CHAPTER TWO: MY OLD MATE
In which the difficulties of successfully implementing change are discussed


It’s been raining solidly for the past three days. Three days of horizontal rain striking against the window panes and then running down them in a thick uneven layer. A layer which makes the Salon de The’ sign on the building opposite appear to sway and dance gently and unpredictably backward and forward and the most annoying part of it all is that it shouldn’t be happening. This is, after all, the South of France. By mid-afternoon I am bored with staring at the walls of my room. Staying on the beach is fine when it’s sunny, you are a few minutes walk from restaurants, sand and other fun seekers. When the weather is not good, it’s the pits! There is absolutely nothing to do. I decide to visit the local chateau which will at least be dry and will allow me to stretch my legs. It is there, wandering around the cellar, that I notice the shiny bald patch. You can hardly miss it. It shines or rather glistens, even in the cool darkness of the cellar. Then he turns round, and I slowly realise that I recognise the face belonging to the beacon. Instinctively and without having worked out who exactly I am about to address, I smile, and say ‘Hello’.

The eyes in the face stare straight into mine and with a smile of recognition he says ‘G’day mate.’ ‘Did you ever find a job then?’ A hand extends to meet mine in a warm, vigorous handshake.

His question answers my question, it is Franck. I had first met him at Surfers Paradise in Australia. He had also been on an ‘extended holiday’. At the time he had just finished six years of studying psychological diagnostic techniques. We had become firm friends for the simple reason that both of us at the time were looking for some way of putting meaning into our lives. We had lost touch and I hadn’t seen him for years.

I reply, ‘Yes, eventually several but I’ve used them all up now.’

He says, ‘What we need is a cold tube of beer, but would a glass of sparkling white wine do instead?’

I nod and point to the sign which says restaurant. In no time we are reminiscing over the bad old times convincing ourselves that they were the best times of our lives.

I discover that Franck had also finally found a career, but now he works for himself. His description makes him sound like a supply teacher at a high school. He had described himself as an educator. It takes me about an hour to get round to the topic which has been on my mind all holiday. I tell him ‘twenty years in projects, I’ve had some success with about half. What frustrates me is that I still haven’t got a clue how to guarantee project success.’

He smiles at me as if I have said something really stupid, but says nothing.

I continue. ‘I know that no one else has worked it out because they are all as surprised as I am whenever a project goes belly-up.’

He smiles again and it makes me feel that I need to put forward my theory on projects, so that he will not think that I am completely dumb. I have a voice I usually reserve for presentations to senior management. I call it my ‘confident-bullshit’ voice. I use it. I say ‘Of course, projects go wrong because we don’t push people hard enough.’

That smile again, and then he asks, ‘So do you mean that you never have budget overruns from your team members claiming overtime?’

‘Yes we do,’ I reply ‘but they only do overtime because we don’t have enough control over what they do, and so they don’t do what we need, when we need it.’

‘Oh, I see!’ he replies, ‘Your fifty per cent success rate comes from projects where you have had a dedicated team over whom you have had total control.’

‘No,’ I insist, ‘not quite. We also need better planning tools and techniques.’

‘I understand,’ he says, and tops up my glass. ‘What you are saying is that if only we could plan it all out in greater detail then it would all happen exactly according to plan.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ I say. ‘Even with good plans, life just isn’t like that, and,’ I add, ‘it takes years and years to become a decent project manager. It’s very complex. You have to know how to do most of the jobs on the project, and all the methods and computer planning and control techniques.’

‘I see. So you’ve never worked on a project for a mature, widely experienced project leader which has gone awry?’

I remember the building site and start to wriggle. ‘Well, sometimes there are special cases,’ I say.

For the first time in our conversation, Franck offers an opinion. What strikes me is the way in which he does it. His voice seems calm, deep and resonant as if he is speaking through a muted megaphone. He says, ‘What I have found is that however complex the situation, it is unusual to find more than a half dozen underlying causes.’

My instinctive reaction to any statement that I don’t really understand is to argue with it in the hope that in discussion it will become clearer. ‘I’m not sure I agree,’ I say. ‘This is a really thorny problem which has taxed many of the best minds for a long time.’

Franck says nothing but simply smiles, with much too much confidence.

I say, ‘Maybe it can’t be solved. Maybe there is nothing special which guarantees project success. It could just be luck.’

He smiles again and insists, ‘I don’t think you really believe that or you would not have started this conversation. So what do you think is the real cause of project failure? . . . and anyway what do you mean by failure? Explain it all to me. Start from the beginning.’