“Hi Brian”, “Hello. Look, where are you, I need you up here now as there’s a meeting you must be in.” I momentarily wonder if he is calling me on his silly Bluetooth headset, coffee in one hand and red-hot poker in the other. “Just downstairs Brian, I’ve just had lunch with Pete Dunstan and I have good news.” Always good to have a piece of good news handy for when your manager is using a tone that suggests irritation about something. “Good. See you shortly”. I turn back to Lucy and am saddened to end this conversation before I have gathered more information on what her end game may be. “I’ve got to go Lucy. Call me tonight and we’ll talk more.” Lucy has all my contact details but I give her my business card nevertheless. The main reason for this is that I just had new cards made up that would make Patrick Bateman sweat, and I’m really quite proud of them. “Alright I will, talk later.” She says, while brushing my arm. “Oh, and nice card.” She noticed, I thought she would.
The elevator ride gives me a few moments to get my thoughts in order. I’m meeting Brian soon to discuss the new role. Before then I want to know why he acting strangely and didn’t swat Jono earlier like the little irritating little VB drinking pest he is. I also want to know where he bought his shoes. Finally, I need to book an appointment with my tailor. Hopefully Brian just wants to speak to me about something relatively unimportant, however he often makes you believe that everything he needs to speak to you about is life or death. I regularly get the impression that Brian, like many other rat racers, has a picture of his favourite businessman on his bedroom wall and looks to them for advice and direction. Maybe someone like Rupert Murdoch or even Monty Burns, but unfortunately I suspect that it’s, god forbid, Gordon Gekko.
Many entrepreneurs want to be like Richard Branson or Bill Gates, many executives like Donald Trump or Warren Buffet, many singers like Mariah Carey or Beyonce, and unfortunately many financiers like Gordon Gekko. Despite the fact that Gekko crashed and burned in the end of the movie Wall Street due to illegal market manipulation, self-indulgence and greediness, he still provides the blueprint for how many financial rat racers want to operate. True, he was a go-getter, made lots of money and lived life in the fast lane, but he did it mainly while insider trading. It’s a curious choice to want to be like a criminal or someone infamous for cheating. If you wanted to be sprinter you wouldn’t have Ben Johnson as your role model, you wouldn’t want to be like Hannibal Lecter if you were a Doctor, and certainly not Tiger Woods if you were a husband. Still, rat racers want to be like Gekko. Young rat racers did want to be Bud Fox, but then Charlie Sheen ruined those aspirations for people by making that awful show, Two and a Half Men. It may be unfair to paint Brian with the aspiring Gekko brush, but I have seen him wear braces occasionally and he can smoke and drink with the best of them, so that’s good enough for me.
The lift opens and I greet to the young receptionist, whose name I have forgotten because I was too buy remembering the name of the girl who was sat there two weeks before, and then the one two weeks before that. Why must people in admin roles change jobs so frequently? I spot Sarah who is looking at me somewhat nervously and confused. Unusual for her, I normally get the sort of look that suggests she is wondering what colour underwear I am wearing. “Why are you looking at me like that Sarah, and where’s Brian?” She exhales loudly, “He’s in the boardroom and has called a meeting with everyone in the team. We all think something important is happening.” Something important better be happening, two team meetings in one day is hardly my idea of an enjoyable work environment. Still, I have a feeling I’m about to find out what’s up with Brain.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
References
Before Lucy has the opportunity to tell me what the things are she wants form me, I begin my process of wondering. I don’t owe her any favours, so it can’t be that. However, if she wants a favour from me than she’ll owe me one, and that could be handy. It’s a little risky, and brave, for her to ask a favour from someone she has scorned. An expansion of my rule of the race in giving and repaying favours is that you don’t just ask favours of anyone; you need to act with appropriate prudence, like in any circumstance. Maybe she is going to try to extort me? No, that’s extreme behaviour, even for someone like Lucy, and besides, she has nothing on me, at least that I know about. Time to stop thinking and actually listen,
“Well, as I say, I want two things from you.” She is looking at me quite intently. I narrow my eyes. Deadpan, she says, “I think you owe me after the way you shamelessly robbed me of my promotion.” This silences me for a moment, I’m not overly happy with the way she put that but some bitterness is expected. I’m going to let her keep talking before I say anything. Realising this, she takes her cue, “The two things I want from you are pretty simple.” She maintains her poker face, “One, I want you to take me out for dinner.” That’s interesting. “And two, I want you to write me a reference.” Even more interesting. No foreplay, no ‘how have you been’, just straight to the point. I like Lucy.
The fact that she continues to use the word ‘want’ shows that she clearly feels that I’m indebted to her. I’m not. The diner part I have no problem with. She is obviously still interested in me and besides, we were friends, and intimate ones at that, so spending some time with her on a personal level is not an issue for me, unless she has ulterior motives and I’m completely wring in my assumption. I leave that one to rest temporarily and focus on the reference request. “You want a reference from me Lucy? Do you not remember some of the names you called me? I can remind you if you like?”
Asking for references can be a tricky business at the best of times. If you’re asking for it from an employer that you left on good terms then it should be fine. If you left on bad terms then forget it, save your foot the gunshot wound. Sometimes, you may think you left on good terms but you actually managed to annoy your employer by leaving, or even did them a favour by leaving. Both these things could mean you don’t get that glowing fairytale reference you’re expecting when you approach them. A good tip to avoid any mishaps is to ask your employer to write a reference just before you leave, for future use. This saves you having to come back to them at a later date, and they are more inclined to be nice and fluffy if you ask them on the spot and face-to-face. References can make or break you when going for a new job, and their importance should not be underestimated - another thing bridge burners don’t take into account. Why Lucy is asking me when I have the power to be as unfavourable as Mel Gibson’s therapist is odd and most importantly, dangerous, if she is wanting me to give the reference directly to her potential employer.
“Yes, a reference, I’m interviewing for a new role and they need a reference from my past two employers. And like I said, you owe me.” I was never her superior, but she is astute enough to know that if she asked Brian and the other senior mangers they would suspect they were on a hidden camera show, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out.
My phone starts to ring, as if he knew I was thinking about him, it’s Brian. Complacently, I say, “Lucy, excuse me for a second, it’s your mate Brain, and I need to take this.” I actually really do, we’re about an hour outside of our scheduled get-together and the clock is fast running out on how to discover what the cause of his strange behaviour is before I meet with him.
“Well, as I say, I want two things from you.” She is looking at me quite intently. I narrow my eyes. Deadpan, she says, “I think you owe me after the way you shamelessly robbed me of my promotion.” This silences me for a moment, I’m not overly happy with the way she put that but some bitterness is expected. I’m going to let her keep talking before I say anything. Realising this, she takes her cue, “The two things I want from you are pretty simple.” She maintains her poker face, “One, I want you to take me out for dinner.” That’s interesting. “And two, I want you to write me a reference.” Even more interesting. No foreplay, no ‘how have you been’, just straight to the point. I like Lucy.
The fact that she continues to use the word ‘want’ shows that she clearly feels that I’m indebted to her. I’m not. The diner part I have no problem with. She is obviously still interested in me and besides, we were friends, and intimate ones at that, so spending some time with her on a personal level is not an issue for me, unless she has ulterior motives and I’m completely wring in my assumption. I leave that one to rest temporarily and focus on the reference request. “You want a reference from me Lucy? Do you not remember some of the names you called me? I can remind you if you like?”
Asking for references can be a tricky business at the best of times. If you’re asking for it from an employer that you left on good terms then it should be fine. If you left on bad terms then forget it, save your foot the gunshot wound. Sometimes, you may think you left on good terms but you actually managed to annoy your employer by leaving, or even did them a favour by leaving. Both these things could mean you don’t get that glowing fairytale reference you’re expecting when you approach them. A good tip to avoid any mishaps is to ask your employer to write a reference just before you leave, for future use. This saves you having to come back to them at a later date, and they are more inclined to be nice and fluffy if you ask them on the spot and face-to-face. References can make or break you when going for a new job, and their importance should not be underestimated - another thing bridge burners don’t take into account. Why Lucy is asking me when I have the power to be as unfavourable as Mel Gibson’s therapist is odd and most importantly, dangerous, if she is wanting me to give the reference directly to her potential employer.
“Yes, a reference, I’m interviewing for a new role and they need a reference from my past two employers. And like I said, you owe me.” I was never her superior, but she is astute enough to know that if she asked Brian and the other senior mangers they would suspect they were on a hidden camera show, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out.
My phone starts to ring, as if he knew I was thinking about him, it’s Brian. Complacently, I say, “Lucy, excuse me for a second, it’s your mate Brain, and I need to take this.” I actually really do, we’re about an hour outside of our scheduled get-together and the clock is fast running out on how to discover what the cause of his strange behaviour is before I meet with him.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Gossip Girls (and boys)
I’m pleased to see Lucy; despite the fact that the last time we talked it was like being spoken to by Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction. I have a lot of respect for her in a number of ways, and she’s gorgeous to boot. Her comment that she was hopeful of seeing me has really intrigued me. “You were hoping to see me? And why is that? I thought you had it in for me Lucy?” I am honestly not sure where this conversation is going to head. She is going to try to repair the bridge she burnt or alternatively see if she can relight the smouldering ashes. I’m prepared for either result, but hope it’s the former. The promotion I was given over her was strictly business, not personal, and I hope she realises that. As soon as I finish speaking, I spot Ian and Lauren coming out of the lift.
My young colleagues both wave at me and I nod back at them. I’m still tempted to have a word with Ian about his tie, but I’m not going to say anything while Lauren is around because I have no interest in hearing about her latest weekend away in the Hunter Valley, or wherever else she has been lately. Ian and Lauren never worked with Lucy, and so they shouldn’t know who she is. Despite that, and probably because of that, it will not stop Lauren gossiping about it.
There is one in every workplace, the office gossip king or queen, and Lauren undoubtedly wears the crown at Invest Co. I try to avoid talking to Lauren whenever possible for numerous reasons. The fact that I know that anything I say to her, despite how unimportant and insignificant, will find its way into the ears of most of my colleagues is an extra incentive whenever I do find myself speaking with her to tell her I need to go because I have left the iron on. Lauren must believe I am the world’s most forgetful and tardy person due to the number of times I have used excuses like these to get out of a conversation with her. I’m pretty sure I saw her sniffing herself once after I excused myself saying that I forgot that I had to take my nonexistent dog to the vets again. The fact that the poor girl has resorted to assuming I’m offended by her personal hygiene did make me feel bad for a fraction of a second, but only a fraction. She even sent me an email once with techniques on how to remember things, tying a knot in my handkerchief and such.
Sometimes gossip can give you interesting and humorous pieces of information, like who has slept with whom and how much your colleagues earn (a true rat racer knows exactly what their colleagues earn without the need for gossip). Gossip, by nature, is rumour and hearsay, meaning it may well be untrue. This in turn means that gossip is often all fun and games until you are the subject of the gossip. Lauren is an expert at taking mundane pieces of information and sensationalising them. I can hear her report on my conversation with Lucy now, “I’m telling you, it definitely looked like they were talking about something important, I think he may be looking for a new job” or “the way they were looking at each other, I’m pretty sure they’re having sex.” And there you have it; the gossip is that I’m looking for a new job and/or sleeping with a mystery woman. Like most things, what goes around comes around, and the office gossip baron will eventually get their comeuppance, usually in the form of complete distrust and contempt from their colleagues.
Lauren and Ian walk by and I divert my attention back to Lucy. “Yes, I was hoping to see you here, and no, I don’t have it in for you anymore.” Good. “I want two things from you.” Interesting, she said ‘want’ and not ‘need’. “Really Lucy, and what might they be?”
My young colleagues both wave at me and I nod back at them. I’m still tempted to have a word with Ian about his tie, but I’m not going to say anything while Lauren is around because I have no interest in hearing about her latest weekend away in the Hunter Valley, or wherever else she has been lately. Ian and Lauren never worked with Lucy, and so they shouldn’t know who she is. Despite that, and probably because of that, it will not stop Lauren gossiping about it.
There is one in every workplace, the office gossip king or queen, and Lauren undoubtedly wears the crown at Invest Co. I try to avoid talking to Lauren whenever possible for numerous reasons. The fact that I know that anything I say to her, despite how unimportant and insignificant, will find its way into the ears of most of my colleagues is an extra incentive whenever I do find myself speaking with her to tell her I need to go because I have left the iron on. Lauren must believe I am the world’s most forgetful and tardy person due to the number of times I have used excuses like these to get out of a conversation with her. I’m pretty sure I saw her sniffing herself once after I excused myself saying that I forgot that I had to take my nonexistent dog to the vets again. The fact that the poor girl has resorted to assuming I’m offended by her personal hygiene did make me feel bad for a fraction of a second, but only a fraction. She even sent me an email once with techniques on how to remember things, tying a knot in my handkerchief and such.
Sometimes gossip can give you interesting and humorous pieces of information, like who has slept with whom and how much your colleagues earn (a true rat racer knows exactly what their colleagues earn without the need for gossip). Gossip, by nature, is rumour and hearsay, meaning it may well be untrue. This in turn means that gossip is often all fun and games until you are the subject of the gossip. Lauren is an expert at taking mundane pieces of information and sensationalising them. I can hear her report on my conversation with Lucy now, “I’m telling you, it definitely looked like they were talking about something important, I think he may be looking for a new job” or “the way they were looking at each other, I’m pretty sure they’re having sex.” And there you have it; the gossip is that I’m looking for a new job and/or sleeping with a mystery woman. Like most things, what goes around comes around, and the office gossip baron will eventually get their comeuppance, usually in the form of complete distrust and contempt from their colleagues.
Lauren and Ian walk by and I divert my attention back to Lucy. “Yes, I was hoping to see you here, and no, I don’t have it in for you anymore.” Good. “I want two things from you.” Interesting, she said ‘want’ and not ‘need’. “Really Lucy, and what might they be?”
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Burning Bridges
There she was, the infamous Lucy Tricker. She is sitting cross-legged on the couches sipping on what I expect is a chai latte. I’m in a rush but I cannot resist talking to her as we not spoken since she stormed out of Invest Co., and my life in the process.
As usual, she is dressed all in black, with her long dark hair in a ponytail showing off her striking blue eyes. Noticing her outfit leads me to think momentarily about what colour new suit I’ll buy later today. Maybe a nice charcoal or perhaps a navy pinstripe, I’ll maybe even buy some new cufflinks…I stop myself there and focus on the task in hand. Trying not to smile too broadly, I approach Lucy, who hasn’t spotted me as I edge closer towards her.
Lucy’s sharp dress sense is matched by her sharp wit and astuteness. She is so sharp that if your pencil was blunt all you would have to do it stick it up one of her nostrils. She is the epitome of the female rat racer - smart, sassy and sexy. When working at Invest Co., although in the same team, she and I would continuously compete with one another, a little like Jono and I now, expect Jono and I don’t occasionally sleep together, as Lucy and I did. She’s a completely different breed of girl to Juliet and as such I wouldn’t have considered any type of relationship with her, however we only ever spent time together during after-work drinks or at conferences, and of course the bedroom, and that suited us both fine.
The reason why Lucy is no longer at Invest Co., or even in my life, is because of an incident almost a year ago, during which she spectacularly burnt her bridges with myself and the company.
Burning bridges is a big no-no in the city, especially in a town the size of Sydney, and even Australia as a whole. Word travels fast when misdemeanours or embarrassing incidents occur. Just like how you knew at school when Sammy in class 4 called their teacher ‘mum’ or when Joan swore at Jessie for taking their pencil, the city grapevine will let you know about incompetence, bad behaviour and when someone has dowsed their bridges with a can of gasoline and lit a match.
If Kevin Bacon has taught us anything, it’s that we have a connection with almost everyone on the planet….and also that city boys can teach small towns how to dance. Because we are all connected, if you plan to tell your boss to shove his job, and his head, where the sun doesn’t shine and then expect to get another job in the same industry with no difficulty, you may be in for a shock. Everyone knows someone who knows someone, including the person interviewing you or your potential future manager. It’s not worth it; always leave a job on good terms and leave your bridges intact.
Lucy ignored these rules. She stormed out of Invest Co. after being bypassed for a promotion she had been promised by Brian. That promotion was instead given to someone far more deserving and competent, with whom the management saw huge ongoing and future potential - me. Lucy was not happy and treated myself, Brian and senior management to a showcase of verbal abuse, in front of the whole office. She threw in a little rock star style equipment smashing for good measure too. It’s still talked about round the water cooler and gossiped about by new recruits to the company.
“Hello Lucy”, I say trying to hide the smirk on my face. She slowly looks up from playing with her phone. Cool, calm and collected, her piercing blue eyes look me up and down. “Well well, I was hoping I would see you here.”
As usual, she is dressed all in black, with her long dark hair in a ponytail showing off her striking blue eyes. Noticing her outfit leads me to think momentarily about what colour new suit I’ll buy later today. Maybe a nice charcoal or perhaps a navy pinstripe, I’ll maybe even buy some new cufflinks…I stop myself there and focus on the task in hand. Trying not to smile too broadly, I approach Lucy, who hasn’t spotted me as I edge closer towards her.
Lucy’s sharp dress sense is matched by her sharp wit and astuteness. She is so sharp that if your pencil was blunt all you would have to do it stick it up one of her nostrils. She is the epitome of the female rat racer - smart, sassy and sexy. When working at Invest Co., although in the same team, she and I would continuously compete with one another, a little like Jono and I now, expect Jono and I don’t occasionally sleep together, as Lucy and I did. She’s a completely different breed of girl to Juliet and as such I wouldn’t have considered any type of relationship with her, however we only ever spent time together during after-work drinks or at conferences, and of course the bedroom, and that suited us both fine.
The reason why Lucy is no longer at Invest Co., or even in my life, is because of an incident almost a year ago, during which she spectacularly burnt her bridges with myself and the company.
Burning bridges is a big no-no in the city, especially in a town the size of Sydney, and even Australia as a whole. Word travels fast when misdemeanours or embarrassing incidents occur. Just like how you knew at school when Sammy in class 4 called their teacher ‘mum’ or when Joan swore at Jessie for taking their pencil, the city grapevine will let you know about incompetence, bad behaviour and when someone has dowsed their bridges with a can of gasoline and lit a match.
If Kevin Bacon has taught us anything, it’s that we have a connection with almost everyone on the planet….and also that city boys can teach small towns how to dance. Because we are all connected, if you plan to tell your boss to shove his job, and his head, where the sun doesn’t shine and then expect to get another job in the same industry with no difficulty, you may be in for a shock. Everyone knows someone who knows someone, including the person interviewing you or your potential future manager. It’s not worth it; always leave a job on good terms and leave your bridges intact.
Lucy ignored these rules. She stormed out of Invest Co. after being bypassed for a promotion she had been promised by Brian. That promotion was instead given to someone far more deserving and competent, with whom the management saw huge ongoing and future potential - me. Lucy was not happy and treated myself, Brian and senior management to a showcase of verbal abuse, in front of the whole office. She threw in a little rock star style equipment smashing for good measure too. It’s still talked about round the water cooler and gossiped about by new recruits to the company.
“Hello Lucy”, I say trying to hide the smirk on my face. She slowly looks up from playing with her phone. Cool, calm and collected, her piercing blue eyes look me up and down. “Well well, I was hoping I would see you here.”
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Familiar faces
The Sydney CBD is a small place. This is confirmed frequently by the fact that you cannot walk for five minutes without seeing someone you know or recognise, especially when you have as big a personal and professional network as I do. Sometimes I crave being back in London or New York, two cities that I know well. You can walk around at your leisure knowing you’re a face in the crowd and the chances of you having the unfortunate experience of running into somebody like your cousin’s irritating ex-girlfriend are slim to none. Other times, the intimacy of the city is enjoyable and it can be a nice experience to run into people you know, and see familiar faces.
Whether you love or loathe the fact that you see these familiar faces in the Sydney CBD, having spotted a friend, acquaintance or foe, no matter who you are, the mind quickly processes the appropriate move to make. A, Say hello, B, have a conversation, or C, pretend you haven’t seen them. Today, I notice an acquaintance from the past walking towards me, Jarred; his last name unfortunately resigned to my memory’s trashcan. Jarred is a guy I knew at uni. A nice guy, but we were never close or hung out and we would probably have very little to talk about, even though I haven’t seen him for years. I decide, however, that a quick chat would be appropriate and I let him know this by making very obvious eye contact as we walk toward one another. Obvious eye contact being the universal code for ‘I want to talk to you’, ‘I think you’re attractive’ or ‘I hate you’. I merely want to talk, so hopefully he recognises me and is aware that I don’t want his phone number or to punch him in the face.
Jarred recognises me and we exchange an upward head nod. This is more code, meaning ‘let’s speak’ or in some circumstances ‘hello, but we’re not going to speak’. It’s confirmed that the former is our intention as we retain eye contact. I meet him with an outstretched hand, “Jarred, good to see you, how have you been?” I have a lot to get done in the next couple hours so I’m hoping to have a quick in and out conversation, with the obligatory exchange of business cards. “Good to see you too mate. Yeah I’m well, thanks. Do you work round here? What do you do nowadays, still finance?” I briefly explain that I do indeed work round here in ‘finance’, but offer him a bit more detail on my exact role; I keep it short but to the point and then ask him where he works. I’m assuming he does O.K. for himself, but nothing spectacular. I make this judgment based upon his middle-the-range suit and the fact that he has made the very poor fashion choice of wearing a v-neck sweater under his jacket. He is also wearing a Dolce & Gabbana watch, which all but confirms my suspicion. Thankfully, he also keeps it short; “I work at a small M&A advisory house, working my way up the ranks.” Mergers and acquisitions being of interest to me, I’m actually interested to hear more about what Jarred and his firm do, but on another day and not in the middle of Pitt Street. We continue small talk for a minute or two and I genuinely want to take his business card when he offers it to me, I promise to call soon to arrange a coffee or beer.
I make it back to the building. As soon as I walk into the ground floor lobby I see another familiar face sitting on the coaches, Lucy Tricker. This is someone I will happily talk to for a few minutes, although she may not like it very much at all.
Whether you love or loathe the fact that you see these familiar faces in the Sydney CBD, having spotted a friend, acquaintance or foe, no matter who you are, the mind quickly processes the appropriate move to make. A, Say hello, B, have a conversation, or C, pretend you haven’t seen them. Today, I notice an acquaintance from the past walking towards me, Jarred; his last name unfortunately resigned to my memory’s trashcan. Jarred is a guy I knew at uni. A nice guy, but we were never close or hung out and we would probably have very little to talk about, even though I haven’t seen him for years. I decide, however, that a quick chat would be appropriate and I let him know this by making very obvious eye contact as we walk toward one another. Obvious eye contact being the universal code for ‘I want to talk to you’, ‘I think you’re attractive’ or ‘I hate you’. I merely want to talk, so hopefully he recognises me and is aware that I don’t want his phone number or to punch him in the face.
Jarred recognises me and we exchange an upward head nod. This is more code, meaning ‘let’s speak’ or in some circumstances ‘hello, but we’re not going to speak’. It’s confirmed that the former is our intention as we retain eye contact. I meet him with an outstretched hand, “Jarred, good to see you, how have you been?” I have a lot to get done in the next couple hours so I’m hoping to have a quick in and out conversation, with the obligatory exchange of business cards. “Good to see you too mate. Yeah I’m well, thanks. Do you work round here? What do you do nowadays, still finance?” I briefly explain that I do indeed work round here in ‘finance’, but offer him a bit more detail on my exact role; I keep it short but to the point and then ask him where he works. I’m assuming he does O.K. for himself, but nothing spectacular. I make this judgment based upon his middle-the-range suit and the fact that he has made the very poor fashion choice of wearing a v-neck sweater under his jacket. He is also wearing a Dolce & Gabbana watch, which all but confirms my suspicion. Thankfully, he also keeps it short; “I work at a small M&A advisory house, working my way up the ranks.” Mergers and acquisitions being of interest to me, I’m actually interested to hear more about what Jarred and his firm do, but on another day and not in the middle of Pitt Street. We continue small talk for a minute or two and I genuinely want to take his business card when he offers it to me, I promise to call soon to arrange a coffee or beer.
I make it back to the building. As soon as I walk into the ground floor lobby I see another familiar face sitting on the coaches, Lucy Tricker. This is someone I will happily talk to for a few minutes, although she may not like it very much at all.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Inbox Clutter
I slip my Ray Bans on as I walk back to the office through the happy tourists and even more excited seagulls around Circular Quay. I’m not sure what exactly it is about seagulls that trouble me so much. I can easily imagine them working together to scout for venerable tourist targets. The battle wounded gull with the gammy leg would distract the unsuspecting holiday-maker while the gang leader with the jailhouse tats, cigarette on the go and pocket knife in hand, would rob them of their wallet, or hot chips. Joe Pesci’s character Tommy in Goodfellas could have been played by a seagull. I stride through the ominous gathering briskly.
I’m checking the numerous emails I’ve collected in the last couple hours as I walk. Invites to events, friends asking what I was up to last weekend or what plans I have for the one ahead, industry updates, and numerous messages actually related to my job thrown in amongst them. This means one thing to me, that my email filtering has once again broken down and I need to get the overworked I.T. propeller head, Matt, on the case. He is overworked mainly because everything he ‘fixes’ breaks again a week later. It may be our systems, as he claims, or it may be the fact that he is largely incompetent. Invest Co., in all its wisdom, sacked the I.T. genius that was Nick in a cost cutting measure. We saved $30,000 and replaced the intelligence of Steve Jobs with the brainpower of Steve-O.
There is so much email clutter sent to the average rat racer nowadays that how some people ever get any work done amongst it is astonishing. Go away for a few days out of Blackberry range and you need Bear Grills’ advice on how to survive in the jungle that has become of your inbox. There are a few simple rules to help avoid inbox annihilation. Many do not employ them as a distraction from work is exactly what they want. I am busy, and while happy to receive jokes and chatty emails, I prefer to deal with them when I have a moment to do so, not be alerted every 10 seconds that somebody thinks a video of someone falling off a skateboard is funny, and then receive the opinions of the other 30 people who were also copied in.
The rules I follow are thus. One, never use your work email address when signing up to anything other than work related things. You don’t want to start receiving emails about Ikea special offers every 20 minutes. Two, set-up filters. If you know you have overzealous friends, get all personal email filtered to a separate folder and away from your precious inbox, the same goes for things like ‘special offers’ from various industry associations and the numerous, and far too frequent, updates from organisations like Bloomberg and Morningstar. Three, stay on top of emails. If you don’t, they will get the better of you. And finally four, be ruthless and tell people to stop. If you’re mate Jimmy keeps emailing you his opinion on the weather then just ask him to give you his important assessment over the phone. I decide to put the Blackberry away rather than deal with the mess, and get Matt on the case when I get back to the office shortly.
Phone back in pocket, I try to enjoy my walk. I try, but my mind drifts back to Brian and Jono and I frantically begin to try to understand what’s happening. Both were acting oddly and I want to know why, preferably before my meeting with Brian later this afternoon to discuss the Manager’s role. I don’t like not knowing; I already tried talking to Tony and he wasn’t much help, so I need to think about how else I can crack this case, and the clock is ticking.
I’m checking the numerous emails I’ve collected in the last couple hours as I walk. Invites to events, friends asking what I was up to last weekend or what plans I have for the one ahead, industry updates, and numerous messages actually related to my job thrown in amongst them. This means one thing to me, that my email filtering has once again broken down and I need to get the overworked I.T. propeller head, Matt, on the case. He is overworked mainly because everything he ‘fixes’ breaks again a week later. It may be our systems, as he claims, or it may be the fact that he is largely incompetent. Invest Co., in all its wisdom, sacked the I.T. genius that was Nick in a cost cutting measure. We saved $30,000 and replaced the intelligence of Steve Jobs with the brainpower of Steve-O.
There is so much email clutter sent to the average rat racer nowadays that how some people ever get any work done amongst it is astonishing. Go away for a few days out of Blackberry range and you need Bear Grills’ advice on how to survive in the jungle that has become of your inbox. There are a few simple rules to help avoid inbox annihilation. Many do not employ them as a distraction from work is exactly what they want. I am busy, and while happy to receive jokes and chatty emails, I prefer to deal with them when I have a moment to do so, not be alerted every 10 seconds that somebody thinks a video of someone falling off a skateboard is funny, and then receive the opinions of the other 30 people who were also copied in.
The rules I follow are thus. One, never use your work email address when signing up to anything other than work related things. You don’t want to start receiving emails about Ikea special offers every 20 minutes. Two, set-up filters. If you know you have overzealous friends, get all personal email filtered to a separate folder and away from your precious inbox, the same goes for things like ‘special offers’ from various industry associations and the numerous, and far too frequent, updates from organisations like Bloomberg and Morningstar. Three, stay on top of emails. If you don’t, they will get the better of you. And finally four, be ruthless and tell people to stop. If you’re mate Jimmy keeps emailing you his opinion on the weather then just ask him to give you his important assessment over the phone. I decide to put the Blackberry away rather than deal with the mess, and get Matt on the case when I get back to the office shortly.
Phone back in pocket, I try to enjoy my walk. I try, but my mind drifts back to Brian and Jono and I frantically begin to try to understand what’s happening. Both were acting oddly and I want to know why, preferably before my meeting with Brian later this afternoon to discuss the Manager’s role. I don’t like not knowing; I already tried talking to Tony and he wasn’t much help, so I need to think about how else I can crack this case, and the clock is ticking.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Networks
Before Pete has a chance to persuade me otherwise, I pay the bill with my platinum AMEX. Due to the shameful lack of expensive wine drank today, it’s probably the cheapest meal I have ever had at Quay. I leave a generous tip. I generally always tip; only when the service is so poor, food substandard or atmosphere appalling will I consider not doing so. Despite the rowdy ‘N Sync look-alikes, everything was great today. The maitre d’ handled Timberlake and the boys well and I want her to know it was appreciated (my rules on favours extend to such assistance). Tipping is something some people refuse to do, or think of flimsy justification for avoiding, usually because they are cheap. I’m well aware that people in hospitality work long hours, often with little reward. I work hard for long hours for significant reward, so I have no problem opening my wallet to those less fortunate when they have done a good job.
“Okay Pete, thanks for a great lunch, I am truly sorry I cannot stick around today.” This is completely genuine; I would love to spend all afternoon drinking and laughing with Pete like a couple of Irishmen on holiday. “Well young man, if I wasn’t aware of your sincerity, I may be a little more upset, but you owe me now.” I sure do, his $500,000 investment was better than I expected and will do wonders to show Brian once again that I am his greatest asset, and Jono that he cannot compete. “I’m going to stay here and enjoy another bottle of champagne, before you go you, however, need to talk to that young lady who has been starting at you all lunchtime.” He’s right, I do.
The maitre d' has been making eyes at me constantly, and I have thrown her the odd bone by looking back. I’m not overly attracted to her, which means she is already under the Juliet Bar, but I take every opportunity to extend my personal and business network to the right people.
Networks are extremely important. Not faux networks, like the amount of friends you have on Facebook or connections on LinkedIn, but real life people at the other end of the phone that you can meet for a coffee. Establishing and maintaining relationships is essential to success as a top rat racer. Knowing people who can help you with any problem or query you have is a wonderful thing. If you need a corporate lawyer, you want three you can call; if you need to know about insurance, you want your mate from QBE on the line; if there’s something strange in your neighbourhood, you want a Ghostbuster in your rolodex. Equally, you want these people to think of you when they need advice or assistance in your field. You can never have too many people in your network, but they must be good at what they do, and know you are too, so the relationship is mutually beneficial. Having the maitre d’ at Quay in my network will certainly be mutually beneficial, how exactly will depend on the terms of that relationship, which I am still to figure out.
“Hi. Thanks for everything today. Perhaps I can buy you that glass of champagne sometime?” I’m leaning against the wall - relaxed, inviting. “My pleasure. Yes, I’d like that.” And that’s that, all you need to do is ask. “Fantastic, here is my number.” I ask her to write hers down on a napkin, the classic way. “Speak soon.” As I walk out I remember that I don’t even know her name. I turn and ask, “So sorry, I don’t have your name?!” She giggles a little, “It’s Anastasia.” Anastasia? I am immediately put off by this and know right away that there will be little chance of romance here. “Bye, Anastasia.” I walk off with a nod to Pete and reach into my pocket for my Blackberry.
“Okay Pete, thanks for a great lunch, I am truly sorry I cannot stick around today.” This is completely genuine; I would love to spend all afternoon drinking and laughing with Pete like a couple of Irishmen on holiday. “Well young man, if I wasn’t aware of your sincerity, I may be a little more upset, but you owe me now.” I sure do, his $500,000 investment was better than I expected and will do wonders to show Brian once again that I am his greatest asset, and Jono that he cannot compete. “I’m going to stay here and enjoy another bottle of champagne, before you go you, however, need to talk to that young lady who has been starting at you all lunchtime.” He’s right, I do.
The maitre d' has been making eyes at me constantly, and I have thrown her the odd bone by looking back. I’m not overly attracted to her, which means she is already under the Juliet Bar, but I take every opportunity to extend my personal and business network to the right people.
Networks are extremely important. Not faux networks, like the amount of friends you have on Facebook or connections on LinkedIn, but real life people at the other end of the phone that you can meet for a coffee. Establishing and maintaining relationships is essential to success as a top rat racer. Knowing people who can help you with any problem or query you have is a wonderful thing. If you need a corporate lawyer, you want three you can call; if you need to know about insurance, you want your mate from QBE on the line; if there’s something strange in your neighbourhood, you want a Ghostbuster in your rolodex. Equally, you want these people to think of you when they need advice or assistance in your field. You can never have too many people in your network, but they must be good at what they do, and know you are too, so the relationship is mutually beneficial. Having the maitre d’ at Quay in my network will certainly be mutually beneficial, how exactly will depend on the terms of that relationship, which I am still to figure out.
“Hi. Thanks for everything today. Perhaps I can buy you that glass of champagne sometime?” I’m leaning against the wall - relaxed, inviting. “My pleasure. Yes, I’d like that.” And that’s that, all you need to do is ask. “Fantastic, here is my number.” I ask her to write hers down on a napkin, the classic way. “Speak soon.” As I walk out I remember that I don’t even know her name. I turn and ask, “So sorry, I don’t have your name?!” She giggles a little, “It’s Anastasia.” Anastasia? I am immediately put off by this and know right away that there will be little chance of romance here. “Bye, Anastasia.” I walk off with a nod to Pete and reach into my pocket for my Blackberry.
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