It was quite a few years ago, and I was in London to interview Sir Robert Telford for a feature article I was writing. Sir Robert was chairman of the board and CEO of General Electric Co. (not related to GE in the United States).
Well, you don't get to visit somebody of Sir Robert Telford's stature just like that. You don't just pop in for a chat over a gin and tonic.
Instead, a bright young man from the Central Office of Information, the British government's public relations operation, picked me up at my hotel, fought his way through London's traffic snarl, which is every bit as fierce and competitive as New York's, and delivered me intact and unscathed to Sir Robert's handsomely appointed office in a tower overlooking the Thames. Then came the formal introductions by the PR fellow.
"Mr. Rostky, permit me to introduce Sir Robert Telford, chairman of the board of General Electric Co. and chief executive officer." Then, "Sir Robert, may I introduce Mr. George Rostky, editor-in-chief of Electronic Engineering Times." Then we shook hands, sat down and made small talk for a few minutes.
It was at this point that I did the unthinkable. I turned to Sir Robert and said, "Say, can I call you Bob?"
The PR fellow gasped. Maybe the earth didn't rumble, but you could clearly hear and feel the whoosh as all the air in the room was sucked in through his clenched teeth.
Telford exploded in gratitude: "Oh, would you?" And from that point on, what might have been a formal, very proper interview became a very friendly and fruitful download of valuable insights.
Telford pointed out that he was an old man and that he planned to retire in the near future, as he had been in the electronics business since its early "radio" days. He described the early crystal radios he built as a young man. I told him to cut out the "old man" nonsense and unloaded my three favorite old-man jokes. (I won't burden you with them now, but if you're interested, you can call.)
But apparently they were new in London society. This was before the days of e-mail, so there was a technological delay in jokes crossing the Atlantic. Telford just kept guffawing, as he pulled a small pad and pen out of his pocket and started scribbling punch lines and commenting, "Oh, that's jolly good. I must tell that to the chaps at the club." All the while, the PR fellow was frozen in disbelief.
Confined by class
And then I realized that British society had tucked Telford into a box. He couldn't stop off at the local pub for a quick beer with some chums. He had to go to just the right clubs for a drink. He couldn't send his kids to any old school. They had to go to just the right schools. He couldn't live in just any neighborhood or attend just any social function. He had to own the right car. And he couldn't drive; that's why they invented chauffeurs.
Sure, Telford was stored in a very comfortable box. But it was a box nevertheless. How comforting that our society doesn't box in you and me.
RSS
RSS| 
Digital| 
Mobile
