Mr Resourceful

Nuns with guns

So Lady Resourceful and I were sitting around and I was talking interestingly and at length about bloggers who start their posts with the word 'So,' as though they aren't sure whether they are concluding something or beginning something, and Lady Resourceful said that she would rather be doing anything than sitting there listening to me drone on.  So I laughed and said, 'What, you'd rather go across the road and attend our monthly neighbourhood citizen's meeting?'  And she said, 'Anything.'  So I called her bluff and said, 'Let's go then, Ms Good Citizen.  Let's go and listen to a bunch of responsible people talking responsibly about being responsible.  Let's sit all the way through it, until the inevitable drunk guy who's wandered in off the street causes the meeting to break down.'  And I laughed long and hard, and when I'd dried my eyes Lady R had her shoes and coat on and I realised I'd shot myself in the foot.

The meeting, though, was, as the kids say, like proper enlightening.  Half of the people there were nuns, strident ones, and they were discussing how to foster community spirit by creating a register of residents, with photos and contact details and lists of the skills that each of us can offer to our neighbours.  What's more, they said, a sense of who's who might lead to less crime.

Now, what comes to mind when you think of a group of nuns discussing crime at a neighbourhood meeting?  That's right, vigilantism.  Vigilantism of the most colourful sort.  I was hoping that the discussion would move onto the subject of forming a nun-led posse to deal with the three or four known crack dealers on our street, but the meeting was hijacked by liberals who wanted to linger on the tedious issue of fostering community spirit.  It was worthwhile but less exciting than liquid soap.  However, I did like the idea of living on a street in which everyone knows everyone else.  If we all had registers containing the names and photos and potted biographies of our neighbours, ours would feel more like an old fashioned neighbourhood even if we didn't actually bother speaking to each other.

Which led me to think: what about work?  Is the workplace the new locus of community?  Or do most companies consist of cliques and strangers?  Does anybody work in a company that actively fosters community spirit?  Or would a workplace that resembled Coronation Street be plain horrible?

Here's a link to a fab company website:

http://www.soup.co.uk/

And here's their marvellous 'residents' gallery':

http://www.soup.co.uk/media/site/swf/People/

How does your own company fare in the community-spirit stakes?

BTW, I've been hiding from Vox since Jack Yan, in an uncharacteristic lapse in good taste, nominated me for an Arte Y Pico here, and I wanted to nominate, in turn, 5 non-voxers that I thought you might enjoy.  Trouble is, most of the non-Vox blogs I read express opinions I despise, and which I read on a 'know your enemy' basis.  Either that, or they're on fascinating topics like Lutheranism.  Or they're already so popular that they don't need more endorsement.  So I've been trawling through blogs I like all week, hoping to find something obscure and superlative that would appeal to sane persons...  It's been quite a good exercise, actually.  Will post soon, hopefully.

A southern style high-protein dinner

5 comments

How rude of me!  To leave my faithful reader hangin' for over a week while I do me some real workin'.

Just to get back into the habit of postin' tedious reflections on things like scotch eggs and virtual servers, I'd like to offer a public apology to the mystery person who our lead consultant, Jayne, just phoned by accident by leanin' on her mobile phone, and who had to listen to high-level business discussions about the followin' topics:

1. Alternative lyrics to that dire new song by Dolly Parton, the one in which she gives sick-makin' advice to her 'girlfriend' who is cryin' on her, um, 'shoulder'.

2. The illustrious leader's new idea to motivate us by appearin' from nowhere and screamin', 'Let's make this happen!' and then runnin' away.

3. Greek yogurt: is it really Greek if it's made in Berkshire?

Standard lunch-break talk.  I suppose it's to hts' corporate credit that hardly any of us leave the office durin' lunch break, but either hang around talkin' about Dolly Parton, or work through it (Jayne), or sit here writin' this (me, of course).  The exception is Varun, who always goes for a walk into town, and to whom we give a shoppin' list as big as Dolly's 'do.

In case you want to be a-comin' up with your own alternative lyrics:

People always comin' up to me and askin'
"Dolly, what's your secret?
With all you do, your attitude
Just seems to be so good
How do you keep it?"
Well I'm not the Dalai Lama, but I'll try
To offer up a few words of advice

Chorus:

You better get to livin', givin'
Don't forget to throw in a little forgivin'
And lovin' on the way
You better get to knowin', showin'
A little bit more concerned about where you're goin'
Just a word unto the wise
You better get to livin'

A girlfriend came to my house
Started cryin' on my shoulder Sunday evening
She was spinnin' such a sad tale
I could not believe the yarn that she was weavin'
So negative the words she had to say
I said if I had a violin I'd play

I said you'd better get to livin', givin'
Be willing and forgivin'
Cause all healing has to start with you
You better stop whining, pining
Get your dreams in line
And then just shine, design, refine
Until they come true
And you better get to livin'

Your life's a wreck, your house is mess
And your wardrobe way outdated
All your plans just keep on falling through
Overweight and under paid, under appreciated
I'm no guru, but I'll tell you
This I know is true

You better get to livin', givin'
A little more thought about bein'
A little more willin' to make a better way
Don't sweat the small stuff
Keep your chin up
Just hang tough
And if it gets too rough
Fall on your knees and pray
And do that everyday
Then you'll get to livin'

The day we're born we start to die
Don't waste one minute of this life
Get to livin'
Share your dreams and share your laughter
Make some points for the great hereafter

Better start carin'
Better start sharin'
Better start tryin'
Better start smiling
And you better get to livin'

Have a truly blessed weekend, y'all. 

Timotei

Headhunters: love em or hate em, you've got to hate them. 

Varun got one of out candidates a great job offer, paying more money than the candidate asked for, with fabuloso prospects, in a beautiful location.  (Re location: if the big boss were to move HTS to this town I'd dance for joy.  And I don't dance.)  He got on really well with the team and was very interested in the role.  This guy (let's call him Edward Less) had another job offer, but we didn't think he'd go for it.  The location was grotty (it got a particularly grim writeup in the book Chav Towns) and he'd have to dodge bullets on his way to work and the pay was much lower.

At this point you can probably guess the rest of this post.

That's right!  Edward turned into a bird, and flew into a small pot in an enchanted Soho apothecary.  Suddenly he found himself soaring high above a strange planet that resembled a giant scotch egg!

Which is an allegorical way of saying that the other company sent a headhunter to take him out DRINKING in the fifteen-square-metre relatively-nice part of the slum-town in which the company was based.  And he phoned Varun later that afternoon and slurred that he was taking the other job, and that he had doubts about our company (which he didn't want to disclose), and had already signed some papers, and no, he wouldn't be changing his mind.

I smell a pay-off!  It's in a headhunter's interests to split a fee with a candidate rather than suffer a knock to his or her (in this case his) reputation.

Obviously we have an axe to grind here.  But as far as I can see, our job would have made this guy happier and better off, and I think he'll regret not taking it.  How can people let themselves be manipulated like that?  Or am I missing something?

Folks, promise me that if some headhunter takes you drinking, you'll take a couple of days to weigh up your options before making any decisions!

Other posts featuring scotch eggs:

"web-sites" - the next big thing?

i told me so

This is Lady Resourceful's sister, in a couple of ads from the 90s, posted on Youtube earlier this year.

She swings her hair around in the Rockies and paddles a canoe in New Zealand IN THE NINETEEN NINETIES and she's still getting ten times more views than this blog, for which I sweat blood.  Cow.

She still looks exactly the same, by the way.

Lee on his way to work

Unless you have been boycotting reality TV or trapped down a well, you will know by now that Sir Alan has decided that Lee McQueen has what it takes to be The Apprentice.  Accordingly, he will be appointing Lee to a position in his organisation, Tottenham Hotspur, pending a short investigation into whether Lee's name really is Lee, or whether he made that bit up.

This is ostensibly a blog about recruitment and work and such like, and I'd been hoping to make up provide occasional tips on how to get the job of your dreams.  It looks, though, like I'm going to have to rethink everything I've ever accepted as true.

So what does Lee's appointment teach us about how to get a top job?  Here are my initial tentative thoughts.

1. Have a catchphrase.

2. Have a 3-point plan, such as 1) get through the first round, 2) get through any middle rounds, 3) get the job.  Planning is all about specifics.

3. Realise the value of a solid education.

4. Give the interviewer exactly what s/he asks for.  Apologise later if necessary.

5. Wink wink.

Anything I missed?

Right, I'm off to do some work on my CV.

If i had

We have a new hts consultant, Sarah.  It’s her first foray into regular 8.30-5.30 office work (like all of our staff, she was originally a circus performer) and so we’re trying to live up to stereotypes by welcoming her with some mock-bullying.  (We’ve known Sarah for ages so this is perfectly acceptable.)  Accordingly, she has spent the morning receiving HILARIOUS emails:

Some agrarians

People phoning the HTS office might be distressed to find that the trademark sound of microwave *pings* in the background has stopped.  That's because we are all trying to adopt healthier eating habits, and have been coming to work laden with salads and other non-foods that don't require two minutes on Max.  It is hard work but we are a tenacious bunch.  We plan on exercising dietary virtues without compromise, at least until the new cafe opens downstairs, at which point we will revert to bacon and brie baguettes.

To be honest, I'm relieved to be taking a break from a daily salt intake so extreme that after some meals my sight goes hazy and I can't feel my hands. But the diet we're all on, the completely scientifically unsubtantiated 'blood-type diet', is not the most exciting diet ever invented.  We're only sticking to it because a naturopath friend says it made her healthier than a lumberjack.  I ascertained my blood type by means of one of those do-it-yourself kits guaranteed to turn one's bathroom into a Hammer film.  After you've made that kind of commitment, it's easy to turn a deaf ear to claims that your new vegetable-only diet is a load of baloney.

I have type A blood, apparently.  That means I am descended from agrarian vegetarians who thrived on food so bland that you'd think twice about washing the soil off.  For some reason they didn't thrive on potatoes, beer, bagels, dairy products, cakes, bread, or anything else that would make vegetarianism tolerable.  Broccoli, water, lentils, and looking at pictures of food, though, are FINE.

Being a type A has its perks.  My agrarian ancestors may not have been able to eat potatoes, but they are biologically suited to acting like them.  Aerobic exercise is positively bad for us.  Lifting weights could kill us.  Our bodies function best on a regime of yoga, swimming, or darts.  One would presume that tilling fields would be the best form of exercise, but my book doesn't mention it.

Oh, and I can drink as much red wine and cider as I want!  Pass me my flagon of scrumpy!  And those darts.

Even more marvellously, I'm not supposed to do anything stressful.  Agrarians evolved, my book says, to be placid milquetoasts who get along with everyone and bottle up their feelings for the sake of peaceful co-existence with fellow agrarians. 

My boss' scientific verdict is that the blood type diet is 'crap'.  She is presently eating a bagel with cream cheese, and drinking coffee from a 1 litre plastic measuring jug.  Nevertheless, she has agreed to adopt some of our habits if the rest of us turn into Olympians.  From there, it'd only be a small matter to convince her to make ours a 'blood type attuned' workplace, where everyone's work load corresponds to their chemical profile, and I get my own personal masseuse.  Because of my stress issues, you understand.

There's something deeply comforting about imagining that you belong to a 'type', isn't there?

Or isn't there?  Is it good to have all of your decisions made for you, or not?

Anyway, what I was wondering is, what kind of categories could you apply to your own workplace?  Do you have agrarians and hunter gatherers?  Vampires (drain you), mummies (or mummies' boys) and werewolves (tend to turn suddenly into maniacs)?

Time for my morning lump of tofu. 

The hts moon refectory

Imagine - if you can!! - a future in which ordinary people can explore the whole universe without getting up from their chairs. 

Imagine a world in which humans like you can visit shops, banks, libraries and religious cults without having to put down their scotch eggs or pull on their socks.  A world in which you can sign up with a boutique recruitment agency while sitting in your underpants, eating crisps surrounded by doner kebab trays and copies of Razzle.

Welcome to the year 3000 AD?  No - WELCOME TO NOW.

Here at HTS, we have always been at the vanguard of technology.  And so we weren't slow to pick up on a new trend that some people are calling The Internet.  Nor did it escape us that the technology exists - not just in the minds of science fiction writers but in REALITY - to create mini worlds inside your computers - worlds that other people who own computers can somehow access via a glorified television with a sort of typewriter attached and a small ergonomic device that looks exactly like a hoof on a string, and is therefore referred to as a "mouse". 

For reasons too technical for you to understand, we've nicknamed these micro-worlds "web-sites".

And here's the kicker.  We've only gone and got ourselves one.

And we're relocating our offices - to a COLONY ON JUPITER!!!!

No, but seriously.  It's a big development, you'll agree - though it's not the first time HTS have dabbled in "websitery" before.  It will astonish you to learn that we've had something like a "web-site" for some time.  It has served us pretty well since the late 19^th century, when we first etched the coding directly onto piano scrolls; but it had not been substantially updated since 1974, and even then we just did a little work on it with an etch-a-sketch. 

But now that our technological resources are literally galloping into space, we thought we'd get ahead of the game and award ourselves the gift of what we like to call 'web presents' (still working on that term).  So this time, we've got ourselves the real deal.

Oh - and an OFFICE ON THE MOON!!! 

Eat our space dust, rivals!

Here's our new HTS website, earthlings and employment-fans.

A musician

See!  I said in the post before last that my email-writing skills are better than my real-life conversational skills, and I spent all of last Saturday proving myself right. 

To everyone who conversed with me during those intervals at the marvellous all-day wedding bash during which I wasn't staggering drospically in zigzags across the dance floor: my (written) apologies.

Special apologies to the Ivor Novello nominated musican who I spent half an hour asking to perform tricks for me and (a bewildered) Lady Resourceful.  Musician, magician... I'm afraid small nuances are lost to me after a crate of Budvar.

Sorry to everyone to whom I felt it a good idea to say things like, 'You're the bride's aunt?  I assumed you were staff.'

It was a great wedding, but it's good to be at a keyboard again, spending ten minutes on each sentence while eating a scotch egg, and dreaming of a world where everyone conversed at the same glacial pace at which my thoughts creep.

Hope you had a jolly good bank holiday.

Basic coffee machine

Any suggestions, coffee lovers?  Illustrious Leader said she'd get us an office coffee machine if we hit our targets, and Varun has just pushed us over the threshold and into coffeedom.  'Send me some links to coffee machine websites,' the Boss grumbled, so now we are shopping.  Her grumpy reluctance, incidentally, is pure dissimulation.  She drinks more coffee than a private eye who moonlights as a secondary school teacher.

Ironically, Varun doesn't actually drink coffee, he thinks it tastes like dirt, so we're looking for a coffee machine that also makes hot chocolate, or perhaps Piña Coladas.  That rules out our beloved Gaggia.  Me, I'd prefer some great steaming contraption that looks like it's straight out of a Lisbon pasteis de nata cafe.

It's so exciting!  We're all looking at online demonstration videos at our respective work stations.  "You can use this one if you've got a broken leg or carrying a baby,' the Boss just shouted.  'It has buttons big enough to press with a walking stick.  Or, alternatively, a baby's head.'

'This one works out at £30 a month,' Jayne shouts.  'You buy pods.'

'£30 a month!' the boss screams.  'Pods?'  She hadn't considered the fact that you have to buy coffee to put in your machine.  'We'll have to ration.'  She delivers her standard 'war baby' speech, which we all screen out.

'Hey!  This one makes milkshakes!' says Varun.

'Coffee and milkshakes?' I ask.  'Weird.'

'No, just milkshakes.'  He taps his keys.  'Hey!  This one makes soup!'

'Soup and coffee?' I ask.

He squints at his screen.  'Actually, no.  Just soup.'  Tapping.  'Hey...!'

At some point we will have to resume working.  For now, though, we're all enjoying what might be the last high we'll ever have that wasn't at least partly caffeine-induced.