When I tell people I am a parish councillor, they always laugh.
In my day job, I spend most of my time with chief executives of large global businesses, and highly creative entrepreneurs. The contrast between their lofty aims and ambitions and the humdrum concerns of a small Somerset village is sharp.
But it’s on our parish council — or PC as it is affectionately named — that I’ve seen some of the best leadership in my career.
Our agenda isn’t world-beating, but that’s the point. The sole purpose of the council is to serve residents — 1,000 of them — and we answer to their interests. There aren’t any real politics. There are no attempts to dominate agendas, take control or make heroic speeches. We simply want to make life here as safe, comfortable and happy as we can.
It’s a humble aim, but not always an easy one. And because it is our constant agenda, not one that arrives only in a crisis, we take it seriously.
It is here that I’ve seen some of the best chairing in my career. Executives always talk about the need for open debate and listening, but here, absent hierarchy and party politics, both are routine. Meetings are open to all: when residents have ideas or concerns, they turn up and the chair ensures they get a good hearing, applying his years of experience to ensure no one feels intimidated or judged.
With only scant funds, we can’t throw money at a problem. But we can listen and try to craft a good outcome for everyone. The chair insists on fairness: the same rules apply whether residents live in miners’ cottages or manor houses. There’s no grandstanding. It is amazing how thoughtful you become when you will meet people in the street who your decisions directly affect.
I have learned that almost none of our village facilities are provided by the local authority
I have learned that almost none of our village facilities — the social club, playground, the Christmas tree and spring bulbs — are provided by the local authority. They are thanks to volunteer councillors who devote their time to making things work. I suspect few villagers know that playground rubbish is dealt with personally by the chair.
Quarterly litter picking is not organised by a distant bureaucracy either. One councillor sets up dates, another provides refreshments, and parents bring their kids, hoping to instil good habits. We clear rubbish together because we want to live in a clean place. In business-speak, that is “thinking like owners”, but here it isn’t just rhetoric.
My fellow councillors take their duties seriously, even though most work full time and many have children at home. I don’t know how they find the additional hours, but the fact that everyone is time poor keeps meetings concise and focused. The age range and diversity of backgrounds is impressive, though I could wish for more women. Some councillors’ families have lived here for generations, and working alongside them helps me appreciate how much we benefit from the decisions of predecessors. It is a legacy most of us want to sustain, and knowing we are tied to history in this way makes life here feel grounded.
Aside from planning permission, the biggest challenges we face concern working with the rather distant local authority. It is a vivid illustration of the way hierarchies obstruct understanding. Things feel easier on our small team because we see each other as people, not officials. Power is always a problem. One reason our small team functions so well is because nobody has any.
After five years on our council, I’ve come to see in this tiny, ancient institution what I wish I saw more often in the boardrooms of larger, richer and more powerful organisations: open minds, good listening, fairness, creative problem-solving and thoughtful action. What don’t I see? Politics. Posturing. Power grabs. Ego. Perverse incentives. Competition.
Councillors are closely connected “stakeholders”, committed to mutual support, and jettison jargon in favour of a serious commitment to work together for mutual benefit. We will face bigger challenges, from new housing and planning permissions to the climate emergency. No one knows how this will play out, but we have a lot going for us that companies and other big organisations lack.
So why does this ancient institution provoke such laughter? Footage from the Handforth Parish Council Zoom meeting that went viral during the pandemic, in which chair Jackie Weaver comically chastised other council members for disrupting proceedings, is likely all most people know about this small form of democracy.
Perhaps it is easier to laugh at it going wrong than consider what can happen when it works. I, for one, wish the parish council was where more executive careers began.