I have decided to make networking into a full time occupation.
Many of you are experienced job hunters and will have learned or been taught that the best way of securing a new job is by word of mouth. If you are a sociable person (or in my case, just like the sound of your own voice), then this is great. You can combine an economically useful function with something akin to a hobby. If you lucky, some of the people that you meet along the way, will become long lasting friends or at least acquaintances.
To be a successful networker, there are certain rules and customs to avoid. “Giz_a_job” is ineffective, undignified and against the code of chivalry that operates amongst the Knights that practice this. Besides which, it tends to make for a fairly short conversation (“No. Good luck. Good-Bye”).
The proper rules of engagement provide for an initial lengthy preamble about family, friends, holidays, golf handicap, and other matters that you forget about within 2 days. Then, you may move carefully along to the subject of business, inquiring with an interested voice on the latest developments, and projects that your friend is working on. It is also appropriate to ask at this point about mutual business acquaintances.
Moving quickly ahead, you will at some point pick up some indications on whether they are actually hiring. But I have cut this last part a bit short, as the purpose of this blog is not to give you a description or lesson on the honourable art of networking, rather to say that I have a new model (as we business people say) to turn this on its head.
I have decided to use networking and looking for a job as cover for keeping in contact with people and generally socialising. I realised that now I am retired, I am not as useful for internal politics, unpaid consultancy, randomly useful ideas and general market intelligence and gossip. “How about a chat about the weather, have a good natter, and waste your time in the office? Shall we meet up next week?” is not a great sales line and does not obtain many meetings. (Actually, you would be surprised, how many meetings it does lead to).
Instead, I shall call people up or send them emails, saying that I have this great new product, which will lead to 25% reduction of costs and efficiency with no effort on your part, and no investment required. (Again, in reality, much of my career was involved in doing exactly that, but that is not the point).
This product needs a name and a logo, so I will call it the “New Boots and Rags Operations and Organisation Methodology” (and see how many of my family know where this name comes from – my dad will know). I am not sure about the logo. Something canine, I think. (You will have to read the next blog to find out the origination of this name).
Anyway, having secured my meeting, lunch, power breakfast or drink after work, I will then be indifferent as to the commercial outcome and be totally absorbed by personal topics. In particular, I will find out whether they have a holiday apartment, which we can swap. Do they play golf, ski or go hiking? Might they be a suitable training partner in my build up to an Olympic triathlon (if I ever do one)? Are they bad at chess, but still interested in playing (I am fed up with being beaten).
You get the idea. These poor people are so used to having people trying to sell them something, that my meetings will be a breath of fresh air and my expenses can all be charged to against tax (not that I have any business income yet to set it off against).
It’s a new paradigm. (I don't know what this means, but I have always wanted to write that!!)
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
There’s no Milk in the Fridge
I am not sure whether this is a “Man Thing”, but simple expeditions to the fridge can lead to bizarre conversations. You are looking for the milk; you know what the milk looks like; you know where it belongs in the fridge and it’s not there. Conclusion is perfectly obvious: There’s no Milk in the Fridge.
Along comes Hazel and says “What is this?”, pointing out a carton that has “Milk” written on it. The words are said, not so much with a look of triumph (which would be justified), but a sense of weary inevitability, that we “Men” are incapable of such a minor task.
“This isn’t milk. It’s orange juice!!” I say by way of self justification. “Well, it’s got Milk written on it on the front” comes the patient reply.
I am not giving up on this one. “But what is milk doing in an orange juice carton?” There’s no proper answer to this one, as the question is so ridiculous, but Hazel tries. “Ask the manufacturer” or “Trying to catch you out – and succeeding”, might be appropriate responses. “It’s just in a different type of carton. That’s all. You have to read what it says on the packet. It came from the Denner, instead of the Coop”.
THAT’S ALL!! READ WHAT IS SAID ON THE PACKET!! DENNER IS DIFFERENT FROM THE COOP. What are these people trying to do to me? I don’t read the packet. Men don’t read packets, except as some form of desperation. Why would you? Everyone knows what a carton of milk looks like. Aren’t there international standards for this type of thing?
Supermarkets are in on this conspiracy against men. “Migros don’t sell Special K anymore”, I say after a semi-successful shopping expedition. “Where did you look?” comes the obvious question. “Where the Special K normally is. Next to the cornflakes”.
“Did you ask anyone? Perhaps they moved it”.
WHAT? ASK SOMEONE? MOVED IT? What is going on? The Special K has always been next to the Cornflakes. No one consulted me. No one asked me whether it was alright to put Milk in an orange juice carton or to move the Special K. Was there no consultation period? Was there no referendum? Even the Swiss Railways occasionally change their timetables, but only with about a year’s notice.
But no; They’ll just change these things, and watch old Grumpy taken in each time.
So it’s off to the supermarket in a minute to buy some eggs, remembering to be careful to watch that they haven’t packed the cheese in the egg cartons. Ha ha. I’m one step ahead of them on this one.
Along comes Hazel and says “What is this?”, pointing out a carton that has “Milk” written on it. The words are said, not so much with a look of triumph (which would be justified), but a sense of weary inevitability, that we “Men” are incapable of such a minor task.
“This isn’t milk. It’s orange juice!!” I say by way of self justification. “Well, it’s got Milk written on it on the front” comes the patient reply.
I am not giving up on this one. “But what is milk doing in an orange juice carton?” There’s no proper answer to this one, as the question is so ridiculous, but Hazel tries. “Ask the manufacturer” or “Trying to catch you out – and succeeding”, might be appropriate responses. “It’s just in a different type of carton. That’s all. You have to read what it says on the packet. It came from the Denner, instead of the Coop”.
THAT’S ALL!! READ WHAT IS SAID ON THE PACKET!! DENNER IS DIFFERENT FROM THE COOP. What are these people trying to do to me? I don’t read the packet. Men don’t read packets, except as some form of desperation. Why would you? Everyone knows what a carton of milk looks like. Aren’t there international standards for this type of thing?
Supermarkets are in on this conspiracy against men. “Migros don’t sell Special K anymore”, I say after a semi-successful shopping expedition. “Where did you look?” comes the obvious question. “Where the Special K normally is. Next to the cornflakes”.
“Did you ask anyone? Perhaps they moved it”.
WHAT? ASK SOMEONE? MOVED IT? What is going on? The Special K has always been next to the Cornflakes. No one consulted me. No one asked me whether it was alright to put Milk in an orange juice carton or to move the Special K. Was there no consultation period? Was there no referendum? Even the Swiss Railways occasionally change their timetables, but only with about a year’s notice.
But no; They’ll just change these things, and watch old Grumpy taken in each time.
So it’s off to the supermarket in a minute to buy some eggs, remembering to be careful to watch that they haven’t packed the cheese in the egg cartons. Ha ha. I’m one step ahead of them on this one.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
This is Bradley’s Great Grandad (87)
If Bradley can write a blog, then so can I. Young’un (aged 58) has been staying with me for the week, for a refresher course and I think that you all would like to know how he has been getting on.
Firstly, as you would expect, I had to be on hand to make sure that he cleaned his shoes properly. I am not sure about the trainers that he goes around in these days, but we have morning inspection for his black shoes, to make sure that my face can be seen in them.
Secondly, certain wasteful habits have been creeping into the day to day routine of the younger generation and it is my duty to make sure that Young’un hasn’t slipped into any of these. A quick inspection of his hair revealed that Hazel has him in good order on this score.
I have reminded him to make sure he stirs his tea properly. We can’t have piles of unused sugar at the bottom of the cup, now, can we. (He tells me that he has given up sugar, but I check anyway, just in case). On the same note, I have had to point out to him that one tea bag can perfectly easily make two cups of tea, instead of one per cup. And as for lights, he is obviously a shareholder in the Electricity companies, as he goes around leaving the lights and various appliances on, all over the house.
On the evening routines, I have emphasised the importance of a whisky and two episodes of Black Adder. He seemed to take to this idea quite well, so all is not yet lost.
But it has been good for me having him around. It has been a refreshing change for me to have to get up before 7.00, just so I can run him down to the station. It is so much fun, being woken up by the alarm, and I am dreading the thought, when he goes, of having to lie in bed until 8.00 am or even later.
My lounge settee will miss him as well. It had a good workout, after Ipswich scored their winning goal against Arsenal. We both leapt out of our chairs (or settee), as much in surprise and amazement, as anything. It is a miracle that we did not go through the ceiling.
Mark you, as he was unable to secure any points for Bournemouth Football Club, my football team (on Sky TV), after I had gone to all the trouble of fetching the fish and chips, I reckon that he still has a lot to learn.
As for his Navigation, this is terrible and probably irredeemably so. About a year ago, on the drive to Heathrow Airport, he didn’t notice the turn-off for the M4, and we nearly ended up driving towards Watford. I seem to remember that, at the time, we were discussing whether the U.K. should stay in the EEC, so not much of a distraction there. As for last Saturday, Young’un carefully and skilfully directed us into the Taxi ranks to pick up passengers. He claims that he only reads German now, and that “Taxis Only” was a bit unclear.
He’s obviously going to have to come back for a further refresher.
Firstly, as you would expect, I had to be on hand to make sure that he cleaned his shoes properly. I am not sure about the trainers that he goes around in these days, but we have morning inspection for his black shoes, to make sure that my face can be seen in them.
Secondly, certain wasteful habits have been creeping into the day to day routine of the younger generation and it is my duty to make sure that Young’un hasn’t slipped into any of these. A quick inspection of his hair revealed that Hazel has him in good order on this score.
I have reminded him to make sure he stirs his tea properly. We can’t have piles of unused sugar at the bottom of the cup, now, can we. (He tells me that he has given up sugar, but I check anyway, just in case). On the same note, I have had to point out to him that one tea bag can perfectly easily make two cups of tea, instead of one per cup. And as for lights, he is obviously a shareholder in the Electricity companies, as he goes around leaving the lights and various appliances on, all over the house.
On the evening routines, I have emphasised the importance of a whisky and two episodes of Black Adder. He seemed to take to this idea quite well, so all is not yet lost.
But it has been good for me having him around. It has been a refreshing change for me to have to get up before 7.00, just so I can run him down to the station. It is so much fun, being woken up by the alarm, and I am dreading the thought, when he goes, of having to lie in bed until 8.00 am or even later.
My lounge settee will miss him as well. It had a good workout, after Ipswich scored their winning goal against Arsenal. We both leapt out of our chairs (or settee), as much in surprise and amazement, as anything. It is a miracle that we did not go through the ceiling.
Mark you, as he was unable to secure any points for Bournemouth Football Club, my football team (on Sky TV), after I had gone to all the trouble of fetching the fish and chips, I reckon that he still has a lot to learn.
As for his Navigation, this is terrible and probably irredeemably so. About a year ago, on the drive to Heathrow Airport, he didn’t notice the turn-off for the M4, and we nearly ended up driving towards Watford. I seem to remember that, at the time, we were discussing whether the U.K. should stay in the EEC, so not much of a distraction there. As for last Saturday, Young’un carefully and skilfully directed us into the Taxi ranks to pick up passengers. He claims that he only reads German now, and that “Taxis Only” was a bit unclear.
He’s obviously going to have to come back for a further refresher.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Too Much Choice
I was happy recently to discover that I am not the only person who finds it difficult to park in an empty car park. I was amazed and relieved that there are other people who, like me, can drive aimlessly around, trying to calculate the optimal place to leave the car. I (and fellow sufferers of “Empty Car Park Syndrome”) usually end up, after a couple of laps, spread over about three spaces, about 100 yards from the ticket machine and 200 yards from the pedestrian exit.
Empty car parks obviously see me coming. I have only received two parking tickets in my life (on consecutive days, by the way) and one of these was in the disabled bay of an otherwise totally deserted car park in Kingston-upon-Thames.
How much better and easier to search around looking for a space and then to demonstrate your incredible reversing skills, whilst trying to avoid shoppers with trolleys.
Being in the shops has much the same effect. Enough has already been written by others about the choices of coffee in (say) Starbucks or different types of filling in a sandwich for the local sandwich bar for me to add anything useful. These choices usually come with the pressure of a queue behind you, forcing a selection, which is normally exactly the same as you had last time.
But what happens when there is no pressure from a queue, for example when strolling down the aisles of toothpaste in the local Sainsbury (or Tesco for that matter). There are usually several people peering at the shelves, either in search of their favourite brand, with specific instructions from their spouse, or just in complete bewilderment. The supermarkets should provide chairs for people to sit on, while they ponder. If the Guinness Book of Records does not have a section for the “Longest Time Spent at the Bread Counter”, then it probably will do soon, and I will be applying to be the first record holder.
On a more positive note, the large number of channels on Satellite Television can have a hugely beneficial effect. Who has not, in a moment of stress (or boredom), aimlessly flicked through the channels on the remote control? I don’t think that the therapeutic benefit of such a mind-numbing exercise has ever been properly evaluated. After 30 minutes of this, all the channels have been reviewed and it is time to start again, with the new programmes.
The Evening Standard used to fulfil this function for me, when I commuted home from London in the evening. It was not necessary to actually read any article. Just to flick the pages over aimlessly, allowing the mind to empty itself of any thoughts of the day’s work just completed. I am told that the Evening Standard still exists. Thank goodness! If it didn’t, then the world would be a poorer place.
Note: Since writing this, I have discovered that the 18th December issue of the “Economist” magazine has an insert on the problems arising from too much consumer choice. This article is very good, but my faithful followers will know that my blog is even better. Any similarities between my blog and the Economist article are entirely coincidental.
Empty car parks obviously see me coming. I have only received two parking tickets in my life (on consecutive days, by the way) and one of these was in the disabled bay of an otherwise totally deserted car park in Kingston-upon-Thames.
How much better and easier to search around looking for a space and then to demonstrate your incredible reversing skills, whilst trying to avoid shoppers with trolleys.
Being in the shops has much the same effect. Enough has already been written by others about the choices of coffee in (say) Starbucks or different types of filling in a sandwich for the local sandwich bar for me to add anything useful. These choices usually come with the pressure of a queue behind you, forcing a selection, which is normally exactly the same as you had last time.
But what happens when there is no pressure from a queue, for example when strolling down the aisles of toothpaste in the local Sainsbury (or Tesco for that matter). There are usually several people peering at the shelves, either in search of their favourite brand, with specific instructions from their spouse, or just in complete bewilderment. The supermarkets should provide chairs for people to sit on, while they ponder. If the Guinness Book of Records does not have a section for the “Longest Time Spent at the Bread Counter”, then it probably will do soon, and I will be applying to be the first record holder.
On a more positive note, the large number of channels on Satellite Television can have a hugely beneficial effect. Who has not, in a moment of stress (or boredom), aimlessly flicked through the channels on the remote control? I don’t think that the therapeutic benefit of such a mind-numbing exercise has ever been properly evaluated. After 30 minutes of this, all the channels have been reviewed and it is time to start again, with the new programmes.
The Evening Standard used to fulfil this function for me, when I commuted home from London in the evening. It was not necessary to actually read any article. Just to flick the pages over aimlessly, allowing the mind to empty itself of any thoughts of the day’s work just completed. I am told that the Evening Standard still exists. Thank goodness! If it didn’t, then the world would be a poorer place.
Note: Since writing this, I have discovered that the 18th December issue of the “Economist” magazine has an insert on the problems arising from too much consumer choice. This article is very good, but my faithful followers will know that my blog is even better. Any similarities between my blog and the Economist article are entirely coincidental.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tips and Tricks for Travellers - 2
Now that we have returned to Thalwil from yet another trip to England, I am now able to offer you some more advice and ideas on how to make the most out of your journeys. For earlier tips, look up http://hawkersustrip.blogspot.com/2010/10/tips-for-travellers.html
Firstly, it is important to watch out for your socks. Having returned to Thalwil, I have now seven odd socks. How anyone can have seven odd socks, having been away for only two weeks, is anyone’s guess. Perhaps the Guinness Book of Records has a category for this. It proves that my pairs of socks are individually identifiable, which is clearly a disadvantage. Anyway, next time you meet me, you can prove that you are a true follower of the Grumpy Blog by asking me “How are the socks?” It is clearly an original password for a secret society.
The second idea is unproven. We will rent out the apartment in Thalwil, and then cruise around Europe and North America, staying with friends and acquaintances, saying “Oh yes, we live near Zurich.” Providing that no one actually checks up on us, I reckon that we should be able to keep this up for a couple for years.
One result of this itinerant life style is the collection of passwords to various folks’ wireless networks. If we are in your neck of the woods, but don’t have time to pop in, you may see a blue BMW parked outside your house, while we check out emails, bank statements and the weather forecast for the next few days.
One of the best part of staying with other people is the ability to bring pleasure to those hosts, who look forward to a guest with whom they can enjoy a fine whisky (malt or blended; I’m not fussy), or other digestive. It’s not that I actually enjoy drinking these for their own sake (naturally), but I feel it my duty to respond positively with “Another one?”
Above all, there is the return home. I do not mean the journey itself, which in this case, included a 15 hour car journey across Holland, Belgium and France in weather conditions that had all but defeated the best endeavours of all the countries concerned (English Newscasters – please note).
No – I am referring actually to that moment when you cross the threshold into the familiar territory of your own home. For some reason, having put the kettle on, the first item to attack is the pile of post. Even bills seem to have a reassuring ring to them, telling you that you are now on home ground.
Now I am going back to the further unfinished business of finding the missing socks. I may be some time.
Firstly, it is important to watch out for your socks. Having returned to Thalwil, I have now seven odd socks. How anyone can have seven odd socks, having been away for only two weeks, is anyone’s guess. Perhaps the Guinness Book of Records has a category for this. It proves that my pairs of socks are individually identifiable, which is clearly a disadvantage. Anyway, next time you meet me, you can prove that you are a true follower of the Grumpy Blog by asking me “How are the socks?” It is clearly an original password for a secret society.
The second idea is unproven. We will rent out the apartment in Thalwil, and then cruise around Europe and North America, staying with friends and acquaintances, saying “Oh yes, we live near Zurich.” Providing that no one actually checks up on us, I reckon that we should be able to keep this up for a couple for years.
One result of this itinerant life style is the collection of passwords to various folks’ wireless networks. If we are in your neck of the woods, but don’t have time to pop in, you may see a blue BMW parked outside your house, while we check out emails, bank statements and the weather forecast for the next few days.
One of the best part of staying with other people is the ability to bring pleasure to those hosts, who look forward to a guest with whom they can enjoy a fine whisky (malt or blended; I’m not fussy), or other digestive. It’s not that I actually enjoy drinking these for their own sake (naturally), but I feel it my duty to respond positively with “Another one?”
Above all, there is the return home. I do not mean the journey itself, which in this case, included a 15 hour car journey across Holland, Belgium and France in weather conditions that had all but defeated the best endeavours of all the countries concerned (English Newscasters – please note).
No – I am referring actually to that moment when you cross the threshold into the familiar territory of your own home. For some reason, having put the kettle on, the first item to attack is the pile of post. Even bills seem to have a reassuring ring to them, telling you that you are now on home ground.
Now I am going back to the further unfinished business of finding the missing socks. I may be some time.
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