“What did you say, Kelly?”

  “I said I didn’t know I’d applied for a fortune teller’s job. But they just looked at me as if I was stupid, so I said pole dancing. You get good money and keep fit.”

  She laughs and gets to her feet. “I don’t think the HR woman liked that because she starting bombarding me with questions about equal opportunities.”

  “And you told them men didn’t make good pole dancers.”

  “No, I told them if everyone was equal you wouldn’t have bosses and employees. Then who’d make the tea, or collect the lottery money? There’d be no competition either, so how would we ever win the Olympics? And we’d all wear the same clothes and eat curry every night.”

  I wished Kelly had applied for the job. She would dismiss the time wasters, baffle the pompous, and disarm the aggressive. Sarah looked aghast.

  “And you got the job?”

  “Sure,” Kelly replied, getting to her feet. “Mr Wilson, the Admin Manager who interviewed me is a regular at the Mayfair Club.”

  More questions than answers

  It’s late on Friday afternoon. The phones are quiet, most of my colleagues have gone home, and I’m catching up on some paperwork. Kelly is at the photocopier, trying to remove a paper jam.

  “You think they’d label Lever A with the letter A,” she mutters, staring at the insides of the machine.

  “Don’t you think intelligent machines are a bit smug?” I ask, studying the graphic that’s meant to help us. “When they go wrong they offer you the solution in five easy steps. But they never work, so you feel a fool because you can’t manage a simple repair.”

  Kelly smiles. “Sounds a bit like management to me.”

  “No, managers complicate everything and rely on vagueness and uncertainty to spread confusion and doubt.”

  “Poor communication is the first barrier to understanding,” announces Danni, startling me as she breezes past. “Join me in my office and I’ll demonstrate the power of words.”

  She pauses at the door and glances back. “Be a darling, Kelly, and get me a decaffeinated skinny latte with a caramel shot and two sweeteners.”

  I head into Danni’s office, wishing I’d left early. She’s humming while she removes her scarf and coat, and seems in no hurry. “Okay, Kent, give me three words that make the difference between success and failure.”

  “Studied your diary.”

  “What?”

  “I read your diary, which means I know you’ve been on the Gooder English course for Managers today. That’s why you want to show me the power of words, right?”

  “If you mean Plain English for Effective Management, then yes, I learned enough to condense your service plans into three words. Boring as hell.” She leans back, looking pleased. “So, give me three words that will make you irresistible to an employer.”

  “No pay required.”

  She sighs and retrieves a sheet of paper from her top drawer. She stares at me as she tears it in two. “Your interview questions for Monday. Nothing on describe yourself in three words. Nothing on which animal you see yourself as and why. Nothing on if you were a fruit, which would it be? Tell me, Kent, how do you expect to separate the wheat from the chaff?”

  I don’t answer because I’m trying to decide between a pineapple and a raspberry. “Which animal do you see yourself as, Danni?”

  “A tiger, of course.”

  “Not a tigress? That’s interesting. Does that mean you see yourself as a man?”

  “What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as a tigress. Just like there’s no authoress, or actress or … “

  “Lioness, governess, mistress?”

  “Exactly. They’re all redundant now. If you’d attended Plain English for Effective Management, you’d have known that.” She sweeps the torn papers into the waste bin. “Your interview questions are all the same. Give me an example of a conflict situation you had to diffuse and how you did this,” she quotes in a silly voice. “It’s not even a question, Kent. It’s a statement.”

  I’m sure HR will be delighted to learn this. “You think I’d have more success asking them to describe themselves in three words?”

  Kelly enters with the latte at this point. “Is this a word game?” she asks.

  I nod. “Describe yourself in three words, Kelly.”

  “Only three?”

  “You’re in an interview for a job and that’s the question,” Danni says.

  Kelly slips into the chair next to me. “Do I want the job? Only sometimes you have to go for the job, like, to make it look like you want to get on, if you see what I mean.”

  “You want this job more than anything,” Danni says. “You want to impress the interview panel.”

  Kelly pulls back. “You never said there was an interview panel. How many people are on this panel?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If it was just you and Kent, then I wouldn’t feel intimidated or nothing. But if it was like Richard Branson and his Virgin directors, I’d have to read a dictionary the night before, wouldn’t I?”

  Danni’s fingers claw into fists. “Just choose three words that describe who you are, Kelly.”

  “Kelly Morgan, Admin.”

  “They’ll know your name,” I say with a wink.

  She giggles. “Of course, it’ll be on my name badge, right? In that case, my three words would be Admin Support Officer.”

  Danni looks ready to explode. “That’s your job title.”

  “If you were an animal, tell us which one it would be?” I ask quickly.

  “You’re going to tell me stick insects aren’t animals, right? Only I had one as a teenager and they’re well good at not moving.” She puts a finger to her lips. “In that case it has to be Scooby Doo. Those Scooby snacks are well large. Imagine trying to fit them in your lunch box. You’d need one of those blue picnic box things.”

  “A cool box?”

  “Yea, they’re well cool, they are.”

  I daren’t look at Danni in case I burst into laughter. “I think you’d best fix the photocopier, Kelly.”

  She gives me a discrete smile that confirms she was winding up Danni and leaves.

  “Who the hell appointed her?” Danni asks, shaking her head. “Now, four more words for your interview – National Food Hygiene Rating Scheme.”

  “That’s five words, Danni.”

  She slaps her hands on the desk. “For God’s sake, Kent! If insubordination was an Olympic sport, you’d be world champion.”

  “Olympic champion, surely.”

  “Do you always have to have the last word?”

  I refuse to dignify that with an answer and remain silent.

  “You have no interview questions about the National Food Hygiene Rating Scheme,” she says, jabbing the question paper. “Why not?”

  “We’re not in it,” I reply.

  “We will be after my experiences this morning. And our portfolio holder, Gregory Rathbone, supports me. He wants all our businesses rated so the public can choose the most hygienic places to eat in Downland.”

  “Like his tea rooms, you mean?”

  “Better there than Mike’s Mighty Munch – the worst burger van I’ve ever had the misfortune to visit. Why haven’t we closed him down?”

  “He’s not that bad,” I reply, determined to defend my friend. “A bit rough around the edges, but his systems are first rate.”

  They should be – I wrote them for him.

  “He’s dirty, greasy, sweaty and wears the most appalling string vest,” she says. “And you should have seen the state of his apron! I don’t think he’s changed it all week.”

  “His washing machine broke down on Tuesday.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “We drink in the same pub,” I reply quickly. “I’ve known him for years.”

  She gives me a suspicious stare. “I don’t approve of fraternising with businesses, Kent. Especially ones we’re going to close down.”

  I leave the room, wondering what she’ll say if she finds out Mike and I run a second-hand catering equipment business.

  Unnatural Selection

  There’s something noble and heroic about beating the system. It’s David and Goliath, the underdog defeating the champion, one person making a difference. Danni tries to force me one way, but I outsmart her and the system by recruiting someone who could bring a new dimension to a stale team.

  That’s the plan. Unfortunately, I tell Danni.

  “If you appoint someone who is so much better than everyone else where will that leave our equal opportunities policy?” she asks. “How can the poorer candidates ever hope to compete on an equal basis?”

  It takes me a few moments to get my head around this. “You want me to appoint an inferior candidate?”

  She gives me a smile that says I’m hopelessly out of my depth. “Think of this as setting an example to the wider world, Kent. We want people to know they can be mediocre but still find a role within Downland. Imagine how many more applicants we will get.”

  There’s no answer to that. “So, what happens when the superior candidates say we’ve discriminated against them?”

  “If they’re so good they’ll have no trouble finding employment elsewhere – unlike poorer candidates.” Danni rises to signal an end to the discussion. “Now, go interview your candidates and don’t forget the animal questions.”

  “How do I compare someone who is a tiger with someone who is a giraffe without breaching equal opportunities?”

  “There’s a scoring matrix on the intranet,” she replies. “If you look closely you’ll discover it’s part of the dissertation from my master’s degree.”

  No doubt it’s the dog’s bollocks, as they say in more mediocre academic circles. I head for the committee room where Sarah and I are holding the interviews. She’s looking as classy and gorgeous as ever in a black suit and white blouse. If only she would slide a diamond choker around her smooth neck, I would be in raptures.

  She gives me an amused look. “Is everything okay?”

  I nod, unable to speak for a moment. We’ll be together all day. “Never better,” I reply, sitting next to her. The scent of her perfume fills my nostrils, and I wish I’d short listed ten candidates. “Danni wants us to appoint someone useless, by the way.”

  When I reveal what Danni said, Sarah laughs. “No wonder we never move out of the Dark Ages. Well, I’m feeling rebellious, Kent. Shall we appoint someone good?”

  “The team are up for it,” I reply, pleased I’d involved them in the process. They will meet the candidates on a tour of the office and record their impressions to assist us in a final decision.

  But by four thirty my plan is in tatters.

  “I’ve never met such a naive and incompetent set of candidates in my life.” Sarah pushes a stray strand of hair from her face and yawns. “I’m sorry, Kent, but we can’t appoint any of them. We’ll advertise again and hope for some better candidates. Do you agree?”

  I nod. “We make a good team, don’t we? We’ve made almost identical comments on our assessment records.”

  “That’s because you copied mine, Kent.”

  “You have a great way with words, Sarah, and I want to learn from your experience. I know you could teach me so much.”

  Her smile is disarming. “That’s interesting, Kent, because everyone tells me you’ve no interest in experience. I’d hate to devote all that time and effort to find I was just a passing fancy.”

  “You could never be a passing fancy.”

  “And I could never find the time to see if that were true.”

  For a moment, I’m lost in what might have been. Her eyes say so much but tell me so little. She’s married to a software designer who runs a successful company. They live in a large Georgian house in the country with a swimming pool and stables for her two horses.

  I may be the son of the local MP, but I can’t compete with that. I’m broke, despite my share in a dodgy catering equipment company, I live in a flat that’s converted from a loft above a barn, and all my spare money and time goes into running a sanctuary for abandoned and abused animals.

  “Once again my hopes are dashed,” I say with feeling.

  “I’m not surprised,” remarks Danni, marching into the room. “That’s just about the worst short list anyone can remember. Nice idea, involving the team, but I warned you about making decisions by committee, didn’t I?”

  “I thought it was a great idea,” Sarah says.

  Danni sits and opens her folder to reveal the record forms from the team. “I wonder whether you’ll hold that opinion once you’ve heard Kelly’s objective assessment of your five candidates.” She clears her throat. “Number One: great butt – but what an arse. Two: seen more meat on a chicken drumstick – and more charisma. Three: wicked tattoos, but what a poser! Four: spray tan uneven – will he be as sloppy inspecting a kitchen? Five: mouth wider than her hips – says it all, don’t it?”

  I manage to stifle a grin. “It’s earthy, but accurate.”

  “So, if an unsuccessful candidate demanded to see why we’d rejected them, you’d be happy to send him this?”

  “It’s academic as we’re not appointing any of the candidates,” Sarah replies.

  “You’re suggesting we continue to operate with an under strength team for at least another two months, while we run to the expense of more interviews? I can’t allow that.”

  Sarah smirks. “I forgot. You want someone mediocre. Well, don’t forget I can veto any appointment I think unsuitable.”

  I watch Danni, wondering how she will deal with this challenge. “Sarah, you allowed a team to make derisory and defamatory comments that could embarrass this council and get us all into trouble. What does that say about your judgement as a Senior HR Officer?”

  “It was my idea, Danni,” I cut in. “I persuaded Sarah to humour me.”

  Danni looks at me as if I’ve crawled out from under a stone. “Kent, your chivalry does you no favours. You two have left me in an impossible situation. We cannot carry the vacancy any longer, and the team’s comments have ruled out every candidate.”

  I glance at Sarah, not sure where it all fell apart. She starts to pack away her paperwork in silence.

  “Fortunately, I anticipated this possibility,” Danni says, looking pleased. “We have someone suitable. She has catering experience, but she’s not an EHO, which is why the Chief Executive has agreed to downgrade the post to a Technical Officer.”

  Sarah stops packing. “You can’t just appoint someone without an application process.”

  “Why not? You couldn’t appoint someone with an application process.”

  “So, who is this person?” I ask, hoping to diffuse the tension. “How did you find her?”

  “Her name’s Gemma Dean and …”

  “Gemma Dean?” I cut in. “The Chief Executive’s niece?”

  Danni nods. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “I think you will,” I reply.

  So does Sarah. “I won’t allow it,” she says, her voice a threatening growl.

  Danni’s smile suggests it’s too late. “Sarah, your sense of righteousness is admirable, but you need to consider the bigger picture. When we employ Gemma, we win on every level. She’s cheap, so we get value for money. She’s bright, enthusiastic and willing. She can start in a couple of weeks, and the Chief Executive’s delighted.”

  “It stinks!”

  Danni didn’t arrange this in the last ten minutes. “When was all this decided?” I ask.

  “Yesterday,” she replies.

  “You let us interview –”

  “Yes, Kent, I let you gain some valuable interviewing experience, though I suspect you wasted most of it flirting with Sarah.”

  “But what if we’d found a suitable candidate?” I ask.

  “Kent, with your desire to do the opposite of what I want, you would never have chosen the five most inexperienced candidates. I’d never have had the team’s defamatory comments either. If they ever became public …”

  As angry as I am, I know she’s outplayed me. My great plan to improve the team has led to a post being downgraded. The rest of the team will be furious.

  “Gemma will be about as welcome as food poisoning,” I say, sensing there’s far worse to come.

  “I’m sure you’ll make her feel welcome, Kent,” Danni says, “as long as you remember you’re old enough to be her father. If that fails, putting together an induction programme for her should calm your libido.”

  “Will you be making suggestions so I can do the opposite?”

  “That depends on whether you still think I’m a fast track, pen-pushing robot.”

  The cardinal sin of pimentos

  “Pimentos!”

  Team meetings are normally dull affairs where we go through issues like why are they called minutes when they take hours to produce, or why does the computer system always fail when you have a rush job? So, Nigel’s outburst stuns the rest of us into silence. He’s a careful, considered officer, not prone to outbursts, especially ones involving peppers. Or any other vegetable, come to that.

  I recover first. “What about them?”

  He looks at me as if I’m stupid. “Don’t you see?”

  Lucy is more jalapeno than pimento. “Some of us have lives to live, Nigel.”

  “Don’t you see, it’s an anagram?”

  “I thought pimentos were peppers.” Kelly, who’s taking the minutes, looks up. “So, if it’s an anagram what do the letters stand for?”

  “You’re talking about an acronym.”

  “Or a mnemonic?” I suggest, wishing he would get to the point. Danni will be joining us at any moment and then we’ll never find out.

  “Nepotism,” he says, pausing to look at each of us in turn. “In fact, it’s the only anagram of nepotism, which makes it even better.”

 

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