to invade Iraq was impossible and that, when she attempted to ask some awkward questions, she was told to shut up.

I have observed many board meetings where decisions went through “on the nod”, ostensibly without any reservations. In fact, in my experience, it was comparatively rare for board members to raise objections. What usually happened was that dissenters kept quiet in the meeting and grumbled afterwards about not having the opportunity to speak up. Had they been assertive they could have created the opportunity – but that takes courage. At least Clare Short, if she is to be believed, attempted to speak up only to be shouted down.

The trouble with deference is that decisions, even big ones where much is at stake, don’t get the scrutiny they deserve. A persuasive leader and a submissive board of directors is a recipe for disaster. The decisions are only good if the leader is right – and no one individual can be right all the time. The checks and balances provided by collective responsibility, provided it is exercised, come to the rescue.

I was once hired by a CEO who was desperate for someone to challenge him. He was surrounded by sycophants who tended to agree with everything he said. He invited me to attend his board meetings and play devil’s advocate. He hoped that if I demonstrated this behaviour his directors would see how useful it was and start to emulate me. In practice, there were two problems with this approach. First, I used to sit in the meetings, listening to the CEO waxing lyrical about his latest idea, and think to myself: “That’s a good idea, I like that”. It is very difficult to disagree with someone on demand when in fact you are in agreement! Second, my attempts to play devil’s advocate were counter-productive. The sycophants were so appalled that someone had the audacity to challenge their leader, they rallied round and supported him with even more enthusiasm than they had before the introduction of a common enemy; namely me!

The experiment failed and after a three-month trial period I did the honourable thing and called a halt to the project.

Despite my failure, I remain convinced that sycophants are dangerous.

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While understanding the need to ensure teachers have the requisite skills, I was astonished to read that Conservative leader David Cameron is proposing to ban anyone with a third-class degree from embarking on teacher training. He described the move as being “brazenly elitist”; sounds as if even he knows it’s dodgy!

Just in case you suspect that what follows is sour grapes, may I assure you that I would not be disqualified by Cameron’s entry criterion. In fact, years ago I successfully completed my training as a teacher (it was called a “dip ed” in my day). I did my teaching practice in a tough secondary modern where, within two weeks of my arrival, half the staff were struck down with ’flu. In their absence I acted up and temporarily became head of the English, geography and history departments and the producer of the school play! I never got over the shock of being demoted when they all returned.

My doubts about Cameron’s proposal aren’t anything to do with whether raising the bar will lead to teacher shortages (apparently it might only exacerbate the problems of recruiting sufficient maths and science teachers), or whether, as Cameron hopes, it will raise the status of the teaching profession and attract higher calibre applicants.

No, my worry is whether, paradoxically, raising the academic bar might lower the competence bar.

I’m not aware of any robust studies that show a correlation between academic excellence and teaching ability and, even if there were any, they would not necessarily be demonstrating a causal connection. When you think of what teachers actually have to do – connect with diverse kids with different needs/abilities/learning styles, instil a love of learning, demonstrate an enthusiastic curiosity about life in general, manage risks and disruptive behaviour, keep cool before, during and after Ofsted inspections – and all the rest of it, it is hard to imagine that having a second- or first-class degree will be a sufficient predictor of success.

I understand the attractions of having a neat, easily checkable, entry criterion, ignoring other factors and extenuating circumstances, but it sounds to me as if Cameron is falling into the trap of over-emphasising IQ and under-valuing EQ and other multiple intelligences that are likely to be at least as relevant as the class of degree. Actually, I think the answer might be to select people with halos hovering over their heads. But saints are few and far between so raising the bar that way would definitely result in teacher shortages!

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I love this time of year, when so many suggestions are proffered about new year’s resolutions. Things to do to be happier, eat more sensibly, do more exercise, give up smoking and/or alcohol, enjoy friends, do voluntary work, ditch old routines, go “at risk” with out-of-the-comfort-zone adventures, and so on. Then, within a few short weeks, come the inevitable confessions about shortfalls between resolution and implementation.

It reminds me of the struggle to get people to implement well-intentioned action plans after participating in a course. Ironically, the more uplifting the experience of the course, the greater the difficulties of transferring lessons learnt. The rarefied atmosphere of the course can over-enthuse people to such an extent that they lose touch with the reality of their back-at-work situation. As a consequence, their action plans become unrealistic. They temporarily (alas, only temporarily!) forget how alien their working environment is when it comes to personal improvement plans.

There are some obvious solutions to the transfer problem. Abolishing off-the-job courses would mean there was nothing to transfer from one environment to another. Waving a magic wand over working environments so that they instantly became enlightened, learning-friendly, places would also do the trick. Alternatively, we could treat courses like holidays, where people are simply expected to enjoy themselves without any expectation that they transfer anything back to the workplace.

Tempting though all these possibilities are, I favour a more mundane solution where greater attention is given to creating action plans that are doable. I use a simple mnemonic as a guide: L-E-A-R-N, where L is for limited (one plan at a time), E is for exact (dot the i’s and cross the t’s), A to for appropriate (tailor-made for the person), R is for realistic (tailor-made to the situation – warts and all), and N is for now (no delays – get cracking straight away).

If new year’s resolutions were equally robust they’d have a better track record when it comes to implementation. Without the L-E-A-R-N criteria they tend to be laudable intentions, too dependent on fickle willpower.

But I’m being a spoilsport. Surely making new year’s resolutions is a bit of harmless fun and failing is an amusing reminder of our fallibility. It is all a bit like laughing when people fall over; even funnier when you know you shouldn’t be laughing.

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Imagine you have a tough problem to solve and you need to bring together, say, eight strong-minded stakeholders and get them to agree on a way forward. Unfortunately, they each have different vested interests they are determined to protect. They are also conscious that they will need to sell whatever solution emerges to the folk back home and any sign of weakness will be seized upon. The pressure is on – a lot is at stake.

You are alarmed when the participants start playing games. They can’t seem to agree on all sorts of procedural issues that you consider to be relatively trivial in the light of the problem they have been brought together to solve. The meeting breaks up having failed to produce anything other than an unsatisfactory vague compromise.

Now imagine you are organising a high-profile conference for delegates from nearly 200 countries who are expected to agree something contentious in the space of two weeks. Once again, you find people lapse into playing games with many points of order that take ages to resolve. Miraculously, the conference produces an eleventh-hour fudge.

It is hard to get eight strong-minded characters to agree, let alone 200. Ed Miliband, secretary of state for energy and climate change, expressed his exasperation that process was getting in the way of substance at the recent Copenhagen conference. I know what he meant, but my reaction was to say “process is substance”. In fact, it is so substantial that time and time again it sabotages the task.

I find that the managers I work with invariably underestimate the importance of agreeing adequate processes (for example, how they will work together, make decisions, etc) before settling down to the easy bit: solving the problem.

The outcome of the conference in Copenhagen may have been a disappointment, but it is a timely reminder that processes need at least as much attention as tasks.

Process isn’t the tail that wags the dog; it is the dog.

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If I was a stick of rock, instead of the name of the resort running all the way through, mine would say learning and behaviour. The advantage of these two themes is that, unlike real sticks of rock, they have no sell-by date. For as long as human beings last they will always have to learn and behave.

However, as with anything as durable as learning and behaviour, there is a downside; they get taken for granted. So, whenever I extol the virtues of becoming a more effective learner or of improving interpersonal skills, there is a tendency for people to be underwhelmed. For a start, messages about the importance of learning and behaviour aren’t new – and people love something new. Second, learning and behaviour are kids’ stuff, something we all learnt at school, something even babies do, apparently naturally, from the word go. So, what’s the fuss? Why bother with a natural process that we can all do effortlessly, like breathing?

I can take all this on the chin and sometimes even persuade people that it might be best to treat their learning and behaviour as skills capable of development. But there is something else that people say that gets me; it’s just common sense. The dismissive “just” is what jars. If they said it’s common sense, without the just, I would see it as a compliment. My dictionary says common sense is “practical good sense and judgement” and I’d feel very pleased to have my life’s work described thus.

Of course, the truth is that common sense is far from common. On the contrary, it is rare and remarkable, something to be celebrated. Common sense, when exercised, succeeds in closing the gap between what we know and what we do. The CIPD has seen the light with its new HR profession map. Just listen to the institute’s chief executive Jackie Orme: “HR people will need to demonstrate their competence in terms of knowledge (what they need to know), activities (what they need to do) and behaviours (how they need to do it).” The article continues: “To put so much influence on behavioural skills… is certainly an innovation for any business profession.”

I’m really chuffed about this development. The CIPD even has “curious” (ie learning) as one of the designated eight key behaviours, with a contra-indicator that says, “Tends to make assertions and looks for evidence to support own view” (oh Lord, that’s exactly what I’m doing!). It goes on to say, “Has a bias for knowing rather than learning.” Definitely not guilty; my bias is for learning rather than knowing.

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I’m addicted to This Week, the BBC One programme on Thursday nights that immediately follows Question Time. I enjoy the mickey-taking review of the week in politics and the absurd sight of former Conservative MP Michael Portillo wedged against current Labour MP Diane Abbott on a sofa that is clearly too small.

Last week there was some discussion about the difference between being cynical and sceptical. Portillo advanced the view that being cynical was “intellectually lazy”, a kind of default dismissive position. Being sceptical, on the other hand, was considered a healthy state to be in because it meant you were doubtful but questioning.

In other words – my words, not Portillo’s - cynicism is anti-learning and scepticism is pro-learning.

I must admit, I had never thought of this before. Of course it sent me running to my dictionary and, sure enough, while it doesn’t actually say anything explicit about learning (I notice that learning is often taken for granted, like some sort of subterranean river), being cynical is described as “doubtful about whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile”, whereas being sceptical is “inclined to question or doubt, not easily convinced”. The crucial difference is that cynicism, unlike scepticism, is so laden with doubt that it snuffs out curiosity - questioning something worthless is a non-starter, a waste of time. By contrast, scepticism has doubt as its starting position and triggers questions born of curiosity.

So we have two sorts of doubt: one dismissive (end of story, no learning), the other questioning (beginning of story, lots to question/learn). Questioning, coupled with refusing to be easily convinced, seems to me to be admirable - a bit like playing devil’s advocate in order to test the robustness of an idea or a proposed course of action.

But alas, sceptical questioning has many enemies: deference, complacency, group thinking. It all reminds me of Jerry B Harvey’s excellent book The Abilene Paradox, which has numerous examples of people having doubts, sometimes grave doubts, but acquiescing for the sake of peace. The psychological pressure to conform and not rock the boat wins too often.

It only remains for me to invite sceptical comments on this blog; nothing cynical please.

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I often hear people say that you shouldn’t make assumptions. But I can’t see how I could function without them. For example, I’m assuming lots of things right now: that the roof will not fall in on me, that I shall live long enough to finish this blog (I wouldn’t even start if I didn’t assume this), that someone will actually read this blog and find it thought-provoking. And so on. Life is one assumption after another.

I have a number of assumptions that I find very useful – even when they aren’t true. I call them operating assumptions. Here are some examples:

The customer is always right. This assumption leads to much better decisions about how to treat customers, instead of assuming that they are always wrong, or even that they will be wrong on, say, 50 per cent of occasions.

It is better to err on the side of over-communication than under-communication. I know people can suffer from information overload, but most communication problems stem from too little communication rather than too much.

Personality clashes are always half a dozen of one and six of the other. I find it is much safer to assume this instead of blaming the other person. It helps me to think about my behaviour and to take responsibility for my half.

Teams have the potential to thrive more on the differences between people than the similarities. This reminds me that, even though managing diversity is tricky and often irksome, it is worth the struggle.

People are trustworthy until they prove otherwise. This operating assumption has sometimes let me down – but very rarely. It helps me to behave towards people as if they are to be trusted and, hey presto, most people respond by being more trustworthy than they might otherwise have been.

People learn all the time – even if it isn’t what I want them to learn. This reminds me that there is no such thing as a non-learner. Learning, like water running downhill, is unstoppable.

Lastly, the people who are there are the right people. This helps me to focus on the people who have turned up rather than fretting about all the people who haven’t. The same applies to my blogs. The people who read them are the right people – never mind the millions of people who don’t know what they are missing.

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