My oven broke down on Saturday. I procrastinated for a day, then called an electrician on Monday. He swiftly found the problem, estimated the cost of repair and recommended I get a new oven. I sighed but acted decisively, went through the drama of delivery mishaps and finally had a new shiny appliance installed in my kitchen. In times of crises, I reflected, we move mountains at the speed of light.

Indeed, it takes a crisis to attract our attention. We keep eating pastries and ice cream until we are diagnosed with diabetes and then we are at last compelled to look at our eating habits. It takes a medical diagnosis to realise that we've been racing through life at an unsustainable pace. Our politicians have waited until the society is brutally divided by a plebiscite to begin paying attention to an ever widening gap between the fortunate and the less so. When the man at the steering wheel resigns, when the main political parties are in turmoil, when the confidence in the economy tanks and people take to the streets, the politicians get a wake up call. 

Yet most of us just keep snoozing the alarm clock. Some make a vague attempt at writing down "to do" lists, only to bury them under a stack of papers. Some read books on wellness, feel the momentary urge to embark on clean eating and daily exercise regime, then lose that spark. Companies too are guilty of tackling only the most myopic of challenges to survive the current quarter, six months, or a year. And Western politicians are seemingly happy to do anything to avert the crisis at hand, only to cause a shipwreck some months down the line. 

I noticed that when I meet old or ailing people, I never think "it'll happen to me." I even take pride in living "in a moment". When I speak to my grandmother, who is ninety, we only talk about this and that, I do not dare ask her about regrets or things she would have done differently. It's curious, isn't it, this narrow path we tread between feeling content today and thinking ahead. It doesn't help that we are told to do what makes us happy, to worry less and enjoy more, while at the same time the global ageing population, challenging healthcare and pensions provisions, present us with a much more sombre message. It should be a clue that it's hard to get a doctor appointment in the UK, because GPs are busy writing insulin prescriptions for the 60+ but who can resist trying out a new cake recipe in a brand new oven?

I can't pretend I have the answers. Like the outgoing Prime Minister, I am an "essay crisis" type of person. But today I might just call my grandmother and ask her for advice. 

As always, comments welcome...

Over the last couple of years of practising mindfulness I have become particularly attuned to how subtle things and experiences shape my sense of well-being. Working from home means I get plenty of sleep, eat a freshly cooked, healthy breakfast and avoid public transport in peak hours. In the summer, I have breakfast on my balcony, savouring a cup of coffee and reading a paper, left over from the weekend. Sometimes I would go to yoga at lunchtime and stretch with a teacher, whose classes make my body and soul sing. I get my vegetables delivered and I unpack the box with a sense of curiosity characteristic of children.

Strangers and friends have been helping me with their time and advice, inspiring me and gently pushing me to make the most of my talents. My goddaughter has been a bundle of joy, always making me laugh and appreciate our special relationship. I have stopped blaming post viral fatigue for wrecking my life. Instead, I have come to think of it as an important life event, which made me discover myself and look at what I have with gratitude.

Gratitude has become a bit of a buzzword and with good reason. Too many tragedies happened in the world this year, broadcasting the message: "Life is too short - make the most of it." At the same time, ebola sufferers and desperate refugees surely must help us realise how fortunate we are to have health and homes. In the age where everything - fashion, headlines, new technologies - move so fast, people are beginning to notice the wear and tear. Mental health problems are on the rise. We are too anxious, busy and stressed out to notice how beautiful the world is, unless it's been posted on Instagram. Health and well-being gurus encourage us to practise gratitude to raise self-awareness and happiness.

The gratitude effect has been scientifically proven to enhance well-being. It encourages us to "count our blessings" we tend to forget, once we get used to them. "Everyone has something to be happy about. Perhaps they have a loving partner, good health, great kids, a satisfying job, close friends, interesting hobbies, caring parents, a roof over their heads, clean water to drink, a signed Billy Joel album, or enough food to eat," writes Professor Richard Wiseman in his book 59 Seconds. "However, as time passes, they get used to what they have and, just like the smell of fresh bread, these wonderful assets vanish from their mind."

Psychologists Robert Emmons and Michael McCollough conducted an experiment, investigating gratitude and subjective well-being (2003). Three groups of people were asked to spend a few moments each week writing. The first group listed  five things for which they were grateful, the second noted down five things that annoyed them and the final group jotted down five events that had taken place during the previous week. The 'gratitude' group remarked on seeing the sunset or on the generosity of their friends. The 'annoyed' group wrote about bills and arguments. The 'events' group detailed making breakfast and driving to work. The results were startling. Compared to those in either the 'annoyed' or 'events' groups, those expressing gratitude ended up happier, much more optimistic about the future, physically healthier and even exercised significantly more. 

Similarly, research by Seligman, Steen, Park and Peterson (2005) suggests that writing a gratitude diary every day for a week makes one happier and more resilient with the effects which may persist for months. 

I was intrigued by this and began writing my own gratutude diary in May. Every day I wrote down three simple things I was grateful for: sunny spells, a good chat with a friend and finding time to meditate. I have not been perfectly consistent over the last six months, but flicking through my diary now makes me smile. The last six months have been kind to me, and I am grateful. I could be healthier, fitter and luckier, but, in truth, I've had a wonderful year with so much to be proud of and pleased about. Writing the blessings down is simple, and the effects are surprisingly powerful. 

If a gratitude diary isn't your thing, how about some Christmas cards? It's the season to be grateful.

Here is what I don't mean by that: run to HR and ask to assign another chore to a busy senior colleague, already drowning in a sea of semi-pointless responsibilities large and growing organisations are so fond of imposing on their bread winners.

What I mean is this: work out where you want to be and who can help you get there by becoming your sounding board. Who has travelled the path you are now standing on? Who may help to open doors? The best mentor is a person who is already so successful, they won't perceive you as competition and they'll derive joy from seeing your accomplishments, especially if they recognise their younger selves in you.   

In the past two years I pursued new, creative, entrepreneurial opportunities I had received no previous training for. Neither had I any prior experience in journalism, interviewing, public speaking, events, etc. I have given it some thought and I strongly believe that having a mentor (or three) is instrumental to climbing any mountain. I'd like to share my experiences and encourage you to follow my example.

When I left my last corporate job, I had drinks with what popular media like to call a "seasoned entrepreneur". I told him about my business idea and he listened patiently. He advised me not to worry whether it'll work out or not but to do my best. Hearing that from someone who knew "triumphs" and "disaster" was incredibly liberating. It took some pressure off me and allowed me to give things a go, treating each idea as a learning experience. During the last two years we've been meeting regularly, which has allowed me to use my mentor as a sounding board for anything from negotiating contracts to testing new ideas. A mentor, unlike your friend or family member, is likely to be honest and straight with you. Once you establish trust, you cannot ask for better quality feedback.  

Another mentor of mine with a hugely impressive network of contacts in business and among media personalities has helped me with introductions to people I could hardly imagine meeting on my own. What you have to remember is that every introduction, every opportunity is an open door, but it's just that. It's up to you to make the most of it. Having a mentor means that you want to prove yourself being worth their time and attention. An extra incentive can only spur you further on. 

There is no need to make a mentoring relationship formal. My third mentor has no idea I regard him as such! Nevertheless, he gave me priceless career advice and he has believed in me from the outset, encouraging me to write. In fact, perhaps the best thing about having a mentor is that they believe in you before you do. Somehow, it is easier to trust the instincts of your mentor, rather than your mother's or your best friend's, because of the professional, rather than the personal nature of the relationship.

You also have to think about what you could give back. Of course, there is intrinsic satisfaction in helping another human being and sharing goodwill. It must be a pleasure to see your fledgling succeed. But any relationship works best if it's reciprocal. There is something about a challenge of finding a way you can be useful in return.

These days people are fond of peer support: if they want to lose weight or run a marathon, they make a grand announcement on Facebook and rely on peer pressure to get them to the finish line. I propose a different approach. Get a mentor, someone you respect and regard as a role model. Be clear about your goals and look to develop a long-term relationship, not make a quick gain. It'll give you fuel to fly. 

It was Wednesday afternoon when I got an email from a literary agent saying something like this: "It's lovely but..." I was jubilant - I got my first rejection! 

Born and bred in Russia, I've spent the last 15 years in the UK, learning the British way. Brits pride themselves in being subtle, they'd rather beat around the bush, than give you a direct answer and regard straight feedback as a crime only a simple bumpkin or a vulgar foreigner would commit. By the same token, this "vulgar foreigner" and my fellow overseas partners in crime (especially Dutch, Swedes and New Yorkers) have been suffering from what we identify as British indecisiveness, elusiveness and ambiguity.  Interpreting British feedback is a craft which takes years to perfect, not that I am under any illusion that I'd ever master it. Asking a British friend for feedback is akin to pulling teeth, and the feeling is mutual because a friend dreads having to commit to an answer as much as I detest attempting to pull it out. At best, you get hint. At worst, you get nothing at all.

This is why I did a little dance when I had got my first rejection. It was a milestone, something concrete, something to benchmark against and improve on. Rejection is something we are all conventionally afraid of, but I find it genuinely helpful. After the first sting (which, with practice, needn't hurt at all), "No" is but a useful data point, which adds to the learning experience. I've now published six articles with the New Statesman, but a couple of ideas I submitted had been rejected by the editor. It helped me to understand what works and what does not and how to develop my own angle. What's more, a rejection inevitably spurs me on to come back with a new, better idea. 

There are countless examples of  great writers receiving rejections from publishers before becoming bestsellers, entrepreneurs quitting jobs to start their own businesses after their ideas had been rejected by superiors in corporate jobs and TV shows becoming hits after umpteen pitches and tweaks.  Walt Disney was famously fired from the Kansas City Star in 1919 because, his editor said, he “lacked imagination and had no good ideas.” 

What I find is infinitely worse than rejection is no response at all. Imagine sending a proposal to a client or your boss or potential business partner and then waiting for feedback, while getting increasingly anxious. "Was my proposal so awful that it does not even merit a response?" "I wish I just got a straight "No", so I can get in touch with another potential partner." "Is it me, or does my boss simply have too much on her plate right now and my timing was off?" I bet it sounds familiar. The less confident of us would always take silence as negative feedback, even if, in all likelihood, circumstances got in the way. 

I am particularly impatient with modern dating practices. Hands up who has dared to communicate "I'm just not into you" in a delicate but honest way? Most people seem to prefer communicating with silence or worse. Dating apps like Tinder make finding potential mates so easy that it has become common practice among men (women too?) to arrange dates and then disappear. When I asked a 40-year-old Tom about our Saturday afternoon date which hadn't taken place, he replied a few hours later with "I'm so sorry, I am with my mother in Aberdeen!". I felt guilty for about 10 seconds, before realising that, according to Tinder's location function, Tom was 5km away. When I mentioned the episode to my friends, I found out that too many of other women I know had been subjected to the same silent treatment.

I'd trade a vague promise for a clear cut rejection any day. "I don't want anyone who does not want me", said Oprah Winfrey and I agree. I want to give my best, so if my editor feels I could do better, I want to know that. I want any professional relationship to be mutually beneficial, so it pays to find a match that is just right. I don't want to waste time on subtleties where honesty would be much more worthy. If I ever ask you for an opinion, do me a favour and serve it straight up. 

Last week my friend told me about a book "The Life Changing Magic of Tidying" by a Japanese decluttering guru Marie Kondo. My friend is one of the best organised people I know - why was she so excited about tidying? Just a few days later Marie Kondo popped up on my radar again in the FT article where minimalist Lucy Kellaway exchanged letters with 'maximalist' Sir David Anthony PriseWing-Cheung Tang, KBE, OBE, Chevalier l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, DSc, BA... On Saturday I borrowed my friend's book and read it in a day from cover to cover. It's been a revelation in most unusual ways.

Marie Kondo is a solopreneur helping her clients declutter their homes. Her basic principle is very simple: if a possession does not spark joy - get rid of it. First she encourages her clients visualise their perfect home - e.g. peaceful and airy or a creative space. Then starting with clothes (least irreplaceable), books, miscellaneous stuff and personal mementos (most difficult to part with) she gets her clients to dump everything on the floor before picking up each item from a pile and asking themselves whether  they spark joy. Apparently, it's easier to answer that question with the help of the sensation of touch. "The average amount thrown out by a single person is easily 20 to 30 45-litre bin bags and for a family of three it's closer to 70 bags." Marie Kondo also teaches her clients how to fold their clothes properly and make the most of their available space. Her philosophy is to keep things simple and leave her clients surrounded only by those possessions they genuinely love. No client had ever suffered a 'rebound'. On the contrary, once they decluttered there homes, some clients suddenly lost weight; many quit their jobs and started doing what they loved. Everyone appeared happier, lighter and inspired.

While reading the book, I found myself picking up random items - a pile of magazines, an old suit, a fancy dress outfit - and putting them into a bin liner. Marie Kondo advises against piecemeal tidying up because such process is never-ending. She explains that her method works once and for all: devote a day or two to organising your clothes, then set aside a special day to go through your books and so on, but once you apply her radical approach, it means that you won't ever need to tidy your space again. Her clients typically dispose of two thirds to three quarters of the contents of their homes and never hoard anything again. My random decluttering felt a bit like tidying up my flat before the cleaner comes in (I know it seems pointless but I also know that I am not the only one doing that!). It's as if I wanted to ease the enormity of the main event. 

By the end of the day I stuffed 12(!) bags with joyless junk and I am not even a hoarder! I got so much into it that I stayed up later than usual, inspired by the newfound energy and lightness. I now want to do the KonMari method properly but I do have my reservations.

Let's start with books. I am extremely proud of my collection of books, neatly organised by genre and alphabetical order. My library is my treasury, a display of my trophies, if you like. Yet Marie Kondo suggests damping all the books on the floor unceremoniously before picking them up one-by-one. "Does it spark joy?" I confess, I see what she means. "The Lovely Bones" by Alice Seebold and "Midnight's Children" by Salman Rushdie are not associated in my mind with joy. I did not like either of the books when I'd read them. By contrast, "The God of Small Things" by Arundhati Roy makes me smile because it was the first book I read when I went travelling for a year. "We Need to Talk about Kevin" by Lionel Shriver is no light reading but I remember being totally absorbed by it in Goa, India, finishing the novel at night to the sounds of the furious tropical rain. While I still need to brave decluttering my whole library, one thing makes sense at once: the unread books I have on my shelf (12 of them...) need to go. "I'll read them someday" means "never". I'm much more likely to read and enjoy a book I pick on an impulse than to come round reading John Irving's "The World According to Garp" I've had on my shelf for the last 6 years. (Incidentally, if you want it, let me know, it's brand new, and I'll be glad to give it away to a keen reader.) I also have Kafka's "America" in German. I believe I bought it in 1998... 

Getting rid of unread books will no doubt lift a load of gilt off my shoulders. Speaking of gilt, I happen to have a cupboard full of presents I've received but never used. It makes me feel uneasy because getting rid of unwanted presents is akin to disrespecting my friends and family. "Nonsense!", says Marie Kondo. Friends show us their love and affection with presents. Their gestures are enough to make us feel special. Surely, friends would not want us to feel guilty about getting rid of an unwanted burden? (Anna, do you remember that decanter you gave me? I've never used it. I am sorry! I'm very grateful but it has to go.)

I can see how getting rid of joyless possessions would have an impact beyond its primary purpose. Chucking away Joseph suits I was so proud to wear as an investment banker has given me a sense of closure. I still do corporate finance consulting work but I do it on my own terms. I don't ever want to feel as oppressed as I did when working for Merrill Lynch. Throwing away an expensive piece of lingerie I never wear is similarly therapeutic. Once upon a time I bought it to impress someone, but now I feel ashamed for having spent way too much money on something so frivolous. Needless to say, that man is no longer in my life. Why do I keep sailing and squash shoes when I have not done either for a decade? A certificate of climbing Kilimanjaro is just a piece of paper - it does not compare to actual memories of that unforgettable experience.

"What you own reflects how you live your life", says Kondo. I can see this stretching to beyond possessions. In the same way as you can say good-bye to a pair of shoes which served its purpose, hug and depart with a textbook you have not opened since university, thank an old fancy dress for the fun night out before giving it to a charity shop, you can also let go of some of your friends. Often we feel we have to keep in touch with school friends we no longer have anything in common, invite them to the wedding and send them annual Christmas cards. These friends gave us joy and support back then. Would it not be liberating to thank them silently for the happy memories and move on? Living in the past does not make sense - surrounding yourself with people who make you happy right now seems a better way to live. 

Imagine getting rid of stifling suits, leaving only those clothes you feel truly comfortable in? You don't need a stylist to tell you what makes you feel happy. Imagine selling on Amazon that business manual you've never opened? Chances are you'll feel more confident in your management abilities without the reproachful stare from your bookshelf. Remember, that a pair of shorts you never wore or a kitchen utensil you never used taught you a valuable lesson: that style of shorts simply does not suit you and now you'll never make the same mistake again. Kitchen gimmicks are just that - gimmicks. You won't be so easily seduced by another novelty next time. "Keep only those things that speak to your heart. Then take the plunge and discard all the rest."

By the time I finished reading the book, I knew that it taught me a lesson for life. It's true that once you pick a photograph or a scarf, you know at once whether it brings back special memories or a sense of joy. Whenever I felt reluctant, I asked myself whether it's because of the ghost of the past or a feeling of insecurity about the future. Do I want to live among skeletons and in fear? I do not. KonMarie method is so simple and so incredibly powerful. I'm going to take the plunge and go through my wardrobe in earnest next weekend. 

"Tidying is just a tool, not the final destination. The true goal should be to establish the lifestyle you want most once your house has been put in order."

Q: What might a man having an affair and a man running a marathon have in common?
A: Going through a mid life crisis.

It’s a bit harsh but it’s true enough. Plenty of men choose extra-curricular activities which prove their manliness and vigour, when they reach that stage of their lives commonly referred to as the ‘middle-age’. Apparently, some are convinced that a show of masculinity helps to resolve the crisis of ‘getting on a bit’. 

On Sunday I was cheering marathon runners in London, standing on Embankment just before the 25 mile (40km) mark. Some participants stopped running by that point and were walking. I noticed that most of them were men in their thirties and forties; they looked young, fit but defeated. Women and older men kept on running, perhaps slowly, but determined. I wondered if men in their prime started too fast and ran out of steam. Or maybe they signed up for the marathon to prove something to their peers or themselves but weren’t able to commit to consistent training, distracted by other trials of their strength and toughness: punishing work travel, nights out with the lads, amateur boxing fights etc. I wondered if they had it in them to admit to being in pain, feeling weak and regretting signing up to the ordeal in the first place. 

There comes a point when each and every one of us realises our own mortality. I remember being 29 at that time, overwhelmed by a wave of nausea suddenly taking over me. Happily, it passed quickly. It’s like one of those milestones in life like getting periods or losing virginity when it feels like a big deal one day and ancient history just a little while later. Of course, mid life crisis is a bit more complicated, led by mind-boggling questions “Is this it?” and “What’s the point?”. 

Men (for I’ve decided to frame this article around men) notice how a boozy night is suddenly taking its toll the morning after; how a morning run feels that tiny bit heavier and the press-ups are suddenly less springy than they used to be a decade earlier. It bothers them, which is understandable. Then a curious thing happens: they decide to fight it head on. Typically, a man going through a mid life crisis would enter a Tough Mudder race, buy a shiny new toy or chase a daringly short skirt. Whatever takes their fancy, their partner is often left behind, because a man (strong, tough, hard-core) chooses to fight his demons solo. 

A few weeks back I was having a drink with an old friend of mine. We have not seen each other in a while. John (let’s assume that’s his name) told me what he’d been up to and suddenly opened up. He went through a mid life crisis, wondered about the meaning of life, went camping in the wild and tried a couple of other things hoping to battle it out. I listened to him and found myself captivated by his honestly, his openness and vulnerability. I noticed too how he had relaxed, as if a burden fell off his shoulders just by sharing his innermost fears with another human being. I had to laugh when John had mentioned he might get a puppy but really that softer side of him was a revelation to me. If only all men could tap into their vulnerabilities, share their worries and fears and explore their less masculine qualities. I wager we’d see fewer Ferraris with frustrated middle-aged drivers roaring by.

Long weekends are terribly useful to tackle the important home chores you’ve been meaning to address … since Christmas. How many of you have compiled a ‘to-do’ list in your head ahead of Easter? How many of you have managed to avoid it? 

Bear with me, I am not sending you on this ‘guilt trip’ for nothing. According to research referenced by Professor Richard Wiseman in his book 59 Seconds, "24 per cent of people identify themselves as chronic procrastinators. Presumably this figure underestimates the scale of the problem, given that it can only be based on people who completed the questionnaires on time”.

Ahead of the working week, no doubt piled up with assignments and deadlines, let’s tackle the problem of procrastination. 

Procrastination has been famously illustrated in a classic Russian novel Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov, first published in 1859. The protagonist, Oblomov, starts with unpaid bills, apathy and bored idleness and ends up perishing away, unable to combat his own sloth. He dies from procrastination. His heritage to the world is the word oblomovschina, with “Oblomov” at its root - it means procrastination.  

The phenomenon stems from the ground fertile with self-doubt and fear of failure, perfectionism, being prone to boredom and availability of easy distractions (e.g. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube), overestimating the scope of the project and then feeling crushed by its enormity, low willpower and “feeling that life is too short to worry about seemingly unimportant tasks.” If you have a junior who routinely delivers minimally researched work full of glaring typos, you know what I mean. If your offspring would rather play online games, then revise for exams, help is at hand.

In the 1920s a young Russian psychology graduate named Bluma Zeigarnik was having tea with her supervisor in a café in Vienna. They were both watching the waiters and spotted a curious thing: when a customer asked for a bill, the waiters could easily remember what the customers had ordered. However, if a customer came back to query the bill just a moment later, the waiters struggled to remember anything about the order. Professor Wiseman, quoting the paper published in Psychologische Forschung by Zeigarnik in 1927, writes: “It seemed that the act of paying for the meal brought a sense of closure in the waiter’s mind and erased the order from their memories.” Zeigarnik then devised a number of experiments and confirmed that once an activity was done and dusted, the mind “breathes an unconscious sigh of relief”. By contrast, an unfinished activity keeps nagging at the brain, causing anxiety. 

We can draw two helpful conclusions from these findings. First, it helps to break any work into manageable chunks. If you are working on a presentation, it helps to write its outline first, have a coffee break, then tackle the executive summary, then work on the case studies, then break the rest into discrete sections and tackle those. The same logic applies to spring cleaning, planning your next holiday, finding a new job. 

The second helpful tip is brain anxiety. Once you start something, the brain is ‘anxious’ to finish it. What you need to do is to start! Take any piece of work and promise yourself to persevere with it for fifteen minutes. This is how I’ve put together this article. Once I start writing a new piece for my blog or an article for a magazine, I know that once I begin typing, I am halfway there. It is (almost!) that simple.  

At the beginning of a ski trip I have the hibbie jibbies. I am about to meet seventy strangers for a pre-dinner drink. “Skier or boarder?” “What do you do?” “Have you been to Val d’Isere before?” will circulate the room. “Where are you from?” will be the question I'll get asked a lot because of my accent. There will be dinner conversations and impromptu heart-to-hearts later in the bar. It’s a great opportunity to make new friends and grow a professional network. And yet I feel uneasy at the prospect.

Many people who know me would be surprised to read that. They would consider me an extrovert, relishing the possibility to get energised by other people. Indeed, I am an open, gregarious, outgoing person. I have no problem starting a conversation with a stranger, even someone I hold in high-esteem, but it does not mean I find it easy.

If I were to do a test to determine my character, I would struggle to fit into a neat pattern. Have a look at the Myers Briggs website where an extrovert is identified as a person who “likes getting energy from active involvement in events and having a lot of different activities”, “has a wide range of friends and knows lots of people”, “can understand a problem better when she can talk out loud about it and hear what others have to say”. That’s me! An introvert is described as a person who “feels comfortable being alone and likes things she can do on her own” and “takes time to reflect on an idea.” Wait, that’s me again! 

The trouble with the standard definitions of an “extrovert" and an “introvert” is that they are too black and white. You are either “outgoing and gregarious” or “reticent and shy.” In reality (and Myers Briggs agree), people are not that polar. The most outgoing person may need time for herself to reflect, recoup and spend time in the world of ideas and stories. I have always suspected that a simple label does not fit me or any other person, but it was not until I met Gavin Presman of Inspire, that I’ve realised the obvious: we are all distributed somewhere along the line drawn between the two polarities, and it is most likely that none of us are either 'black' or 'white'.

Gavin helped me recognise another pattern: after a big party or a networking event, I crave solitude. It’s almost like I am on a string, being pulled into one direction, then going exactly the opposite way to restore my inner balance. 

                                                                                                 ***

Once you recognise such patterns of behaviour in yourself, it becomes easier to understand yourself and others. Spotting someone who is mostly an extrovert is easy: they dress for others, whilst those who are mostly introverts dress for themselves. The former might wear high heels or something bright, the latter - comfortable clothes. The benefits of attuning to your circle of friends and colleagues are obvious: you’ll build and nurture better relationships. If your friend is an introvert, don’t invite her to a noisy party cum networking event. If your potential client is an extrovert, take him to a trendy, airy lunch spot (not an intimate cafe) and let him do the talking.

Finally, what is it that irritates us so much about each other? Extroverts seem to say things before they’ve thought about them, which tends to cause trouble. What if we started to appreciate that extroverts are wired that way - they need to put a problem out there in order to tackle it? Introverts appear to be indecisive. In reality, they are just taking time to think things through, it’s their nature and a real asset at that.

Having spent sometime writing this in solitude, I am now ready for the buzz again. In fact, I crave it!

This week I watched a couple of episodes of popular TV series Suits about a corporate law firm in New York. In the first episode, managing partner of the firm Jessica Pearson is having breakfast with her mentor, complaining to him that Harvey Specter, a star lawyer, she recently promoted to senior partner, lacks compassion. 

“If he lacks compassion, throw it into his face” - was her mentor’s advice.

TV series rarely deliver accurate representation of reality (just think of Sex and the City), so don’t believe that Wall Street or City firms are any good at management and staff development. What really stuck with me is that if a typical law firm or an investment bank actually bothered to invest time in improving management skills of their employees, we’d be very likely to see less burn-outs, failed relationships, corporate fraud and other dire consequences than we do today. Compassion is not a quality ordinarily highlighted by HR directors, corporate coaches and senior managers, but how many of you wished your boss had better life skills?

I was not born with compassion in my bones. Growing up in the Soviet Union, we were taught to praise bravery, excellence, determination. I remember a classmate who really struggled at English classes at school despite working very hard and always doing her homework. It was not good enough. Hard work, effort weren’t particularly relevant in a country where its pioneering leader Vladimir Lenin taught himself to speak five foreign languages. I learnt competition not compassion and entered adulthood lacking this vital social skill.

Landing in London’s City, I need not have worried. Junior staff were treated like cogs in a soulless machine, made to work around the clock. Relations at work were described as meritocracy in a corporate brochure, but in reality strict hierarchy was in place. Everyone looked after his own interests. Help was not offered, what’s more, it was a shameful thing to solicit. A typical banker would donate hundreds of pounds to some remote cause of children dying in Africa, but he would deprive his juniors of sleep, life outside work and empathy.

Life has a way of teaching us its vital skills. In a corporate and then entrepreneurial world outside banking I’ve learned that we are all wired differently. Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes, taking time to understand what motivates others help to communicate and develop relationships at work and at home. Most recently, I had a humbling experience taking a friend for a walk in a wheelchair. I had no idea the pavements in London had so many bumps. The slightest incline made pushing quite strenuous. Crossing roads was a nightmare before I figured out how to get the wheelchair over the edge. There were many passers by, but only one person (an immigrant Polish builder) helped me to lift the chair over one of many edges I encountered. If Harvey Specter (feel free to substitute with an equivalent you know personally) spent just a day looking after another person, a toddler, perhaps or an elderly, someone with a speech impairment who nevertheless wants to make herself understood, then his work ethics would give room to some compassion. 

At the end of the day, no one wants to work for an a**ehole. 

“Life doesn’t get easier or more forgiving; we get stronger and more resilient.” Dr. Steve Maraboli 

Four years ago I booked to go to Iceland to catch the Northern Lights as a treat for my birthday. You may remember the dramatic snowfall in London around 21 December in 2010: there weren’t enough snow machines to clean the streets from fresh powder; flights were cancelled. I could not go to Iceland. 

Determined to come up with a plan B, I bought a lastminute ticket to see Kings of Leon at the O2 arena. I loved the band, it was a great consolatory prize. On the morning of my birthday, the concert was canceled due to a fire in one of the trailers parked near the arena. 

At lunchtime my boss forgot he invited me to eat out and instead grabbed a sandwich with another colleague in his office. 

With friends having other plans, I ended up spending the evening on my own at a pleasant local pub. Ten days later I contracted pneumonia.

I am sorry if you expected a happy ending. The morale of this story is a little different.

Things often don’t go to plan. They range from a disappointment over a pudding in a recommended restaurant to having your life in ruins, as it happened to the main character in Russian film Leviathan I saw recently. You may find out your partner has been cheating on you or that you cannot have children; your contract may not get renewed and you may get injured just before a race you have been training and fundraising for. Some of these unfortunate things may eventually work out for the better, some never will. The question is: how resilient are you?

I am probably not very resilient because it seems I am being taught the same lesson over and over again. I am not religious, but others may interpret it as Buddhist karma or a Book of Job. I regard resilience as one of the core life skills we all ought to master. It is as important as empathy, self-awareness or mindfulness.

To be resilient is to be able to bounce back like a rubber duck pulled down then released in a bath. It’s the ability to make the best of things in difficult circumstances, to recover quickly after a knockout, to cope well with life’s challenges and to find ways to overcome tough problems. 

When things don’t go to plan it is tempting to dramatise the situation to start with - I am guilty as charged. It’s an easy thing to do with social media and instant communication devices at our disposal. Ultimately, you are your own best bet. The crisis won’t go away, but here is a reassuring thought. 

Can you think of friends and family or someone from your professional network who is resilient? I know I can. It may be a friend who has made the best of the dire personal circumstances or a business mentor who has led his company through a series of ups and downs. Once you think of them, your own pit does not seem so deep anymore. 

Every one of us has survived a crisis or two. Looking back builds up confidence that this too will pass. Things will work out in the end.