“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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Midweek Drinks
Lunch with Pete goes swimmingly. He is enjoying his champagne and I successfully managed to stop him refilling my glass following my third helping, after a lot of pleading and saying his name over and over again, “Pete, come on, Pete, I’ve told you, please Pete you know what I have this afternoon Pete, do me a favour today Pete” and so on. Three drinks were three more than I planned but a pretty good outcome when you’re drinking with Mr Dunstan; the man provides the blueprint on excess living. He owns cars he cannot even fit his belly into.
He and I have negotiated his input into the fund. Another of my Rules of the Race is that if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Pete offered to contribute $250,000 to the fund. I asked for $500,000, and got it. If there was any doubt in Brian’s mind that I am the man for the manager role then this will defeat that. I ponder what Jono is up to as I work out the details of receiving the funds from Pete. He’s probably doing what he normally does at lunchtime, eating a Big Mac with a side helping of cigarettes.
You need to ask in order to get in most circumstances. Too many rat racers sit around waiting for things to happen. The best example of this is a pay rise. If you want a pay rise, ask for one, you’ll normally get one and if not, this may be the cue for you to start looking for a new job. I apply this rule to most aspects of both my city and daily life. Pete didn’t make asking to stay off the booze very easy, but it worked eventually.
Today is a Tuesday and normally that would have little or no effect on my decision to indulge in a tipple at lunchtime or after work, but with today’s meeting I have a very good reason to stay on the wagon. There are some issues with midweek drinking, some to consider before, after and during indulging, but mostly these are completely ignored by city dwellers.
Being a rat racer, I’m often approached by friends or colleagues (usually the single ones) who want to engage in a little midweek drinking to talk business or pleasure. Knowing this to be the case, I conduct my necessary and enjoyable gym workouts mostly when I have time for a lunch break. Meeting a friend or colleague for a drink at 5 or 6pm means you can quite easily have 4 or 5 drinks by 8pm. 8pm is reasonably early to head home, so you keep going till 9pm, and by 9pm you have had 7 or 8 drinks and so you’re happy to have a couple more. By 10pm you’re moderately drunk…and it’s a Tuesday.
When having midweek drinks, you often have midweek drink diner options, consisting of poor quality and overpriced steak, or numerous bags of chips and maybe a post pub Hungry Jacks thrown in for good measure. Midweek drinks always seem like a good idea at the time. The bars are reasonably quiet; you get served quickly and are able to hold a conversation with our accomplice or two at volume that means you don’t feel like you’re talking to your grandmother. The only real problem with midweek drinking is that you usually wake up on a Wednesday or Thursday morning feeling like you ate your cat’s dinner, decided to drink sea water and jogged up the Centre Point Tower’s staircase two or three times before getting into bed…which you consequentially will be back out of in about 5 hours.
I look at my Omega, it’s 2.40pm and I need to get going, not least because my Blackberry is buzzing like a bee in my pocket. Two things to do now; get Pete to unshackle me then ask the maitre d' for her phone number.
He and I have negotiated his input into the fund. Another of my Rules of the Race is that if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Pete offered to contribute $250,000 to the fund. I asked for $500,000, and got it. If there was any doubt in Brian’s mind that I am the man for the manager role then this will defeat that. I ponder what Jono is up to as I work out the details of receiving the funds from Pete. He’s probably doing what he normally does at lunchtime, eating a Big Mac with a side helping of cigarettes.
You need to ask in order to get in most circumstances. Too many rat racers sit around waiting for things to happen. The best example of this is a pay rise. If you want a pay rise, ask for one, you’ll normally get one and if not, this may be the cue for you to start looking for a new job. I apply this rule to most aspects of both my city and daily life. Pete didn’t make asking to stay off the booze very easy, but it worked eventually.
Today is a Tuesday and normally that would have little or no effect on my decision to indulge in a tipple at lunchtime or after work, but with today’s meeting I have a very good reason to stay on the wagon. There are some issues with midweek drinking, some to consider before, after and during indulging, but mostly these are completely ignored by city dwellers.
Being a rat racer, I’m often approached by friends or colleagues (usually the single ones) who want to engage in a little midweek drinking to talk business or pleasure. Knowing this to be the case, I conduct my necessary and enjoyable gym workouts mostly when I have time for a lunch break. Meeting a friend or colleague for a drink at 5 or 6pm means you can quite easily have 4 or 5 drinks by 8pm. 8pm is reasonably early to head home, so you keep going till 9pm, and by 9pm you have had 7 or 8 drinks and so you’re happy to have a couple more. By 10pm you’re moderately drunk…and it’s a Tuesday.
When having midweek drinks, you often have midweek drink diner options, consisting of poor quality and overpriced steak, or numerous bags of chips and maybe a post pub Hungry Jacks thrown in for good measure. Midweek drinks always seem like a good idea at the time. The bars are reasonably quiet; you get served quickly and are able to hold a conversation with our accomplice or two at volume that means you don’t feel like you’re talking to your grandmother. The only real problem with midweek drinking is that you usually wake up on a Wednesday or Thursday morning feeling like you ate your cat’s dinner, decided to drink sea water and jogged up the Centre Point Tower’s staircase two or three times before getting into bed…which you consequentially will be back out of in about 5 hours.
I look at my Omega, it’s 2.40pm and I need to get going, not least because my Blackberry is buzzing like a bee in my pocket. Two things to do now; get Pete to unshackle me then ask the maitre d' for her phone number.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
An introduction to women
I let Pete order his champagne, which we quickly follow with our lunch choices. I order the slow braised milk fed Suffolk lamb; he has the poached Riverina milk fed veal. ‘N Sync got the hint and begin to leave. Good.
The auburn maitre d' comes back to our table. “I’m very sorry about that gentlemen, let me know if there is anything further I can do for you today.” She is keenly looking me in the eyes as she says this. Perhaps I will ask her for her phone number, she is attractive and seems nice, and there could be some fantastic benefits to being cosy with a beautiful maitre d' at Quay. I have befriended people in jobs like hers all over the country. It’s a huge asset to be able to call somebody like her, work the charm and get a table when they have the fully booked sign out to everyone else. I’ve convinced myself. I softly place my hand on her lower right arm. “I think we’re fine at the moment, thank-you. You’ve been fantastic. Can you join us for a glass of champagne?” I know the answer is no, she is of course working, but I also know, given the looks I’ve been receiving, that she will be flattered and it will raise a smile. “I’d love to but unfortunately I don’t finish my shift for hours. Perhaps another time.” “I hope so.” We leave it there; I’ll carry on that conversation later.
I’m no womaniser. I love females and they respond positively to me. My interest in the fairer sex tends to wane frequently though, due to my fixation with my ex-girlfriend, Juliet. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen and person I give it all up for in an instant and move away to a mountain shack with. Juliet and I were an item once, and I think every day about us being one again. When my head gets into Juliet mode I need to act fast to divert my attention and change my thought process. “What do you think of her Pete?” “Lovely young man, very lovely.”
Women in the city are a tricky bunch. Some are easy to figure out, 1 + 1 = 2; done. Others are more like a rubik’s cube; often these women are the most intriguing, unless they are too hard to figure out, then you let Mrs Rubik go on her merry coulourful way. Beauty and brains are an all important combination; but unfortunately too many of the women I meet only have the former. I’m extremely picky and often only see women I date once. Each and every one has the get over the ‘Juliet bar’ in my mind before I will see them again. Very few have managed this and I’m a frequent user of the tried and tested ‘I’m not looking for anything serious’ line, so much so that I’m considering having it stitched into the inside of my cuff, so that when I role my sleeves up they are fully aware of where I stand. I already know that if I date the maitre d', it will be purely casual and infrequent. I’m sure she’s a great girl, but the fact that she’s a maitre d' means she I could not see anything serious happening with her.
Pete and I finally get down to talking business as we wait for our lunches. I explain to Pete that we are looking to expand the pool of equity in our new fund and I would be delighted if he were to contribute to this. I explain the risk and possible return of our proposed investments. I do not need to sweet talk Pete, he knows all about me and Invest Co. and would be insulted if he thought I was trying to convince him of something that I didn’t believe in. Pete’s chins wobble as he nods continuously. I may be onto a wobbly winner here.
The auburn maitre d' comes back to our table. “I’m very sorry about that gentlemen, let me know if there is anything further I can do for you today.” She is keenly looking me in the eyes as she says this. Perhaps I will ask her for her phone number, she is attractive and seems nice, and there could be some fantastic benefits to being cosy with a beautiful maitre d' at Quay. I have befriended people in jobs like hers all over the country. It’s a huge asset to be able to call somebody like her, work the charm and get a table when they have the fully booked sign out to everyone else. I’ve convinced myself. I softly place my hand on her lower right arm. “I think we’re fine at the moment, thank-you. You’ve been fantastic. Can you join us for a glass of champagne?” I know the answer is no, she is of course working, but I also know, given the looks I’ve been receiving, that she will be flattered and it will raise a smile. “I’d love to but unfortunately I don’t finish my shift for hours. Perhaps another time.” “I hope so.” We leave it there; I’ll carry on that conversation later.
I’m no womaniser. I love females and they respond positively to me. My interest in the fairer sex tends to wane frequently though, due to my fixation with my ex-girlfriend, Juliet. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen and person I give it all up for in an instant and move away to a mountain shack with. Juliet and I were an item once, and I think every day about us being one again. When my head gets into Juliet mode I need to act fast to divert my attention and change my thought process. “What do you think of her Pete?” “Lovely young man, very lovely.”
Women in the city are a tricky bunch. Some are easy to figure out, 1 + 1 = 2; done. Others are more like a rubik’s cube; often these women are the most intriguing, unless they are too hard to figure out, then you let Mrs Rubik go on her merry coulourful way. Beauty and brains are an all important combination; but unfortunately too many of the women I meet only have the former. I’m extremely picky and often only see women I date once. Each and every one has the get over the ‘Juliet bar’ in my mind before I will see them again. Very few have managed this and I’m a frequent user of the tried and tested ‘I’m not looking for anything serious’ line, so much so that I’m considering having it stitched into the inside of my cuff, so that when I role my sleeves up they are fully aware of where I stand. I already know that if I date the maitre d', it will be purely casual and infrequent. I’m sure she’s a great girl, but the fact that she’s a maitre d' means she I could not see anything serious happening with her.
Pete and I finally get down to talking business as we wait for our lunches. I explain to Pete that we are looking to expand the pool of equity in our new fund and I would be delighted if he were to contribute to this. I explain the risk and possible return of our proposed investments. I do not need to sweet talk Pete, he knows all about me and Invest Co. and would be insulted if he thought I was trying to convince him of something that I didn’t believe in. Pete’s chins wobble as he nods continuously. I may be onto a wobbly winner here.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Complaining
Pete is topping up my glass of champagne. “Pete, sorry but like I said, not today. Big meeting this afternoon.” He ignores my request. “Young man, you simply need a second glass to loosen up, you’re too tense, I won’t pour another I promise.” He’s right, I am too tense today. With the potential promotion, Jono’s antics in the meeting and Brian’s odd behaviour, my mind is racing like Makybe Diva after a few cans of Red Bull.
A racing mind is both my blessing and my curse. I become fixated on things I need to do, or correct, to bring my world back to where I want it to be. An active and racing mind has allowed me to achieve, I get what I want by making it happen. If I want something, I’ll figure out quickly how I can get it and put that plan into action. The problem is, if that thing I want is unavailable or unachievable then I deconstruct the situation in my head and can dwell upon it. Fortunately, I have had very few failures in my life, so the latter is not a frequent problem.
“You’re right; I need to forget the outside world for a bit.” The ‘N Sync look-alikes are still making lots of noise and I’m wondering if I should complain about them. This is, after all, the country’s top restaurant, and should be respected as such, not treated like a Contiki Tour bus. “Are those guys bothering you Pete?” “Are who bothering me?” Pete hasn’t even noticed them. “Never mind.”
I hear a smashing of a glass at their table and decide to call the maitre d' over, a beautiful young auburn woman. I very rarely complain in restaurants. It can be a difficult task involving several elements, but today I’m a little tense so feel the urge. When complaining, you must be discreet so as not to alert your aggressor, to avoid any potential scene, which I’ve witnessed numerous times. You must also be polite as you can muster to the staff you’re complaining to but stress that you’re not happy and you require a resolution promptly (it is usually worth suggesting the resolution you require). Smile like a mouth model, but make it a disappointed smile. Put these things together and any good restaurant will take care of the problem. I do all these things expertly today, and throw in a healthy dose of charm; because I’m pretty sure I caught the maitre d' looking at me earlier. “I understand completely sir, the noise issue will be addressed, I’m very sorry to disturb your dining experience.” She says, while touching my shoulder. She then goes over to ‘N Sync and, presumably, asks them to turn down the volume, or take their after show party elsewhere. It seems to work, at least for now.
“Right Pete, now that I can hear myself think, why don’t we order our lunch and get down to some business for a bit?” I’m starving, and Pete is always hungry, most importantly though I need to get control of this lunch before Pete has his way and it gets out of control. “You read my mind young man, but first, another bottle of champagne I think. Waiter?”
A racing mind is both my blessing and my curse. I become fixated on things I need to do, or correct, to bring my world back to where I want it to be. An active and racing mind has allowed me to achieve, I get what I want by making it happen. If I want something, I’ll figure out quickly how I can get it and put that plan into action. The problem is, if that thing I want is unavailable or unachievable then I deconstruct the situation in my head and can dwell upon it. Fortunately, I have had very few failures in my life, so the latter is not a frequent problem.
“You’re right; I need to forget the outside world for a bit.” The ‘N Sync look-alikes are still making lots of noise and I’m wondering if I should complain about them. This is, after all, the country’s top restaurant, and should be respected as such, not treated like a Contiki Tour bus. “Are those guys bothering you Pete?” “Are who bothering me?” Pete hasn’t even noticed them. “Never mind.”
I hear a smashing of a glass at their table and decide to call the maitre d' over, a beautiful young auburn woman. I very rarely complain in restaurants. It can be a difficult task involving several elements, but today I’m a little tense so feel the urge. When complaining, you must be discreet so as not to alert your aggressor, to avoid any potential scene, which I’ve witnessed numerous times. You must also be polite as you can muster to the staff you’re complaining to but stress that you’re not happy and you require a resolution promptly (it is usually worth suggesting the resolution you require). Smile like a mouth model, but make it a disappointed smile. Put these things together and any good restaurant will take care of the problem. I do all these things expertly today, and throw in a healthy dose of charm; because I’m pretty sure I caught the maitre d' looking at me earlier. “I understand completely sir, the noise issue will be addressed, I’m very sorry to disturb your dining experience.” She says, while touching my shoulder. She then goes over to ‘N Sync and, presumably, asks them to turn down the volume, or take their after show party elsewhere. It seems to work, at least for now.
“Right Pete, now that I can hear myself think, why don’t we order our lunch and get down to some business for a bit?” I’m starving, and Pete is always hungry, most importantly though I need to get control of this lunch before Pete has his way and it gets out of control. “You read my mind young man, but first, another bottle of champagne I think. Waiter?”
Monday, August 9, 2010
Urinal spitting
“Afternoon Pete” I say as he stands up to shake my hand, like all true gentlemen do. You can assume a lot about somebody who doesn’t stand up to shake your hand if you are already standing. “Good afternoon young man” he says as we sit. He pours me a glass of champagne without even asking if I want one. Pete never fails to remind me of Wayne Swan. He has the same grey hair, glasses and permanent side parting, except about four more chins. “Pete, before anything else, this is the only glass I’ll be having today. I have a big meeting this afternoon with Brian about my possible promotion and I cannot walk in smelling like Mel Gibson.” I’m hoping this will not offend Pete, not that much offends him anyway. “Ah I see, well my words of wisdom are to let it be.” Not exactly the response I was looking for, mainly because I’m not sure what he’s implying, but I do enjoy the Beatles reference. Pete and I are mutual fans of the Fab Four and we endeavour to drop a song reference into the conversation each time we meet. “Well done. Look, I’m serious today, sorry. I’ll make it up to you I promise. I’ll buy you a ticket to ride on a yellow submarine.” Two in one sentence there, although it wasn’t subtle so I’m actually a little disappointed with myself. Pete laughs for a little too long.
We begin making the obligatory small talk. During this, I’m frequently distracted by some rat racers that look like an ‘N Sync cover band in suits enjoying their lunch a little too loudly. Somehow between shouting incoherent words at each other they are finding time to pour an awful lot of vino down their necks. I’m all for having a good time and drinking at client lunches, in fact it’s the point of them, but not at volume where others trying to enjoy their company sponsored drinkathons want you to drown in your split pea soup. I need a bathroom break. “Sorry Pete, excuse me for a second please.”
As I walk into the toilets, the Justin Timberlake of the group crashes in behind me. We stand at adjacent urinals. While struggling with his zipper, he launches a big wad of red spit into the pan; how poetic. Rat racing men who feel they need to spit at urinals constantly trouble me. I’m sure they don’t spit at any other point in their lives; not when they use the bathroom at home, not when they’re walking down the street, not when they are sucking on a gobstopper or even eating a week old prawn sandwich, but present them with a urinal after a couple Pure Blondes and their mouth becomes a place when their saliva is no longer welcome, and is thrown out like a black chip in a packet of Kettle. Spitting in the urinal can become contagious, akin to yawning. The rat racer next to the spitter often feels the need to compliment his efforts by dropping their own contribution into the trough, and then the next one follows, like a game of rabid dominos. I never engage in this sport. I have no need to spit when I visit a urinal. There is no sign asking me to do so, nobody whispering in my ear suggesting it’s a good idea, no mythical urinal power that encompasses my body and commands me to spit to keep the gods happy. It’s pointless, and I challenge anyone to convince me as to why it is a good idea to potentially lessen the shine on my Armani loafers.
I leave Timberlake to his spitting and swaying and return to Pete.
We begin making the obligatory small talk. During this, I’m frequently distracted by some rat racers that look like an ‘N Sync cover band in suits enjoying their lunch a little too loudly. Somehow between shouting incoherent words at each other they are finding time to pour an awful lot of vino down their necks. I’m all for having a good time and drinking at client lunches, in fact it’s the point of them, but not at volume where others trying to enjoy their company sponsored drinkathons want you to drown in your split pea soup. I need a bathroom break. “Sorry Pete, excuse me for a second please.”
As I walk into the toilets, the Justin Timberlake of the group crashes in behind me. We stand at adjacent urinals. While struggling with his zipper, he launches a big wad of red spit into the pan; how poetic. Rat racing men who feel they need to spit at urinals constantly trouble me. I’m sure they don’t spit at any other point in their lives; not when they use the bathroom at home, not when they’re walking down the street, not when they are sucking on a gobstopper or even eating a week old prawn sandwich, but present them with a urinal after a couple Pure Blondes and their mouth becomes a place when their saliva is no longer welcome, and is thrown out like a black chip in a packet of Kettle. Spitting in the urinal can become contagious, akin to yawning. The rat racer next to the spitter often feels the need to compliment his efforts by dropping their own contribution into the trough, and then the next one follows, like a game of rabid dominos. I never engage in this sport. I have no need to spit when I visit a urinal. There is no sign asking me to do so, nobody whispering in my ear suggesting it’s a good idea, no mythical urinal power that encompasses my body and commands me to spit to keep the gods happy. It’s pointless, and I challenge anyone to convince me as to why it is a good idea to potentially lessen the shine on my Armani loafers.
I leave Timberlake to his spitting and swaying and return to Pete.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Favours
Before heading off to meet Pete, I make a quick trip via my bottom desk draw to comb my hair and refresh my aftershave, which I struggle to find at first among the many other items, such as protein bars and a copy of The Intelligent Investor by Benjamin Graham. You never know who you might meet in a place like Quay, so you want to be looking and feeling fresh.
I decide to walk to the restaurant. It’s a crisp yet beautifully sunny day, so I put my Ray Bans on, that I always keep in my pocket. Walking also gives me the opportunity to make a phone call; or at least try to make one. After one ring Tony answers. I am truly shocked, he never answers his phone, and I expected again that it be 48 hours before he believes he has the time to call back. “Tony speaking.” “Tones, so glad you picked up, look I need to pick your brain about something.” “You’re going to have to make it quick mate, I’m brainstorming here and have got to focus on the end result from a results perspective.” That sentence didn’t make much sense at all, but I choose to ignore it. “Sure, I know exactly what you mean, but I’d really like you to be frank with me about something. What is going on with Brian? He just did something very out of character and it was enough to set the alarm bells ringing as loud as Big Ben.” Tony does not share inside information lightly, we are friends but I still need to let him know that I am appreciative.
Giving and repaying favours is another of my Rules of the Race. I’m not referring to anything untoward, and I’m not suggesting you should only give to receive. I take pride and satisfaction in being able to help somebody who I respect. If someone does me a favour, I’ll do one back someday. If I do one for them, I may ask for one someday from them. The Don Corleone system, without the murdering and horses heads. In Tony’s case, he has been giving me the forward word on a number of Invest Co’s inner workings for a while, and as a token of my appreciation I’m paying for him to go and hear the high pitched ‘vvvvvvrooooooomm’ of Webber and the gang’s marvellous machines at the Formula 1 Grand Prix, in Malaysia. Well, I say pay but I’ll easily be able to obtain free tickets for the race and we should be able to do a little business while we’re over in Malaysia, meaning flights and accommodation will be handled by the company. Still, Tones can’t make this happen on his own so it still counts as my treat.
Tony then tells me something is happening without actually telling me something is happening. “You’ll have to talk to Brian about that, and you are talking to Brian later anyway aren’t you so you won’t have to wait long.” No business buzzwords in that sentence, maybe something is happening with Tony too. I thank Tones and continue my short walk to Quay with a lot on my mind but determined to stay off the booze. Pete is already inside. I’m always early, so he is extra early. I hate being late, and more so I hate others being late. It’s the height of rudeness and shows disrespect. Pete and I respect each other, hence our mutual earliness. I walk in and immediately see Pete is enjoying a bottle of Dom Pérignon. God, it would be easier to convince Neil Armstrong to admit the moon landing was a lie than it will be to convince Pete to let me stay dry this lunchtime.
I decide to walk to the restaurant. It’s a crisp yet beautifully sunny day, so I put my Ray Bans on, that I always keep in my pocket. Walking also gives me the opportunity to make a phone call; or at least try to make one. After one ring Tony answers. I am truly shocked, he never answers his phone, and I expected again that it be 48 hours before he believes he has the time to call back. “Tony speaking.” “Tones, so glad you picked up, look I need to pick your brain about something.” “You’re going to have to make it quick mate, I’m brainstorming here and have got to focus on the end result from a results perspective.” That sentence didn’t make much sense at all, but I choose to ignore it. “Sure, I know exactly what you mean, but I’d really like you to be frank with me about something. What is going on with Brian? He just did something very out of character and it was enough to set the alarm bells ringing as loud as Big Ben.” Tony does not share inside information lightly, we are friends but I still need to let him know that I am appreciative.
Giving and repaying favours is another of my Rules of the Race. I’m not referring to anything untoward, and I’m not suggesting you should only give to receive. I take pride and satisfaction in being able to help somebody who I respect. If someone does me a favour, I’ll do one back someday. If I do one for them, I may ask for one someday from them. The Don Corleone system, without the murdering and horses heads. In Tony’s case, he has been giving me the forward word on a number of Invest Co’s inner workings for a while, and as a token of my appreciation I’m paying for him to go and hear the high pitched ‘vvvvvvrooooooomm’ of Webber and the gang’s marvellous machines at the Formula 1 Grand Prix, in Malaysia. Well, I say pay but I’ll easily be able to obtain free tickets for the race and we should be able to do a little business while we’re over in Malaysia, meaning flights and accommodation will be handled by the company. Still, Tones can’t make this happen on his own so it still counts as my treat.
Tony then tells me something is happening without actually telling me something is happening. “You’ll have to talk to Brian about that, and you are talking to Brian later anyway aren’t you so you won’t have to wait long.” No business buzzwords in that sentence, maybe something is happening with Tony too. I thank Tones and continue my short walk to Quay with a lot on my mind but determined to stay off the booze. Pete is already inside. I’m always early, so he is extra early. I hate being late, and more so I hate others being late. It’s the height of rudeness and shows disrespect. Pete and I respect each other, hence our mutual earliness. I walk in and immediately see Pete is enjoying a bottle of Dom Pérignon. God, it would be easier to convince Neil Armstrong to admit the moon landing was a lie than it will be to convince Pete to let me stay dry this lunchtime.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Jono’s act and the 'art' of bull
Jono, being Jono, is never a shy public speaker and will do what he can to woo his spectators. Even at a business meeting, I wouldn’t put balancing a canoe on his nose while riding a miniature bicycle beyond him if he felt it would impress his audience. Seeing his earlier squirms, I am certain that today he has no choice but to face the music on his poor week. “Whoops!” he says as he, with clear intent, theatrically drops his notes on the floor. “That’s a shame gang, but proves, my friends, that little annoying things can happen to the best of us.” He then produces a smile Tom Cruise would be offended by. Oh dear, I see exactly where he’s going here, he’s going to gloss over the bad week he had by making a few funnies and performing party tricks. “You see team, unfortunately I haven’t had as great a week as my handsome mate sitting opposite me; and he is handsome isn’t he?” He gestures in my direction and gets a little laugh from the studio audience; if he hadn’t used such a sarcastic tone I might actually be complimented. I remain straight faced as he carries on with his ‘Jono made a booboo, sorry’ charade, before he sits down and basks in the glory of the chuckling crowd forgiving him for his misdemeanours. He may as well have made and passed around balloon animals, anything to distract from the truth. His job is to raise money for the fund; he’s not doing that, if fact he’s losing clients, so surely at least Brian is outraged?
I turn to Brain, who doesn’t look pleased, but more importantly, doesn’t look irritated either. He is using his aggravating neutral face, the one where you don’t know what’s coming next. Bizarrely, he moves on to the next agenda item, which is some nonsense about labelling your food items in the fridge. Unbelievable. How did Brian, or anyone else, let him get away with that, it was daylight robbery! My achievements have been completely ignored because of a circus act, who earlier committed a murder, but could juggle well so who cares. This is un-Brian like and I’m gob-smacked because Brian, like myself, has a pet hate for bull.
The ‘art’ of bull is not something I hold in high regard. Misdirection from the truth, lying, or feigning knowledge of a subject will always get exposed in the rat race, eventually. Brian and I have a nose for bull. We’ve been in meetings where so much bull has surrounded us that we felt like the clean-up crew in Pamplona after the cattle had a big curry night. In said meetings, you either decide to put up with it and then take your business elsewhere in future, or expose the bull artist for what they are. My preference is the latter, and so is Brian’s.
Even Jono is bright enough to be aware of Brian’s intolerance to bull, but for some reason the boss has let this one slide. I stop myself from objecting to this nonsense because I wonder if Jono knows something I don’t? My outrage has now been temporarily replaced by the need to get to the bottom of all this…time to become Columbo again. But damn, my Omega tells me that, unfortunately, my detective work will have to wait until after lunch. It’s time to go feed and water Pete Dunstan.
I turn to Brain, who doesn’t look pleased, but more importantly, doesn’t look irritated either. He is using his aggravating neutral face, the one where you don’t know what’s coming next. Bizarrely, he moves on to the next agenda item, which is some nonsense about labelling your food items in the fridge. Unbelievable. How did Brian, or anyone else, let him get away with that, it was daylight robbery! My achievements have been completely ignored because of a circus act, who earlier committed a murder, but could juggle well so who cares. This is un-Brian like and I’m gob-smacked because Brian, like myself, has a pet hate for bull.
The ‘art’ of bull is not something I hold in high regard. Misdirection from the truth, lying, or feigning knowledge of a subject will always get exposed in the rat race, eventually. Brian and I have a nose for bull. We’ve been in meetings where so much bull has surrounded us that we felt like the clean-up crew in Pamplona after the cattle had a big curry night. In said meetings, you either decide to put up with it and then take your business elsewhere in future, or expose the bull artist for what they are. My preference is the latter, and so is Brian’s.
Even Jono is bright enough to be aware of Brian’s intolerance to bull, but for some reason the boss has let this one slide. I stop myself from objecting to this nonsense because I wonder if Jono knows something I don’t? My outrage has now been temporarily replaced by the need to get to the bottom of all this…time to become Columbo again. But damn, my Omega tells me that, unfortunately, my detective work will have to wait until after lunch. It’s time to go feed and water Pete Dunstan.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Brian & Jono
I finish my speech and am greeted by warranted raised eyebrows and nods of approval by my colleagues, including Brian. Expectedly, Brian then states, “Well I feel it’s appropriate that Jono, as joint capital raiser for the new fund, also update us on his progress over the last week.” Jono is now squirming in his seat like a fish out of water with inflamed haemorrhoids. It’s a fair question from Brian; he is a man that is so busy he has little time for frequent progress reports, meaning the team meeting provides a forum for him to receive updates on matters such as these. Because Brian is so busy he, understandably, does not take fools lightly. If you come to him and even think about stuttering, you may as well go away and cry in the corner while thinking about what a naughty boy you’ve been. Come to him with incomplete information or not exactly what he’s asked for and you will receive a look like he’s using invisible laser vision to burn a hole in the back of your eyeballs. He will make jokes and will take time to give credit where it’s due, but on his terms and when he has the time to do so. Sarah, who has worked near his desk for months, asked him last week what he did at the weekend, he simply replied “What, who are you? White with three sugars please.” I’m not at all fearful of Brian, I know how to treat a man like him, my colleagues and I are just aware that he commands respect, and has worked too hard to get his directorship to talk about stuffed animals and candy floss. Get him down the pub though and you’re in a different world. He’ll drink scotch and coke (coincidentally, my favourite tipple too), smoke and swear like he’s just walked off an oilrig for homeless alcoholics.
Jono reluctantly stands up. See, it’s not that I dislike Jono, I just don’t like him very much. I admit that his style of business can bring results. He plays the mate card and has brought in some clients because of that. He is, as the English say, a geezer. I’m no geezer. Jono like drinking cans of VB, I prefer a bottle of merlot. He’ll wear David Beckham aftershave his Auntie bought him, I prefer Armani. He’ll drive a green car, whereas I prefer charcoal or black. I’ll use phrases like “excuse me?” and “girl”, where he’ll use “you what mate?” and “tits on a stick”.
He begins, “G’day people.”
Jono reluctantly stands up. See, it’s not that I dislike Jono, I just don’t like him very much. I admit that his style of business can bring results. He plays the mate card and has brought in some clients because of that. He is, as the English say, a geezer. I’m no geezer. Jono like drinking cans of VB, I prefer a bottle of merlot. He’ll wear David Beckham aftershave his Auntie bought him, I prefer Armani. He’ll drive a green car, whereas I prefer charcoal or black. I’ll use phrases like “excuse me?” and “girl”, where he’ll use “you what mate?” and “tits on a stick”.
He begins, “G’day people.”
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Skinny ties
I scan the room and am comforted to see that nobody is looking smarter than I am today, as is always the case on team meeting day, and in fact almost every other day. But Brian does have those shoes on; I wrote a post-it regarding asking him about those didn’t I? Yes, I think I did. I notice that Ian, a promising Analyst, is, like me, wearing a skinny tie today. Only certain people can pull this look off, and Ian lacks the effortless style that I hold to do so. My tie is silk and from Christian Dior, his is clearly polyester and from Tierack, worst of all, it is light blue. The fact that he is an only an analyst prevents me from suggesting his tie as an agenda item to discuss at today’s meeting. Not all skinny ties work, in fact only skinny ties of a dark tone work, on certain people; not light blue and not on Ian. Skinny ties must be black or mid to dark blue. A white skinny tie, or white tie in any form, should be listed in the Rome Statute as a crime against humanity, in a fashion sense of course. In fact, wearing anything white in business dress other than a shirt is an offence of the same magnitude. White shoes? Unless it’s Halloween, head back to the general admission area at Randwick Races where you belong and drink your canned bourbon and coke. With white ties, no possible shirt and suit combination can ever mean this is a good idea for any rat racer who takes themselves remotely seriously. I make a note to mention this faux pas to Ian the next time I need his assistance on a potential investment. Ian is a character who I see some of myself in, and so I am sure he will appreciate this valuable feedback.
The meeting begins promptly at 11am as Brain launches into the agenda. As always, many of the attendees look bored and itching to leave. I’m listening today and the Blackberry stays in inside pocket of my Herringbone suit. After a few largely uninteresting updates on how my colleagues have fared in the last seven days, Brian reaches item 5, and turns to give me the floor. My suit is unbuttoned and I’m looking relaxed as I play with my favourite pen (I discovered that it matches my grey suits nicely, thanks Lauren). “Morning everyone” I say as I stand up. Nobody responds, which doesn’t surprise me as the pastries are taking a hammering. “As Brian alluded to earlier in the meeting, there have been some bumper developments and results recently.” I turn and nod at Brian, who is sitting straight and listening intently. This is a good sign. Body language in meetings tells you an awful lot about the people you are dealing with and their interest in the subject matter. Too often you can almost see the hamster on the wheel in people's heads taking some time out to have a cigarette and rub their feet. Brian’s hamster has just put a sweatband on his little head. I look at Jono next, it seems his hamster has gone out shopping, yet left the lights on to scare away burglars. I launch into my short but informative speech on how I personally have successfully negotiated the input of over a million dollars from private clients in the last seven days for our newest fund. Information like this must be short or you lose your audience and they’ll turn to muffins for salvation, and I have no intention of letting this happen today.
The meeting begins promptly at 11am as Brain launches into the agenda. As always, many of the attendees look bored and itching to leave. I’m listening today and the Blackberry stays in inside pocket of my Herringbone suit. After a few largely uninteresting updates on how my colleagues have fared in the last seven days, Brian reaches item 5, and turns to give me the floor. My suit is unbuttoned and I’m looking relaxed as I play with my favourite pen (I discovered that it matches my grey suits nicely, thanks Lauren). “Morning everyone” I say as I stand up. Nobody responds, which doesn’t surprise me as the pastries are taking a hammering. “As Brian alluded to earlier in the meeting, there have been some bumper developments and results recently.” I turn and nod at Brian, who is sitting straight and listening intently. This is a good sign. Body language in meetings tells you an awful lot about the people you are dealing with and their interest in the subject matter. Too often you can almost see the hamster on the wheel in people's heads taking some time out to have a cigarette and rub their feet. Brian’s hamster has just put a sweatband on his little head. I look at Jono next, it seems his hamster has gone out shopping, yet left the lights on to scare away burglars. I launch into my short but informative speech on how I personally have successfully negotiated the input of over a million dollars from private clients in the last seven days for our newest fund. Information like this must be short or you lose your audience and they’ll turn to muffins for salvation, and I have no intention of letting this happen today.
Team meetings
I decide that the lunch with Pete should go ahead as planned; telling that man-mountain you’re cancelling a free lunch and a chance for him to drink enough booze to fill an oil drum would be like telling Tony Abbott his topless photo shoot on the beach has been cancelled – borderline cruelty. I’ll just have to stay off the booze. I’m meeting Pete at 1pm, it’s now approaching 11am and our weekly team meeting is about to start in the conference room. My plans to scupper Jono seem somewhat futile now that I know Brian has made a firm decision most likely in my favour, but the team meeting will provide me with an invaluable opportunity to get today’s score even. Team meetings; the fun filled hour where you get a chance to remind your colleagues about how you’re much better at your job than they are at theirs. Even though this is always an enjoyable experience for me, it’s often a better use of my time to divert the attention away from myself whenever necessary and focus it on others so I can read emails on my Blackberry in peace, while enjoying the lovely selection of miniature pastries on offer.
Brain’s PA was having a crisis with her beloved miniature poodle at the end of last week so Sarah was tasked with distributing the agenda and readings for this week’s meeting. I asked that she put in an item where I have an opportunity to discuss what I personally have in the pipeline this week; one of my best weeks ever at Invest Co. Fortuitously, I know that Jono has lost a couple of clients in the last seven days, probably because he’s been too busy fantasying about the short-skirted hairdressers he continually meets in Bungalow 8.
I get in the room precisely a minute before it starts and grab my first mini blueberry muffin. Arriving a minute before commencement is essential as that way you don’t need to make unnecessary small talk with your colleagues about what they are doing for holiday this year, and other things you don’t care about. I accidentally arrived four minutes early once and almost got trapped in a conversation with Lauren about her plans for New Year. Thankfully the day before I had purchased my new Mont Blanc pen and so was able to tune out and think about how nice my signature would look writing with it while she rambled on about something to do with Hamilton Island.
Brain’s PA was having a crisis with her beloved miniature poodle at the end of last week so Sarah was tasked with distributing the agenda and readings for this week’s meeting. I asked that she put in an item where I have an opportunity to discuss what I personally have in the pipeline this week; one of my best weeks ever at Invest Co. Fortuitously, I know that Jono has lost a couple of clients in the last seven days, probably because he’s been too busy fantasying about the short-skirted hairdressers he continually meets in Bungalow 8.
I get in the room precisely a minute before it starts and grab my first mini blueberry muffin. Arriving a minute before commencement is essential as that way you don’t need to make unnecessary small talk with your colleagues about what they are doing for holiday this year, and other things you don’t care about. I accidentally arrived four minutes early once and almost got trapped in a conversation with Lauren about her plans for New Year. Thankfully the day before I had purchased my new Mont Blanc pen and so was able to tune out and think about how nice my signature would look writing with it while she rambled on about something to do with Hamilton Island.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Client lunches
I’m no faker or a fraud. I achieve things through hard work and determination; and my confidence and skills at persuasion are invaluable assets along the way. I’ve got a long way to go but I always did and continue to study hard, when required, and even now I am enrolling in a Masters Degree. You can’t sit still in this business, to challenge the best you have to be the best; and you don’t do that by sitting on you backside. I do everything by the book, as all good business people should. No inheritance from Daddy for me, no family members in positions of power, I got myself where I am and will get myself where I want to be on my own, and I like it that way. I get a little help along the way though my extensive network, but again, it’s my network that I built.
I no longer have the desire to interrogate Jono so I walk to his desk to give him the brush off. He’s not there, which is a shame as that would have been very satisfying. My assistant Sarah taps me on the shoulder and asks me to sign off her expenses, which are mostly things I have asked her to buy me like sushi, coffee and expensive staplers. Sarah has worked with me for a couple months now and ticks all the boxes required of a successful assistant. Young, but not too young; good-looking but not too good-looking and smart but not too smart. She’s spunky and we often flirt innocently, innocently from my side anyway. With a raised eyebrow she comments, “Look at all this coffee, you’ll get fat you know and we can’t have that can we.” Considering I use a personal trainer three times a week and run on the beach every second day, I find that unlikely, regardless, I make a mental note to check how fatty skim milk is. Unusually, I can’t think of a witty response so I just smile and show my recently whitened teeth, which does the job of making her giggle.
The talk of food reminds me that I have a client lunch today. I love client lunches, mainly because they usually turn into something resembling the night-out in The Hangover, excluding the rohypnol of course. I’ve wined and dined at some of this country’s finest establishments and today I’m taking Pete Dunstan to Quay to squeeze a six-figure sum out of him. Pete drinks like a thirsty fish and knowing how our lunches normally pan out we’ll talk business for about ten minutes, eat about ten mouthfuls and drink for ten hours. Unfortunately, this afternoon I have my meeting with Brian, meaning I have to either cancel lunch or stay off the booze, neither of which will make Pete a happy chappy. I’ll have to remind Sarah once again that when I have an important afternoon meeting, I cannot have a client lunch. And if I do have a lunch, my diary should always be cleared out for the rest of the day, and until 10am the following day. The last lunch Pete Dunstan and I had, about six months ago, consisted of alcohol, lap dancing, business, a meal and Pete losing his suit in a bet. In that order. Pete has the physique of a sumo wrestler on his holidays so being half naked on Martin Place didn’t do Tourism Australia any favours.
I no longer have the desire to interrogate Jono so I walk to his desk to give him the brush off. He’s not there, which is a shame as that would have been very satisfying. My assistant Sarah taps me on the shoulder and asks me to sign off her expenses, which are mostly things I have asked her to buy me like sushi, coffee and expensive staplers. Sarah has worked with me for a couple months now and ticks all the boxes required of a successful assistant. Young, but not too young; good-looking but not too good-looking and smart but not too smart. She’s spunky and we often flirt innocently, innocently from my side anyway. With a raised eyebrow she comments, “Look at all this coffee, you’ll get fat you know and we can’t have that can we.” Considering I use a personal trainer three times a week and run on the beach every second day, I find that unlikely, regardless, I make a mental note to check how fatty skim milk is. Unusually, I can’t think of a witty response so I just smile and show my recently whitened teeth, which does the job of making her giggle.
The talk of food reminds me that I have a client lunch today. I love client lunches, mainly because they usually turn into something resembling the night-out in The Hangover, excluding the rohypnol of course. I’ve wined and dined at some of this country’s finest establishments and today I’m taking Pete Dunstan to Quay to squeeze a six-figure sum out of him. Pete drinks like a thirsty fish and knowing how our lunches normally pan out we’ll talk business for about ten minutes, eat about ten mouthfuls and drink for ten hours. Unfortunately, this afternoon I have my meeting with Brian, meaning I have to either cancel lunch or stay off the booze, neither of which will make Pete a happy chappy. I’ll have to remind Sarah once again that when I have an important afternoon meeting, I cannot have a client lunch. And if I do have a lunch, my diary should always be cleared out for the rest of the day, and until 10am the following day. The last lunch Pete Dunstan and I had, about six months ago, consisted of alcohol, lap dancing, business, a meal and Pete losing his suit in a bet. In that order. Pete has the physique of a sumo wrestler on his holidays so being half naked on Martin Place didn’t do Tourism Australia any favours.
The talk with Tones
No answer, I’m not surprised but as usual, disappointed. Tony is one of those people who selfishly believe they are so busy that they can’t spare one minute of their day to write a quick email or return a phone call. One of my Rules of the Race is that you return contact promptly, mostly because I find people that don’t incredibly disrespectful and it prevents me getting things done. Still, he’s a mate and most importantly, my insider, so I continually make allowances for the fact that the he’s about as reliable as Amy Winehouse is to stay sober on St. Patrick’s Day.
Ignoring my agitation, I begin my daily activity of craftily convincing people with lots of money to let us at Invest Co put their dollars it to things they don’t understand. Brian walks by my desk as I’m speaking with a client who wants to know where my firm is going to invest the $500,000 I persuaded him to give us. I like and respect Brian, but I’m troubled again by the new Bluetooth headset he has been sporting and find myself once again squinting at it accompanied by a little shake of my head. My puzzled look changes to one of admiration as I notice the fine new shoes he is wearing, I must ask him where he got them, and so write ‘B shoes’ on a post-it to remind myself. “Hello?” Oh that’s right, I’m on the phone, “Yes err, sorry Mr. Phillips. I’ll send you the details of the new Fund’s proposed investments in the next 10 minutes. Say hello to your lovely wife Linda for me.” Linda, Mr. Phillip’s enchanting young American wife, and ever-present distraction whenever I have met her husband, continually tries to seduce me during the frequent stops her husband makes to the bathroom. If he wasn’t such an important client to me maybe I…. “Mate, wanna grab a coffee?” Jono has, as always, interrupted my thought process. I hate it when he calls me ‘mate’ but I agree to the proposal “Ok Jono, let’s go for a walk.” I know what’s coming; we are both about to do our best Columbo impression and try to scope out how our respective discussions with Brian have gone.
Before we begin our charade my mobile phone rings. It’s 10.48am, a full 48 hours after I sent Tony a text message asking him to call me as soon as possible. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this” I say while walking away into a meeting room. Mobile phone calls in a meeting room; the internationally reognised sign to the rest of the office that you’re either arguing with your partner, looking for a new job or generally doing something you shouldn’t be on company time.
“Tones, finally, any news?” Tony is a beer buddy of mine and the Melbourne based head of Invest Co’s HR department. A good bloke but like anyone who works in recruitment, he’s, well, you know, a bit of arse. “G’day. Sorry, been busy. I’m streamlining our staffing policies so we only hire people that can hit the ground running. Best practice, you know, win win.” Tony is a man of business buzzwords and expertly works them into almost sentence he speaks. “Yeah that’s great, but any news on the position?” Having been present at all three interviews Jono and I have each had for the Senior Manager role Brian is vacating as he takes up his Directorship, Tones is the man in the know. “Well Brian will be talking to your blokes this afternoon, as you know. Don’t push the envelope; he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. No hardball from him on this one, the decision has been made.” “Come on Tony, give me something. You owe me remember.” A short silence, then “Maybe put your tailor on standby.” All I needed to hear, not that there was even any real doubt.
Ignoring my agitation, I begin my daily activity of craftily convincing people with lots of money to let us at Invest Co put their dollars it to things they don’t understand. Brian walks by my desk as I’m speaking with a client who wants to know where my firm is going to invest the $500,000 I persuaded him to give us. I like and respect Brian, but I’m troubled again by the new Bluetooth headset he has been sporting and find myself once again squinting at it accompanied by a little shake of my head. My puzzled look changes to one of admiration as I notice the fine new shoes he is wearing, I must ask him where he got them, and so write ‘B shoes’ on a post-it to remind myself. “Hello?” Oh that’s right, I’m on the phone, “Yes err, sorry Mr. Phillips. I’ll send you the details of the new Fund’s proposed investments in the next 10 minutes. Say hello to your lovely wife Linda for me.” Linda, Mr. Phillip’s enchanting young American wife, and ever-present distraction whenever I have met her husband, continually tries to seduce me during the frequent stops her husband makes to the bathroom. If he wasn’t such an important client to me maybe I…. “Mate, wanna grab a coffee?” Jono has, as always, interrupted my thought process. I hate it when he calls me ‘mate’ but I agree to the proposal “Ok Jono, let’s go for a walk.” I know what’s coming; we are both about to do our best Columbo impression and try to scope out how our respective discussions with Brian have gone.
Before we begin our charade my mobile phone rings. It’s 10.48am, a full 48 hours after I sent Tony a text message asking him to call me as soon as possible. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this” I say while walking away into a meeting room. Mobile phone calls in a meeting room; the internationally reognised sign to the rest of the office that you’re either arguing with your partner, looking for a new job or generally doing something you shouldn’t be on company time.
“Tones, finally, any news?” Tony is a beer buddy of mine and the Melbourne based head of Invest Co’s HR department. A good bloke but like anyone who works in recruitment, he’s, well, you know, a bit of arse. “G’day. Sorry, been busy. I’m streamlining our staffing policies so we only hire people that can hit the ground running. Best practice, you know, win win.” Tony is a man of business buzzwords and expertly works them into almost sentence he speaks. “Yeah that’s great, but any news on the position?” Having been present at all three interviews Jono and I have each had for the Senior Manager role Brian is vacating as he takes up his Directorship, Tones is the man in the know. “Well Brian will be talking to your blokes this afternoon, as you know. Don’t push the envelope; he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. No hardball from him on this one, the decision has been made.” “Come on Tony, give me something. You owe me remember.” A short silence, then “Maybe put your tailor on standby.” All I needed to hear, not that there was even any real doubt.
‘Beat that slimy git Jono and then buy a new suit day’ begins....
D-day, or ‘beat that slimy git Jono and then buy a new suit day’ as I’ve come to think of it. On the face of it however it’s just another cold winter morning in Sydney. I’m sitting on the ferry with all the other rat racers holding our morning coffees waiting to start another day of trying to one-up each other in the concrete jungle that is the Sydney CBD. Well I say ‘waiting to start’ but for me anyway the working day began, as usual, when I picked up my phone and started reading emails immediately after I woke up. I’m sure my part time colleague and full time nemesis Jono did the same today too, that pesky brownnoser. It’s a big day for us and I, like Jono, intend to be a little bit richer and more important by the end of it.
Sipping my skim latte and reading my AFR, I become a little distracted and for a moment take smug satisfaction from the fact that I could not have pulled off a better suit, tie, watch and cufflink combination today. The dark grey tone of my Herringbone suit perfectly complimented by my black tie, white Hugo Boss shirt, black faced Omega watch and silver cufflinks, I even add a somewhat unnecessary but complimentary black scarf and umbrella; unnecessary as rain today is unlikely and the scarf does little or nothing to keep me warm.
The ferry docks and I enter my world. These streets and the offices that inhabit them have been good to me the last few years, and today I may be kissing a few paving slabs to show my gratitude.
Jono is in before me and I immediately notice how he has carefully untidied his desk to give the illusion that he has been in for hours, which of course he hasn’t. I see straight though this mainly due to the inane wink he gives me as I walk in ‘late’. I hope as always that Brian too sees straight through this farce. “Morning Jono, I assume Brian’s in?” I ask as he begins a few dramatic stretches. I get a strained “Yep” in response. Typical. “You look like you’ve been in for hours mate” I say sarcastically. Jono’s selective hearing of course means he didn’t register the remark. Jono knows Brian gets in at 8am, which means he would have got here today at 7.59am. It’s now 8.03am, “Damn ferries” I say to no one in particular.
My Brian sense tingles and I see him in the conference room. He glances at me and then at his gleaming gold Rolex. It says a thousand words. “Damn ferries” I curse again. Jono has done me like a kipper with this one, congratulations. Still, I have got some tricks up my carefully pressed Hugo Boss sleeves today, so I brush off this small defeat and sit down at my pine battle station and pick up the phone.
VXZSFTRNTASW
Sipping my skim latte and reading my AFR, I become a little distracted and for a moment take smug satisfaction from the fact that I could not have pulled off a better suit, tie, watch and cufflink combination today. The dark grey tone of my Herringbone suit perfectly complimented by my black tie, white Hugo Boss shirt, black faced Omega watch and silver cufflinks, I even add a somewhat unnecessary but complimentary black scarf and umbrella; unnecessary as rain today is unlikely and the scarf does little or nothing to keep me warm.
The ferry docks and I enter my world. These streets and the offices that inhabit them have been good to me the last few years, and today I may be kissing a few paving slabs to show my gratitude.
Jono is in before me and I immediately notice how he has carefully untidied his desk to give the illusion that he has been in for hours, which of course he hasn’t. I see straight though this mainly due to the inane wink he gives me as I walk in ‘late’. I hope as always that Brian too sees straight through this farce. “Morning Jono, I assume Brian’s in?” I ask as he begins a few dramatic stretches. I get a strained “Yep” in response. Typical. “You look like you’ve been in for hours mate” I say sarcastically. Jono’s selective hearing of course means he didn’t register the remark. Jono knows Brian gets in at 8am, which means he would have got here today at 7.59am. It’s now 8.03am, “Damn ferries” I say to no one in particular.
My Brian sense tingles and I see him in the conference room. He glances at me and then at his gleaming gold Rolex. It says a thousand words. “Damn ferries” I curse again. Jono has done me like a kipper with this one, congratulations. Still, I have got some tricks up my carefully pressed Hugo Boss sleeves today, so I brush off this small defeat and sit down at my pine battle station and pick up the phone.
VXZSFTRNTASW
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