HUBRIS AND NEMESIS

                                                 

This piece was written about a time in my life not long after I learned a most valuable lesson and one which changed my paradigm signficantly. A series of events had taught that I had far less control over my life - and that of my loved ones - than I had imagined until then.

 

Sitting in the lounge of a suite at 22 Jermyn Street sipping coffee from one of their Villeroy and Boch cups, it is difficult not to have a feeling of quiet satisfaction: a sense of accomplishment, touched with pride. But humble pride, not the Hubris which attracts the attention of Nemesis. I know all about the dangers of that.

It is almost two years since we were last at this hotel. It is a private establishment just off Lower Regent Street, ideally located for shopping, the theatre, and everything else we like about London. At the time of our last visit, I was in a very poor mental state. Ground down by the long battle to turn around a company which was in dire straits and by the personal problems and adversities we had fought and overcome. I was concerned that the British shareholders were considering reneging on our agreement and putting the company up for sale. Judas-like, they denied thrice that they had any such intention. They lied to me and lost my trust forever.

What followed was awful. No sooner had I returned to Australia than I was told the fateful decision had been made. I had to mislead people who trusted me; to sell what I had built up; to abandon all who worked alongside me. That was not easy. And it could all have been so different. I spent endless hours, reviewing the previous five years, trying to work out where I went wrong. What I might have done differently. For the first, and last, time in my life uselessly wishing that the past could be changed. The end, when it came, was swift and merciful. The sale was concluded and the new owners had no use for me. I left the organisation within days of the formal announcement.

The months which followed were not idle ones. Resolved not to work in a large organisation again, I set up my own one man business. I found small jobs; they led to bigger ones. Travel around Australia was followed by international trips to gather data, to look for opportunities. But despite these small successes, a constant companion was the knowledge that I had failed. Sympathisers said it was not my fault, that decisions had been made by people who did not understand what had been achieved. But, to me, these were excuses which had nothing to do with the central fact, and act, of failure. Failure to achieve what I had set out to do, for the first time. That is what made it so difficult to cope with. Having failed once, how soon would I do it again?

Then I landed a project which would take me to Britain for five weeks. Things were looking up. Determined to retrace the route which we had followed on the last, ill-fated, trip, we left Melbourne on a soggy Wednesday afternoon for Sydney and the delights of the Hyatt on the Park. This incongruously named hotel nestles under the Sydney Harbour Bridge, right opposite the Opera House. On our previous visit, a friend had managed to get us one of the rooms facing directly onto this Australian icon and we were booked into the same room again.

Greeting us like old pals, our butler showed us up to the room. As we stepped through the doorway the Opera House loomed large, framed in the french doors out to the balcony. Ferries and water taxis scurried to and fro as we sipped a sundowner. Later, in the perfect autumn twilight we sat outside one of the dockside restaurants. It was warm enough to avoid the need to rug up, but with a coolness which had us reaching for a jacket as the evening wore on.  An aperitif of Campari, then grilled baby octopus, slightly charred and exquisitely flavoured. The delicacy of the first course was offset by the roughness of the Chianti and the heartiness of the linguine marinara, which seemed to owe its bite to Sicily. As the natural glow faded, the harbour lights shone more brightly and the sculpted sails of the Opera House, silhouetted against the night sky by the spotlights turned it into a lurking stegosaurus.

The auspices continued to be good. After a comfortable flight, there was no queue at Immigration and our baggage was first off the carousel. As we drove into London, the rising sun highlighted the contrails of high flying aircraft, turning the cloudless sky into a giant checkerboard. Chilly morning air revived us after the stuffiness of the aircraft. Tiled roofs of suburbia poked through the early morning mist as it rose in promise of a glorious autumn day and the traffic free roads of early Sunday morning ensured that we got to our hotel with the minimum of delay.

The staff at Jermyn Street said they remembered us - maybe they did. Even if they did not, it made us feel good. Later, as I strode through the streets of London, stretching my legs after the long flight, my mind was busy with memories of all the happy trips we had here as a family over the years. Our son, Matt as a young boy, as a growing lad, as a teenager; every visit with different interests. At times like this I rejoice in the knowledge that he too is coming to grips with the results of the fateful past but still chill as I think how close we came to losing such a precious spirit.

As I sip the coffee, I ponder again on the past. I scratch the old scars.  Was I smug then? Arrogant in my sinful pride? Was that what lead to my fall? Perhaps if I contain my vanity and conceit I will finally lay the ghosts of the past five years to rest. Time will tell if I am right or not, and the first test will be here in Britain.