Laura is relentlessly can-do, a brilliant problem-solver, and a tireless advocate for the people who work for her, which is why I’m never happier than when she’s next to me, whispering in my ear. It’s Laura who tells me when a staff member needs a little TLC, when I’m being too intense, and when my attention is on the wrong thing. She’s the one who taps my shoulder and says, “Hey, this needs a little finessing,” or “You gotta chill out a little bit.” (If it isn’t already clear, I think every leader should have a Laura—someone who feels comfortable telling you when you aren’t acting as the best version of yourself.)
my dad gave me one engraved with his favorite quote, from Calvin Coolidge. I had it hanging in my childhood bedroom, then in my college dorm room; I have it still, hanging here above my desk. It reads: Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.
But I wasn’t suggesting you could serve a soufflé any which way; I simply wanted it done in such a way that tradition didn’t interfere with hospitality. It was a different kind of correct.
On behalf of his wife and sons, Geoffrey of Anjou led the fighting in Normandy with drive and energy, riding into battle with a ‘Planta Genista’ – the Latin name for a type of yellow-blooming flower – as his talisman. This was, it is said, the root of his nickname of ‘Plantagenet’.
Out of this extraordinary tax evolved a system, overseen by Roger of Salisbury, the name of which survives as the centre of British government finances today: the Exchequer, so-called because the moneys due to the crown in Henry’s time – rents, taxes and fines – were laid out on a large table. It was ten feet by five, with a three-inch rim around its edge to stop anything from falling off. This counting table was covered with a cloth, on which there was a pattern of horizontal and vertical squares, as would be found on a board for a game of chequers. The columns of squares had different values, starting with pennies, progressing through shillings to pounds, all the way up to tens of thousands of pounds. The royal accountant set out counters across the top row of squares, representing the sums that he had calculated as being due to the crown. Along the row immediately below this were laid out further counters, showing what had actually been paid in against the debt. In an age of complicating Roman numerals, the employment of what was, in essence, a giant chequerboard abacus reduced payments and debts to their simplest and most digestible form.
Someone from a medieval landowning family had a life expectancy of a little over thirty years from birth. This rose to forty-five if they successfully ran the gauntlet of childhood diseases and reached the age of twenty-one.
