Monday, 9 February 2015

A not especially effective woman in IP

19 January 2015

I am trying not to be miffed at the fact that there is going to be a “Women in IP” forum and I have not been invited.  I am not doing very well at not being miffed.

I am prohibited from speaking at the Women in IP forum because I am a nasty private practice person, and all that private practice people care about is making money, unlike corporations.  So if I were to take to the stage, I would probably embarrass everyone by plugging my firm shamelessly when I was supposed to be talking about patent strategies or something. 

I would of course be allowed to plug my firm shamelessly if I paid for the privilege I mean sponsored the event.  This is not going to happen because medium-sized firms like mine cannot afford to sponsor London conferences; we prefer to sponsor people doing a three-legged pub crawl or a Pimp my Pasty competition.   

Oh well.  It is their loss, not mine.  I may not know much about IP, and to be honest I may not be an especially effective woman either, but I do a thumping good monologue about straw.  And I have an important take-home message for Women in IP: do what you like; do the unexpected; drop straw everywhere – the men will not know how to react and while they are busy not knowing how to react, take over.  Mwa ha ha!

How to run a training course

18 January 2015

We are going to re-run our course on EPO proceedings.  There is still a whole load of people queuing up for the chance to feel out of their depth and demoralised.  And so successful was the last course at recreating that unique frisson of unpredictability and despair that oral proceedings provide, we feel it is our duty to open up the experience to a wider group of victims.

Obviously I have learnt a lot from organising last year’s course, so this year it should be easy.  In fact, in the spirit of expertise-sharing, here is my blueprint for How to Run A Training Course.

  1. Begin by writing a project plan.  Make it bold and optimistic.  Format it as a brightly-coloured table.  Distribute it widely.  None of this matters: nobody will read it anyway.
  2. Write detailed instructions for everyone mentioned in the project plan.  Nobody will read those either.
  3. Write a syllabus.  Ditto.
  4. Embellish the syllabus with boxes of Learning Outcomes.  Be honest about these.  If you expect that by the end of the course, students will be able to:
    1. describe the early symptoms of paranoia,
    2. generate their own panic attack and
    3. understand the value of cognitive behavioural therapy,

you should say so.

  1. Keep calm when team members email you at random points during the project and ask what they’re supposed to be doing, when, where and why.  Do not weep when they ask you what the course is about.  Refer them to the project plan and the embellished syllabus.
  2. However, if they cannot remember your name, then you are allowed to weep.
  3. When they ask for more time to complete their allocated tasks, always grant them an extension.  This is a face-saving measure.  They are not going to complete their tasks in time anyway.  You may as well be gracious about it, and maintain at least a semblance of control.
  4. Bin the project plan.
  5. Write the course manual.  Base it loosely on the material your team members have supplied, only pretend they were working to the same syllabus as you.
  6. Bin the syllabus. 
  7. Do not under any circumstances allow other people to edit what you have written.  It is up to you where you put your commas and Capital Letters.  Take heart from the fact that people who send you tracked changes will never, ever check whether you’ve accepted those changes.  A tracked change is a Job Done and Forgotten About.
  8. Record some webinars.  Bring your own IT system in case the IT Department has forgotten to come to work that morning.  Try not to fall asleep while recording the webinars, even if they are long, because it is demoralising for the speakers.  Your job is to keep the speakers upbeat and jolly, by telling them how upbeat and jolly they sound. 
  9. Hold a planning meeting.  People may or may not come, and if they do, they may not come to the same place and at the same time as you do.  But it will make you feel better.
  10. Be strict about the dress code for your meetings.  Especially if there are barristers involved.  Barristers like to shock you into believing they are gods, but actually they are not gods they are just very articulate messengers of the gods.  And messengers of the gods are used to hiding their normal clothes under gowns.  Look at the angels.
  11. Find a venue with a terribly nice man in charge of it, so that it hardly matters that your meeting rooms are spread over three floors and there is only one plate of biscuits between them.
  12. Alert the Biscuit Pixies to a potential biscuit famine on floors one and two; ensure supplies arrive by 10 am.
  13. Hold a final planning meeting.  Hope that you are quorate.  Invite some people in off the street just in case.  If you are lucky, they may be able to write the last chapters of the course manual for you.
  14. Find someone to print your course manual in a nice glossy professional format.  Be aware, however, that printers and publishers use a different calendar to the rest of us, and also they do not like to work too quickly for fear of bending the space-time continuum.  If you need the printed manuals by Friday, tell them your absolute final deadline is Tuesday.
  15.  Hold an absolutely final planning meeting.  On your own.  Find somewhere comfortable.  Invite some alcoholic beverages.
  16. On the morning of the workshop day, get up early and stop whimpering.  Your job is to put pretty-coloured stickers on people’s name badges so that they know which group they’re in.  Do not make a mess of this vital task.
  17. You also need to talk to the terribly nice man and his colleagues about where you want the plate of biscuits to be.  Tell them: Don’t worry; I will carry it around with me.
  18. You may need to collect some of the delegates from their homes and escort them to the workshop venue, if they have forgotten to read the document that tells them where the course is being held.  (This is of course an immediate fail if you are doing real oral proceedings.)  Do not forget to tie their shoelaces for them and check that they have their packed lunch and PE kit.
  19. At the workshop, relax and enjoy yourself.  This is your Big Day.  It is your chance to swan around telling everyone you are the Course Leader but not actually doing anything useful.  If anything looks like going wrong, move quickly to another room to be busy and important. 
  20. When the workshop has finished, stay behind to gather up the unused course notes.  Eat all the leftover biscuits: this is your prerogative as Chief Tidying-Up Pixie.  Weep tears of relief and vow never to run the course again.
  21. Repeat.

Thursday, 5 February 2015

Let me tell you a story...

5 February 2015 - a serious post

It feels like a no-brainer, doesn’t it?  We’re the Chartered Institute of “Patent Attorneys”.  Our members are patent attorneys.  We represent patent attorneys.  We understand them.  Chartered patent attorneys are the Best Thing Ever in the IP world and we have staked our reputation on that.

So why would we want to open CIPA’s arms to other IP practitioners?  Why dilute the valuable CPA brand?

The question arises because we are rewriting our Bye-laws.  We could go for a cosmetic touch-up, simply to modernise voting procedures and the rules about meetings.  But a new set of Bye-laws requires the approval of the membership, not to mention the Privy Council, so while we’re about it, should we not also take the opportunity to ask ourselves the bigger questions about categories of membership, about who we let in and who we allow to help shape the Institute’s future?  Especially at this time of expansion and change in the IP world – is it not time to look again at our Institute’s role?

Patent attorneys are notoriously wary of change.  I know there are many who abhor the suggestion that CIPA might dilute its core of chartered patent attorneys with other more lowly types of IP practitioner.  And maybe their instincts are right.

But I’m concerned.  I’m concerned that we’re not thinking strategically enough.  That, in typical patent attorney fashion, we’ve not looked at the big picture.  That we haven’t considered the potential consequences of remaining small and elite.

So I’d like to tell you a story.  Normally it’s Mr Davies who does the story-telling round here, but I hope he won’t mind my borrowing his approach just this once.

 

Once upon a time, some very clever people learned to make stained glass windows.  They were beautiful stained glass windows and they were exquisitely crafted.  People came from far and wide to see them, and paid many hundreds of pounds to buy them.

The stained glass window makers were justifiably proud of their skills.  Together, they founded a Chartered Institute of Stained Glass Window Makers.  Only the very best stained glass window makers could join this institute, and they had to pass rigorous tests to do so.  But their work was respected world-wide.  Their institute kept them safe, and spoke out for them, and at the same time it made sure that they maintained their enviable standards.

Over time, stained glass windows gained in popularity.  Everybody wanted one.  The Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers could hardly keep up with demand.  But they refused to let standards slip; their windows remained as exquisite as ever.

As the windows gained in popularity, interesting things began to happen.  Some other very clever people learned how to instal the stained glass windows in interesting new ways.  Others learned how to clean the stained glass windows, still others how to repair them.  Some became good at advising customers on the type of stained glass to include in their buildings, others at creating new colours and designs for the glass.  A whole new industry grew up.

Now, the people who designed and installed and cleaned and repaired and advised on the stained glass windows could not, for the most part, make them.  And the Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers, well, beautiful as their windows were, most of them weren’t able to instal or clean or repair.  The truth was, a customer who owned a stained glass window, or who wanted a new one, probably had to consult several different experts. 

The Chartered Institute of Stained Glass Window Makers saw its opportunity.  It cared about the stained glass window industry.  It cared about everything to do with stained glass windows.  So it changed its name to the Chartered Institute of Stained Glass Windows.  A tiny change, but significant.  Because then it could allow the stained glass window designers to become members, and the installers, and the cleaners and repairers and advisers.  Each of these groups had its own set of tests to pass.  All of them worked to exquisitely high standards.  They shared their expertise.  They learned from one another.

As the membership grew, the Chartered Institute became more wealthy and more influential.  If a customer needed anything to do with a stained glass window, he knew who to visit.  If a businessman or a politician or a journalist needed to know something about the stained glass window industry, he knew who to ask.  This was a vibrant, active and forward-thinking community, quick to grasp opportunities and respond to threats.  But it hung on to its core values; standards did not fall; its members were welcoming, but they were still proud.

The industry boomed.  There were stained glass windows everywhere.  And at the hub of this industry, the Chartered Institute also thrived, maintaining a reputation second to none; speaking out for the industry; helping it to develop.  Cowboys came and went, with their shoddy second-rate windows and their shoddy second-rate window designs, but customers knew they could rely on the Chartered Institute if they wanted a quality product.

Now let me tell you another story.

This story begins in the same way as the first, with the very clever people who learned to make stained glass windows.  It too sees the establishment of the Chartered Institute of Stained Glass Window Makers.  But in this story, when stained glass windows gained in popularity, the Chartered Institute took a different line.

In this story, the Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers guarded their skills jealously.  They sneered at the advisers and designers and installers, the cleaners and the repairers, who could not themselves make stained glass windows to save their lives.  Fearful of being undermined, the Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers issued a proclamation, explaining that only they could make the exquisite stained glass windows the world deserved.

The world didn’t understand.  Exquisite stained glass windows were no good on their own.  So the world called in the advisers and designers and installers, and it wasn’t long before the advisers and designers and installers were learning to make the stained glass windows themselves.  Some of them did quite a passable job, as it turned out.  Sadly, some of them did not – and the Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers weren’t about to help them learn.  The industry gained a reputation for being, well, unreliable to put it kindly.  The advisers and designers and installers tried to set up their own chartered institutes.  So did the cleaners and repairers.  But somehow, it didn’t quite work out. 

Stained glass windows became less popular.  The industry waned and the public lost confidence.  The Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers continued to make exquisitely beautiful stained glass windows, to impeccably high standards, but their customers were few and their influence small.  They sat at the fringes of the construction industry, quietly practising their craft and mumbling to one another about happier times.

There is a third story.  Of course there is.  It’s a mixture of the first and the second.  The stained glass window industry thrives but the Chartered Institute of Stained Glass Window Makers is not at the hub of it.  The Chartered Stained Glass Window Makers sit on the side-lines, respected but hardly influential: a small, elite group, highly skilled but a little out of touch.  Their customers are wealthy but there aren’t many of them.  People have realised that they don’t need a gold-standard stained glass window, and turned to cheaper alternatives which are still colourful, still pleasing on the eye, still good enough, despite their minor flaws.  Sometimes the master craftsmen complain at their lot.  They criticise the cheaper alternatives.  But they don’t get out much, so no-one hears.

Three stories.  Three very different outcomes.  Which one is CIPA’s? 

 

We’re IP attorneys.  We know that sharing, licensing, collaborating, can turn a patented invention into a platform technology.  And we know that if you want to play your patent for exclusivity, you’ve got to be very, very sure you’re ahead of the competition.

CIPA is well placed in the IP landscape at the moment.  Let’s think long and hard about how we want to play it from here.  And about the consequences for the UK’s IP professionals, our businesses, our livelihoods.  Are we niche artisans or bold entrepreneurs?  Please, let’s not be so proud of ourselves that we end up as the Betamax of the IP world.

What it says on the CIPA tin

16 January 2015

Mr Davies has been thinking about who we should let into CIPA.  Luckily, he has not quite decided that window cleaners would make good Council members, but I’ll bet he’s considered it once or twice in his darker moments.

No, Mr Davies has decided that the problem might be with our name.  So long as we are called a Chartered Institute of Patent Attorneys, he says, we will feel we are an exclusive club for patent attorneys.  Which, put like that, does not sound unreasonable.  So then he starts on about Ronseal® tins which do not have patent attorneys in but what they do have is a nice clear label that tells you what to expect when you open them.  I don’t know, SPAM or something.  Or possibly blokey things to do with rivets or power tools or shed decor.

Anyway, says Mr Davies, we must be like Ronseal and put the right label on our tin.  We could call ourselves the Chartered Institute of People Who Are A Bit Interested in IP.  Or even better, he says, we could be the Chartered Institute of Stuff to do with IP.  And that way even people who couldn’t spell res judicata would be able to join the Institute and vote and stand for Council but don’t worry, the public would still know that the Institute wasn’t full of SPAM. 

Mr Davies writes a seditious article setting out some heretical questions and is going to publish it Very Soon.  He has fallen nicely into my trap.  No-one will ever take him seriously again.  Mwa ha ha! 

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

Riveting secrets

14 January 2015, 2 pm

I set off for a conference, with the EyePeePee.  On the way there he tells me a riveting story.  By this I mean he tells me how he spent his weekend putting rivets in bits of trains to join them to other bits of trains.  Apparently there are two types of rivets (yeah, yeah) and it took a lot of blokes to get them to the right temperature and smack them into the right places.  And the EyePeePee had a Very Important Job (yeah, yeah), which as far as I can tell was to crawl under the train to pick up the rivets that the other blokes had dropped.  But maybe I misunderstood that bit: there are a lot of roads to cross on the way and I am busy worrying that the EyePeePee, who by now has the look of a Seriously Possessed Enthusiast about him, does not absent-mindedly stray into them.   He tells me he is very tired and he does indeed look a bit sooty still behind the ears.

I accidentally follow the EyePeePee straight into a meeting with the conference panellists.  I realise I have made a massive faux-pas because I am not a panellist and I know nothing about the subject they are discussing, but it is too late to back out.  I will just have to blag it.  Again. 

The panellists are European Commissioners and professors and eminent QCs.  At first I think I have managed to fool them, because I know that this is how it works at CIPA and indeed in most businesses: if you turn up to a meeting people will assume you are meant to be there and listen to what you say even if you know nothing.  But the head of this meeting is one Right Honourable Professor Sir Robin Jacob and I realise he is not the type of man you could fool into crawling under a train to pick up other blokes’ rivets.  Professor Sir Robin suggests we go round the table and introduce ourselves.  I succumb to a seasonal coughing fit.

The conference is all about trade secrets.  The biggest secret about trade secrets is that nobody actually has any.  Everybody pretends to have them, though, so as not to be thought the only business in the world that Has No Trade Secrets.  It is easy to pretend to have trade secrets because, dur, they are secrets so you cannot tell anyone what they are, not even your staff who might pass them on to their friends, or your lawyers, whose IT systems are so unsophisticated they could be hacked into with nail clippers.  Nobody must ever know our trade secrets, you can say; they are extremely hush-hush and Need-to-Know.  But our Cyber Security Consultants, bless them, have constructed a fantastic seventeen-layer Virtual Security Ring-fence around our trade secrets to keep them safe and that is why you can no longer exchange emails with your line manager without causing a Priority One Red-Grade Lock-Down.

The conference is held in a secret deep-security basement which is kept nice and warm so as to incubate the seasonal coughing fit germs we have brought in with us.  It is 4 pm, approximately 12 hours after I got up this morning, and the warmth has the inevitable effect on my brain cells, which also go into a Priority One Red-Grade Lock-Down.  I hear the European Commissioner telling us why we need EU legislation on trade secrets that nobody actually has, and I hear the audience telling him that the English would have written the legislation better, but I’m not sure I hear all the bits in between.

Tuesday, 3 February 2015

A magical mystery tour for the naive

14 January 2015, 12.30 pm

Mr Davies and I meet with CIPA’s Head of Education, Ms Sear.  We are scared because we have forgotten to bring any Learning Outcomes with us.

The meeting is about how naïve we are to think that the patent administrators’ course can be updated and upgraded and brought under the CIPA Academy of Outstanding Learning Excellence in time for the 2015 intake.  The outcome of the meeting is that Ms Sear tells us to STAND ASIDE so that she can project manage it all properly.  We say: “Yes, yes, please!  Yippee!  Thank you!  When can you start?”  But we try to sound reluctant when we say it, because we are not sure it is the right thing to do, when you are trying to take over the world, to delegate the project management to someone else.

It occurs to me that this is how my mother gets out of helping to make the tea when she comes to stay.  Ms Sear exudes exasperation, just like I do when my mother asks me what to peel the carrots with and I resist the urge to lend her an angle grinder.

To lighten the mood, Mr Davies takes us on a magical mystery tour of 95 Chancery Lane.  On the fourth floor, above the CIPA offices, the workmen have been knocking stuff about a bit, and rumour has it that the landlord needs a new tenant for this thoroughly knocked-about space.  Mr Davies has a twinkle in his eye.  I realise he is plotting to expand his empire floor by floor.

The fourth floor is indeed quite a nice space.  You could imagine a Presidential Suite up there, like they have at the EPO.  (Mwa ha ha.)  You could imagine a common room for visiting CIPA members, with bean bags and scatter cushions and a bar in the corner and maybe a CIPA bong (ceremonial, of course).  But Mr Davies is imagining more office space for himself, thank you very much.  He has already decided where he is going to hang his hat and where Unlucky Gary is going to sit waving the Post-It® notes that have swear-words on.

Ms Sear keeps quiet.  It matters little what Mr Davies and I think because we could not project manage our way up to the fourth floor without her anyway.  She has a management qualification, a massive Gantt chart and twenty-eight learning outcomes.  We have a load of daft ideas and twenty-eight rounds (in the libationary sense, not the military) of misplaced optimism.  Ms Sear thinks we are funny.  But she is not particularly worried about our plans to take over the world.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

Plans for Congress 2015

14 January 2015, 11.30 am

The Congress Steering Committee is beginning work on the 2015 Congress.  First we do a fifty minute warm-up session on Things We Have Already Discussed But Just Want To Be Sure About.  Then we can put off the moment no longer when we have to decide on a theme for the event.  There is a very long pause.

I suggest we could perhaps look at things from the point of view of the end users, and ask: Is the IP System Fit for Purpose?  I realise this is a slightly dangerous suggestion bearing in mind I have already been told off for undermining public confidence in the IP system by making it sound STUPID in my diary.  So I make clear that obviously the answer to the question is going to be: Yes Of Course the IP System is Fit for Purpose and We All Love It Long Live the IP System!!

But then I realise that actually people quite like the topic and that some of them are already planning the first session, which will ask: Are Our Clients Fit for Purpose (or are they just numpties who don’t understand the IP system no matter how loudly we explain it)?  And I feel perhaps this might be missing the point somewhat but I don’t like to say.

Then we talk about the President’s Dinner, which is usually held at Congress.  This is a delicate topic, because there is a risk that come the 2015 Congress, yours truly will have mutated from VeePee into Pee and they are not sure my idea of a formal banquet is quite the same as theirs.  Too right it’s not.  If I get to be Pee (Mwa ha ha!) then the President’s Dinner will be a President’s Bar Meal, and we will all eat chicken-in-a-basket and be glad of it.