The Agony and the Everyday Lucy Kellaway I always wanted to be an agony aunt. There may have been a brief period when I was about nine during which I flirted with the idea of being an air hostess instead but, by the time I was 13, my ambition was strong and unwavering. I wanted to write a column in a magazine giving out advice to readers. My favourite reading matter at that age was Jackie, a teen magazine all about Donny Osmond and midi-skirts. The best part was the problem page on which Cathy & Claire meted out straight- talking advice to tortured adolescents. When readers wrote in moaning about their two-timing boyfriends, Cathy & Claire would briskly tell them to stop being doormats. As I got older, I started to show promise as the sort of person that people came to for direction. Soon after I joined the Financial Times 20 years ago, my colleague Dominic Lawson (son of the former chancellor of the exchequer, he went on to edit the Spectator and the Sunday Telegraph) matter-of-factly informed me that I had a "lavatory face". This did not sound terribly nice but then Dominic often said things that were not nice. He went on to explain that I, like his mother, had the kind of face someone coming into an office full of strangers would instinctively turn to for directions to the lavatory. It might not have been much but it was a start. In fact, not only did I confidently tell people the most direct route to the office loo but, as time went on, I started dispensing more complicated advice too. Eventually, at the beginning of 2006, some 35 years after I hatched the plan, it came to pass. My agony column started to appear on Wednesdays in the FT and since then I have handed out advice on bullying bosses, office affairs, sexism, when to wear chinos: big problems, little problems. In dispensing workplace advice, I've joined a crowded market. You might say there are too many peddlers of "solutions" already 每 with all those executive coaches and trainers and "facilitators". But most of them offer advice based on fashionable theories of management, most of which is daft. My unique selling point is that I have no fashionable theories. I never mention comfort zones, though if I did I would never, ever recommend stepping outside one. In my experience, comfort is nice and hard to achieve. If you have managed to get comfortable, I would strongly recommend that you keep up the good work. In truth, I have no theories at all, except that working life can be hard and we must muddle through as best we can. My only qualification for handing out advice (apart from a desire to do so) is that I have worked in offices for a quarter of a century. I have written and read about the problems of office life for nearly as long (as well as experienced a good few difficulties myself) and I offer a humbug-free service, with all my answers written in a few, easy-to-understand words. A second differentiating feature is that I'm not frightened of the negative. Most agony aunts and other advice providers now refer to problems as dilemmas 每 the word sounds less negative and, in this self-improving world, we have to be positive at all costs. By contrast, my problems are called just that 每 problems 每 because that is what they are and because working life is stuffed full with them. The more negative and intractable the problem, the more satisfaction I get from thinking about it and trying to solve it. The first thing people want to know when I say I'm an agony aunt is whether the problems are real, or whether they have been whisked up by me in an idle moment. The answer is that they are all real. Though that doesn't mean that they all reach me in the conventional way. Only about half the problems in this book arrived obediently via the problems inbox (problems@ft.com, in case you have something you'd like to submit); the rest had to be winkled out. When I first put an invitation in the FT soliciting for agony, I received a great many responses 每 which was good. What was less good was that some readers did not understand quite what sort of problem I was after. One man wrote asking if I could help him with off-street parking in the Essex village where he lives. The answer to this was, "No, I could not." Another person sent in a question about why the FT charges for access to a lot of FT.com material. I can answer this, although I do not consider it a problem as such. The reason is that the FT is a business and, therefore, it is trying to make money. In addition to these, there were some pukka problems that were just what I was after. In that very first crop, there was a man jaded from his job as a City lawyer and wedded to a (dotty, in my view) search for more meaningful work. There was a woman whose colleague had been convicted of downloading child porn and who, on his release from prison, had tried to get in touch with her again. Though the problems that I'm sent are plentiful, there is a snag. They don't cover the waterfront. There is no shortage of e-mails from people with troublesome bosses or colleagues, or ones from middle-aged professionals finding out that working life is not quite what they hoped it would be. But nothing from bosses. I'm never sent problems about the hard things senior managers have to do: firing people or promoting them or motivating them. This is sad, though not surprising. It isn't that bosses don't have problems 每 obviously they do. It is that unless they are slightly odd, bosses simply don't write to newspaper agony aunts begging for advice. So I have had to be what is popularly called "proactive" in flushing out problems. Every time I meet anyone, I start probing. I ask managers what is troubling them most at the moment (apart from the fact that a middle-aged woman with a glint in her eye is asking prying questions). If they tell me something that sounds interesting, I write it up. This has got me into difficulties in the past. I should apologise to the person who told me that his boss hit him. He seemed pleased when I said I was going to use his story as a problem. Indeed, he had told everyone in his office to look out for it. He was less pleased when he read the answer, in which I suggested that his male boss might fancy him. It seems I was wide of the mark 每 or, perhaps, I was painfully close to the truth. Either way, it went down badly and I apologise sincerely for any embarrassment caused. From the beginning, I knew that I was going to need some help in answering the problems. Even great agony aunts sometimes give out duff advice, so it is a good idea to have some back-up. Cathy & Claire themselves were not infallible: my 13-year-old mind balked at the idea that a girl worried about her kissing skills should start to practise by kissing the back of her own hand. To avoid such pitfalls, I invited FT readers to submit their own answers to problems and promised to print the best. I had no idea what sort of response I would get. I was hoping to hear from people who had had similar experiences to the problems in question, which I did, sometimes in large numbers. When I printed a problem from someone who was concerned that a friendship with a female colleague was getting dangerous, the response was an emotional outpouring of angst and intimacy revealing a whole new side to FT readers. It seemed that getting into hot water with female colleagues was the most common thing in the world, and the unanimous advice they offered was DON'T. Even more surprising are the number of readers who turn out to be closet agony aunts themselves. While bosses might not like admitting to their own problems, they certainly like pronouncing on other people's. From the start, I decided it would be better not to put names on the readers' replies, mainly because people who are tempted to tell the world what they've learnt from their disastrous office affairs and humiliating sackings appreciate a little anonymity. Instead, I identify people only by sex, age and profession. Some readers have complained that this makes them feel like lab rats but that is precisely why I like the system. It makes it sound scientific, which it isn't really 每 though it does test one's prejudices. What I like most is receiving crusty, no-nonsense advice and find it is written not by a retired male director of 65 but by a 25-year-old woman in PR. So after a year and a half on the job, have I found that being an agony aunt lives up to my dream? Yes and no. The problems (now that I know how to get them) have been juicier and altogether more varied than I had expected. A month or two after the column started, one senior colleague solemnly took me to one side to say that it might be OK so far but that I wouldn't be able to sustain it as I would soon run out of problems. Once I had done bullying and sacking and office affairs, there wouldn't be anything left. He was quite wrong. It seems to me that the supply of problems is close to endless. That is because, in addition to predictable ones, there are lots of unpredictable one-offs: the PR man who is certain that the cleaner has nicked his trainers but has no proof; the man who has got into a terrible tangle with his PA over her plans for cosmetic surgery. These problems are my favourites: quaint and unexpected as well as being morally interesting. Each, in its small way, pitches what is pragmatic and sensible against what is right or kind. They test one's humanity. However, slowly, I am beginning to wonder about the supremacy of my replies. As I sit down to draft my know-all answers, I usually feel an agreeable glow of confidence that my solution is the right one. Yet, when I read through the readers' replies, I can't help noticing that each one seems equally sure of the wisdom of their own advice, most of which is quite different from mine and from each other's. One might have thought that thriving in business means behaving in certain predictable ways. This book shows the opposite to be true. Most of my correspondents have been quite 每 or even very 每 successful, yet there are few common denominators in their behaviour, ambitions or world views at all. You might say this defeats the purpose of having a column like mine: if there are no right answers, what is the point of producing any answers at all? And faced with so many wildly conflicting opinions, the person seeking advice surely will not emerge as a satisfied customer but will simply have their original problem compounded by a splitting headache. Actually, there are right answers but they depend on the personality of the person asking. Conflicting advice can be helpful in making people know their own mind: reading something you don't agree with can be even more helpful than reading something you do. Indeed, when I come across advice from readers that is diametrically opposed to my own, it usually makes me even more devoted to my view than I was beforehand. In the book, I have graded the problems against two scores: angst and difficulty. By angst, I mean how horrible the problem makes its owner feel. By difficulty, I mean how hard the problem is to solve. Mostly the two go together. When a young woman on Wall Street asks, ＆Do I dare to take a lunch break?', the problem is fairly low in angst and also low in difficulty. The answer, in my view, is no. By contrast, the woman who has to share an office with the man she has had an affair with scores up to the maximum on both angst and difficulty. Hers is a miserable situation and there is no easy solution to it as far as I can see. However, some problems score high on one measure and low on another. The boss who has an employee with BO is probably suffering from fairly low angst levels, even if the smell is truly rancid. Yet the difficulty rating is high: telling someone they stink is one of the least enviable tasks a manager might have to undertake. Reading through the problems in this book, I think I come over as unsentimental to a fault. Work is a way of earning money, and a good enough job is the best that most of us will ever get. To the people who agonise about following their dreams, I caution that reality is a better bet than dreams and you get more money for it too. Which brings me back to the beginning. How come I am following my dream in becoming an agony aunt when I nearly always advise other people not to follow theirs? Partly it is because my dream is an addition to what I do already: I have not given up the day job. But it is also because of the agony aunt's greatest secret: you can spend all day telling people to be wise, good, sensible and hard working, while at the same time reserving the right to be sometimes unwise, bad, silly and sloppy yourself.