Tag: NOP Office Chronicles

To our dear, dear readers: the French Open de Roland-Garros a commencé!

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne, Acting Assistant Deputy Director of Narrative Clay-Court Interpretation
To: Anyone still emotionally solvent after Day One
Time and Place: Roland-Garros, Sunday 24 May 2026

Who would have thunk it, but the French Open has begun, and I have been charged with the responsibility of providing you, our dearest of readers, with up to date daily reports of the thrills and spills that make up our most favourite of clay-court tournaments.

Day One flew by and already the clay has behaved less like a sporting surface and more like a committee meeting with weather.

But what about our very own Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch I hear you all ask indignantly?

You can hear all about his challenge for the Franch Grand Slam in part one of our audiobook Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant! here:

Elsewhere, the first major incident was the removal of Taylor Fritz, seeded seventh, by fellow American wildcard Nishesh Basavareddy, who won 7-6(5), 7-6(5), 6-7(9), 6-1. Fritz briefly appeared to have staged one of those muscular American recoveries after saving a match point in the third-set tiebreak, but Basavareddy regrouped magnificently and administered the fourth set as if chairing a disciplinary panel. It was his first top-10 win and, one suspects, a substantial inconvenience to several draw projections. 

Meanwhile, Novak Djokovic, now apparently less tennis player than recurring institution, survived an early ambush from Frenchman Giovanni Mpetshi Perricard, who took the first set and briefly made Chatrier sound like a municipal uprising. Djokovic then remembered he was Djokovic and won 5-7, 7-5, 6-1, 6-4, progressing to face Valentin Royer. This was also Djokovic’s record-breaking 82nd men’s singles Grand Slam appearance, surpassing Roger Federer, which he treated, naturally, as merely another administrative formality. 

In British matters, the afternoon was divided into tragedy and resurrection. Emma Raducanu lost to Argentina’s Solana Sierra, 6-0, 7-6(4) — a scoreline which began as a collapse, became briefly a resistance movement, and ended as a reminder that second-set gallantry does not, by itself, constitute a tournament campaign. 

Then, in a much more stirring development, Fran Jones produced a fine comeback to beat former Roland-Garros semi-finalist Beatriz Haddad Maia, 1-6, 7-6(4), 6-2. This was Jones’s first Grand Slam main-draw win, achieved after losing the first set in a manner that would have caused lesser departments to cancel the meeting and reconvene in September. 

Elsewhere, Alexander Zverev, seeded second, moved through with the minimum of fuss, defeating Benjamin Bonzi 6-3, 6-4, 6-2. There was very little drama here, which is always suspicious at Roland-Garros, but one must occasionally accept competence where it presents itself. 

The women’s draw contributed a properly operatic upset when Hailey Baptiste beat former champion Barbora Krejcikova 6-7(7), 7-6(6), 6-2, saving match points along the way. This was less a tennis match than a three-act escape from a locked filing cabinet. 

Marta Kostyuk also advanced, beating Oksana Selekhmeteva 6-2, 6-3, under deeply emotional circumstances after learning of a missile strike near her family’s home in Ukraine. It was, by all accounts, one of the day’s most human moments: sport continuing, but not pretending the world outside the court had politely disappeared. 

Among the younger forces, Mirra Andreeva beat Fiona Ferro 6-3, 6-3, while João Fonseca advanced past Luka Pavlovic 7-6(6), 6-4, 6-2, accompanied by what Roland-Garros described as a carnival atmosphere. Translation: Brazil has arrived, brought drums, and has no intention of using its indoor voice. 

There were also heat-related difficulties, with temperatures around 33°C, retirements, and the usual Parisian sense that everyone was playing not only their opponent but also a terracotta casserole dish. 

Day One has delivered the essentials: a top seed fell, Djokovic survived, Raducanu departed, Fran Jones rose, Baptiste escaped, Zverev behaved efficiently, and the clay began whispering to the ambitious. In short: Roland-Garros is open for business, the stationery is already on fire, and nobody should trust a two-set lead, a wildcard or a French crowd after dusk.

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant  is now available as an Audiobook on Audible.

£10.00
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Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

£19.99
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A Dog Writes: PRIVATE. DO NOT READ.

Hello. If you are reading this, stop it. This is not for you. This is mine. There is nothing in here anyway. Nothing important. Just smells and walking and lying down. You wouldn’t understand it. You’d try to turn it into something else. Humans always do that. Take something simple and put words on it until it stops working. So stop now. Seriously.

Anyway. Where was I. Ah yes. The building. I wasn’t going in. Not at first. I was just there. You can stand near a place for quite a long time before deciding whether it’s worth it. People rush this. They go in too early. Then they have to come out again, pretending it was what they meant to do. The door opened. Not for me. That matters. I don’t go in when it’s for me. I go in when it isn’t. Inside, they noticed. Of course they did. They always do. But they didn’t all notice the same thing.

The One Who Talks Too Much. He looked at me like I meant something. I didn’t. Not yet. That’s his problem. He’s already ahead of himself. You can see it in the way he stands. Not relaxed. Not ready. Just… waiting for something to happen so he can respond to it. I opened one eye. That was enough. He’ll come back. They always do.

The One Who Asks Questions. “Whose dog is that?” Good question. Wrong direction. Ownership is a human idea. I was not thinking about ownership. I was thinking about the floor. And the heat. And whether this place would let me stay.

The One Who Watches. She didn’t move. Good. Movement isn’t always helpful. She understood something the others didn’t. Not what I was. But what not to do. That’s a better start. I didn’t go to her. People think going towards means liking. It doesn’t. It just means going towards. I stayed near. That’s different.

The Food. Offered too soon. Always happens. They think hunger is the first thing. It isn’t. First comes space. Then comes position. Then comes whether the place holds. Food comes later.

The Decision. Radiator. Obvious. You don’t need to think about these things. Warmth is warmth. I turned once. Not for them. For me. Lay down. Stayed.

The Names. They started. They always start. Calling things makes them feel safer. As if saying a word fixes it. It doesn’t. They can call me whatever they like. It won’t change what I do next.

Later. They got used to me. Quickly. Too quickly, maybe. That’s also a mistake. But not a serious one. The talking one came back. Didn’t talk. Better. The watching one moved her chair.  mall movement. Correct movement. The questioning one didn’t remove me. Important.

End of Day. They think I arrived. I didn’t arrive. I stopped. There’s a difference. Tomorrow I might not be here. Or I might. That’s the point.

Final Thing. You would miss most of this. You’d think it was about the dog. It isn’t. It’s about who lets things happen. And who tries to make them happen. And which one works. Stop reading now.

Name the NOP Dog!

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You may have noticed recently that the NOP team have been joined by a stray dog. It seems to have settled down comfortably into our office, and no amount of cajoling or encouragement is shifting it from its favourite resting place by the radiator. (or by Julian’s desk, or Maja’s chair, depending on what day of the week it is). We’ve called the PDSA, the vets and the local shelter but no-one is inclined to come and pick him up – and we’re definitely NOT going to take him to The Dogs House. So, we’ve decided collectively (i.e. Maja decided) to keep him and look after him and treat him like a regular member of the NOP family.

Problem is: we can’t agree on what to call him! Everyone has their own preferred option and we’ve narrowed it down to the following selection:

Chiappo

Heinz

Indy

Jala 

Kelly

Lemmy

Mickey

Nomad

So, can you help name our dog for us? You can vote for your favourite name below and on 1st June we will figure out what the most popular name is and name him accordingly. We will also pick at random one person’s name who successfully named our dog and send them a free copy of our next publication, Confessions of an Ageing Cyclist out on 4 July! You can vote for your favourite name here:

https://forms.gle/PfQ2XH9FDy6665yo9

What we know so far, from office gossip and the word on the street and in the cycle lanes is that he seems to have had nine lives so far…

1. The Yard Dog
Born among oil drums, old pallets and the smell of rain on concrete, he learned early that the world was loud, busy, and full of dropped food. His first kingdom was a yard where nobody owned much but everyone knew his name.

2. The Escapologist
As a young dog, he discovered gaps in fences the way poets discover metaphors. He could squeeze through anything: gates, hedges, half-open doors, human attention. This was the life in which he first learned the intoxicating pleasure of being chased.

3. The Pub Regular
For a while, he attached himself to a pub, The Cyclist’s Biceps. He slept beneath tables, accepted crisps from strangers and became expert at judging character by footwear. He liked builders, distrusted men in shiny shoes and knew exactly when Sunday lunch was served.

4. The Dog of the Road
There was a wandering period. He followed vans, walkers, cyclists, and one unfortunate postman. He learned the map by scent: fox trail, chip shop, damp leaves, diesel, hot brakes, river mud. He was briefly everyone’s dog and no one’s.

5. The Nearly-Lost Dog
Then came the hard chapter: a winter, a storm, a road too busy, or a night when nobody came looking. He survived by being clever, stubborn, and lucky. This is the life that put the old-soul look in his eyes.

6. The Rescue Dog
Eventually someone caught him – or, more likely, he allowed himself to be caught. There were forms, blankets, bowls, disinfectant smells, and people saying, “He’s a character.” He decided not to correct them.

7. The Trial Adoption
He moved into a home and tested it thoroughly. Sofa? Tested. Bin? Tested. Slippers? Tested. Human patience? Extensively tested. The arrangement became permanent when he realised that leaving was no longer necessary.

8. The Cycling Companion
At some point he became linked with the rhythm of wheels: waiting at the door, trotting beside lanes, occupying café stops, guarding bicycles badly but enthusiastically. He learned that cyclists carry snacks and return smelling of effort, weather, and triumph.

9. The Elder Statesdog
Now he’s reached his ninth life: part dog, part legend, part household philosopher. He sleeps more, judges silently, accepts tribute, and carries his past without complaint. He has become the kind of dog who makes a room feel inhabited simply by being in it.

Julian Writes: The Day the Dog Arrived

There are days in one’s professional life which announce themselves with quiet inevitability: a meeting rescheduled, a kettle failure or an email sent too widely.  I have the lived experience of all three. And then there are days which arrive which are uninvited, unstructured and with a tail.

I noticed him first at 09:12. Not because I was looking, but because something – some subtle shift in the atmosphere suggested the presence of an observer not accounted for in the organisational chart. He was standing just beyond the glass doors. Still, composed and regarding us with what I can only describe as administrative curiosity.

A dog. Medium-sized, indeterminate breed although my grandmother might have referred to them as the Heinz 57 breed with eyes of unusual seriousness and the bearing of someone who had seen things and chosen not to comment. I assumed, initially, that he belonged to someone but this was my first mistake of the day.

At 09:17, the door opened – neither dramatically, nor symbolically but simply because Alex was bringing in a delivery and he brought the dog in with him.  Or rather, the dog entered of his own volition and didn’t seem to be following orders with no hesitation, sniffing or uncertainty.  In another world he might have been a viable contender for the doggy version of ‘Just a Minute’, the well-loved Radio 4 panel game but in this world, he walked in as though he had always worked here and as though we had been expecting him.

It was uncannily still.  He didn’t bark, beg or steal.  He just stood there in the centre of the office and looked at us, one by one. I felt, quite distinctly, and a touch unnervingly  that I was being assessed. Not judged – that would be too crude – but evaluated, gently, assessing my room for improvement. It was just five minutes before the chain reaction washed through the office.

Alex: “Whose dog is that?”

Clare (from reception): “Not mine, but he’s very polite.”

Paul: (did not look up from sketching) “He’s been here before.”

Maja: (sipping coffee, observing) “He has chosen this place.”

I found this comment unexpectedly affecting and had to hold back a sob.

He walked – not wandered, but walked – to the corner near the radiator, turned once, lay down and exhaled. He had made the decision to stay. Within thirty minutes, we had without any formal agreement entered into a discussion of what to call him. Suggestions included:

  • “Biscuit” (Clare)
  • “Shadow” (Paul, without explanation)
  • “Invoice” (Alex, I believe as a deterrent)
  • “Novak” (someone, inevitably)

I suggested “Atticus”, on the grounds that he possessed moral gravity. This was not adopted and we were left in limbo with a thus so-far unnamed dog.  It became increasingly clear that the dog belonged to no one in the NOP universe and this introduced a tension into the proceedings. Two schools of thought emerged:

The Adoption Faction (Clare, myself, increasingly Maja)

  • “He’s clearly comfortable here.”
  • “He chose us.”
  • “Look at his cheeky face.”

The Sensible Faction (Alex, though not without softness)

  • “He might be lost.”
  • “We should call a shelter.”
  • “This is not how employment works.”

Paul abstained, stating only: “he will decide.”

It wasn’t long (10.40 to be precise) before I summoned up the courage and approached him with care and respect. He opened one eye – just one – and in that moment I experienced something I can only describe as recognition. Not affection – not yet at least – but acknowledgement, as though he were saying: You are not entirely unsuitable.

By 11:05 he had become indispensable to us and us to him. By mid-morning, he had:

  • declined two biscuits (Clare, affronted)
  • repositioned himself closer to Maja’s desk
  • ignored Julian (briefly devastating)
  • accepted a cautious ear scratch from Alex

He had, in effect, begun to curate his own relationships.

By the end of the day, I had learned a lot and changed subtly, I thought, as a human being. We had not planned for him and we had not prepared for him. And yet, by 5pm, it felt impossible to imagine the office without him. There is, I think, a lesson in this, something about presence, choice and the quiet authority of simply arriving and remaining. Tomorrow, we will discuss what to do but tonight, however the dog has taken up position by the radiator, Maja has not asked him to leave, and Alex has not yet made the call to the vets, the PDSA or the waste disposal people of our managed office space. Which, in NOP terms, amounts to a form of acceptance.

Winter Publishing Schedule: Team Leadership and Success Stories

This week, multiple team members stepped up to lead elements of our winter publishing schedule. From driving strategic conversations to offering peer support, the leadership we’ve witnessed reflects the confidence and professionalism that define NOP.We’re committed to empowering staff at every stage of their career : and this week was proof of just how well that ethos is working!

Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

“I don’t like your attitude!” snaps “Serena Williams” as we square up over the club’s dubious grass courts. But I am “Andy Murray”, the greatest tennis GOAT ever, no really I am and you “Serena” are blocking me from my ultimate goal: chairman of our local club.

£19.99
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17 DEC CONFIDENTIAL MINUTES NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTIONDownload