IT HAD TO ARRIVE AND IT DID: TEMPO TIME SHEET

The yogi master with whom I practised Hindustani cooking used to say that big problems cannot and should not be solved all at once and in a global way, in the same way that pheasants are not eaten all at once, but little by little, starting with the tastiest, most delicate and manageable parts, and then getting down to the nitty-gritty.

It's much the same with the big problems. We don't go in for the whole, like someone who throws himself under a lorry to rip out its entrails. The master, by the way, agreed with the Rostov chopper that, in order to tackle a problem that we are unable to grasp with our hands, there is nothing better than to break it up, to break it down into parts, "bites" or chunks.

Today I had the opportunity to practise this tantric ceremony of looking closely at the threatening colossus, breathing normally before its jaws, looking defiantly at the horizon and saying quietly: "OK, boy, first the scalpel". While I was despairing over these and other little technical problems that I am solving as best I can, the Tempo Time Sheet has appeared in the post, loudly and with fanfare. It's like when you're operating on a cervical hernia, threading a needle or repairing a cassette tape in a crowded bus, and a nervous child tugs at your sleeve and pulls your head like a basket, shouting "what about mine, what about mine, what about mine!"

Priorities, always priorities (now that I remember, I have to make an urgent call).

Done. I was saying that prioritisation equals success in the logistics and organisational speciality. A good female production manager (the best ones are usually women) takes no time at all to recognise what is important, what is urgent, what is essential, what cannot be postponed, and who can be sent on an assignment. This also entails the ability to lead teams with skill, diligence, a left hand and a sense of what is fair, elegant and appropriate. When everyone feels useful, but not exploited, respected and not ignored, things work beautifully.

I've gone off the rod. The wind or the currents, no doubt. Tempo Time Sheet, I said. It has appeared enormous in the post: I have I don't know what very limited number of hours to fix something also related to hours used, invested, assigned or imputed, in a panel that when I open it is no longer as it was, because my repetition system for the construction of habits made me see how it was and warns me that, as it is not as I remember it, there is a problem (a few more dots would have been nice, but the sensation has been that: a breathless disencounter).

Do I stop resolving what I am resolving, which is extremely important, in order to get my hands on the TTS? Is what I am doing really undelayable? Is it, or is it to a greater or lesser extent, to pay attention to Tempo, which seems like the whole country is going to be sunk if I don't? That's why there are female production managers, some of whom I've worked with so well... and also the interlocutors on the other side of an Outlook or Teams.

It wasn't that challenging. With the expert help that was offered to me somewhat spontaneously (thank you, Estíbaliz!), we have cleared the hours hurdle and satisfied the demands of the TTS until the next round. How apocalyptic and threatening this application, programme, system or procedure has turned out for them. Aktios, please!

Now all that remains is the insignificant task of picking up the difficulties where they left off. And it is time, once again, to check whether the repetition learning routines, so typical of the '57 Plan, work or not. To make sure, I always try the periodic table, which is more approachable than the logarithms one, but I always forget the Francium. A natural resistance I must have towards anything related to France, with how much I liked Lavoisier and the retrospective indignation that his decapitation produces in me, two minutes away from solving such fundamental things about Chemistry and its mysteries.

Not to mention this almost unhealthy appreciation for French motor racing, Le Mans or the oysters of Isigny, especially those of the Baie des Veys, whose existence I would not have known about without the help of Sylvia Langlois.