Recruitment

My friends, I have mentioned before, that there is a reason for myself being less than forthcoming with updates on recent events. Well the reason, ironically is that I have more time on my hands. You see I am between roles at the moment and so I am spending all my time looking for a new job.

Now there are many aspects to this, but one of the most tiresome can be the daily dealings with recruitment consultants. Now you may have heard a few horror stories concerning recruiters. All I can say is that some can be quite accurate, whilst others tend to be urban legends. I have experienced a few myself though. Some recruiters will try to push you into roles that you clearly aren't interested in or are even capable of doing. Then there are the unreturned telephone messages and the non replies to emails. There's more too. Depending on who you speak to, a lot of recruiters can range in tone from smarmy estate agent, to Vicky Pollard, both of which leave you vexed and relatively impotent, in the knowledge that they are an inevitable part of finding a new job.

So it may surprise you to learn that last week I applied to become a recruitment consultant. I was told that I would have to attend an assessment centre and upon arrival was led through to a conference room with eleven others who were all going through the same process. Now, I had been warned that these were likely to be new graduates and this did indeed turn out to be the case. We said our casual hellos around the table before formal introductions started. A young chap nervously said "Hi, I.I..I'm Peter and I graduated in M.mmay", shortly before another voice of youth piped up with "Hiii, i'm Jane, I graduated in June and I like fluffy kittens". Actually she didn't say the last part, but I'm sure she was more than capable of it. One by one they went around the table. I was starting to feel very self conscious of the fact that I graduated in 2002 and even then, it was as a mature student. The eleventh person spoke "Hi, I graduated in June" and then everyone looked at me. "Hi, I graduated in Politics".

After the assessment centre, we had to go through a series of interviews. I had three on the day of the assessment centre and six the following day. I felt like one of the candidates from The Apprentice as I went from interview to interview."Sell me a telephone" said one - which I did. "Why are you here?" asked another. "Your CV isn't like any of the others I've seen" was something I heard 4 or 5 times. "The guys here mainly come straight from university, how would you feel working for a younger boss?" “Well, you yourself mentioned that you are 29" I said "but to me you are a guy who is interviewing me and could potentially be my boss and so your age doesn't come into it." Off we went again with more questions, "why do you want a career change?", "what motivates you?" and so on. Each interview was like a game, a sparring match to be followed by another round with a different contender.

"Ok, that's great, stay where you are though and I'll send someone else in to interview you" It was the end of the fifth interview on the second day. I was feeling tired but with plenty in reserve. The age thing had come up time and again and yet I had managed to bat it away at each turning point. I stood up to stretch my legs and walked over to peer out of the window and down into the hurly burly of London's west end. I turned around and noticed a rather diffident looking teen, seemingly lost in the reception outside the meeting room. I smiled inwardly and remembered my own time doing work experience when I was at school. I peered my head out of the door, "Are you alright, you look a little lost" I said. "Ah there you are. Hi I'm Tom, one of the team leaders.”

Shop Story

I had a yes thing going on for most of last year – let me explain. It was born from reading the novel, Yes Man by Danny Wallace and watching the film of the book. I was struck by the optimism that the concept of saying yes to things more often, conveyed. I thought about this last weekend when a friend complained that I’d been fairly slack of late with blog updates. “Why did you start to write a blog in the first place?” he asked. And so I told him...

I had wanted to write for a long time. What I lacked though was a self belief in my abilities to do so and in some ways it felt like a bit of a pipe dream.

About a year ago I was working in an office in south London. I was having a stressful time for one reason or another and had got to the stage where I loathed going to work in the mornings. One lunch time, after a particularly stressful morning in the office, I decided that I needed to get out for a walk and to clear my head.

I walked down Bermondsey Street towards Tower Bridge Road, taking in the buildings and atmosphere that give a village feel to that part of town near London Bridge. I was slightly lost in my thoughts about the afternoon ahead. My stress levels had started to build as I saw the hands on my watch ticking down towards that point when I would have to go back to the office. I turned in to Tower Bridge Road, and was not entirely looking where I was going when a man walked out of a shop doorway and almost bumped into me. “Sorry” he said, as he walked on. My eyes scanned the shop window. It was a lighting shop. As luck would have it I had been looking for a lamp for my flat. I wandered in and looked around, eventually setting my eyes on a box in the corner with a picture of a tall standing lamp on the side of it. The lamp in the picture was exactly what I’d had in mind to go against the wall in the corner of my lounge. I spoke to the girl behind the counter about it. As we talked, I made a passing comment on the unexpected discovery of the shop. “It belongs to my mum and dad. It’s only a part time gig for me though and not really what I want to do.” she said. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “I want to be a writer” she replied.

It turned out that she had been writing a blog on life working in her parent’s shop. Not only that, but her blog had been picked up by a publisher, was being turned into a book and also into a short film. I was enthralled. To my mind, the only people being published were chefs and celebrities who got other people to write their novels for them. However, here was someone who within a few minutes of conversation, had made writing sound accessible and achievable and was something that could become a reality. I told her I’d wanted to write for a while. I was excited and full of questions that I wanted to ask. “To be honest” she said, “all you need to do is start writing and the more you write, the better you will get.”

Needless to say, work and the afternoon ahead were now further from my mind than I could possibly have imagined an hour earlier. I felt newly inspired, energized and full of ideas. I told the shop girl that I would be back at the weekend for the standing lamp and left, in a far more optimistic frame of mind than when I’d first walked in. As I stepped out of the front door a large Western Union poster on a bus stop was staring me in the face. It was carrying their slogan in big yellow letters – yes.

Months and a few blog entries later I was standing in my kitchen making a coffee when I heard the clatter of the letter box. Amongst the collection of take away menus and junk mail for the previous occupant, was a hand written envelope addressed to me. It contained an invitation to a book launch – Shop Girl Diaries, by Emily Benet.

Story From A Diary

I found a diary last weekend whilst clearing out my spare room. I don’t usually read diaries once I have written them, but the sense of curiosity had got the better of me. What caught my attention was the story of my first attempt at internet dating. It was a memorable evening, for more than one reason...

I was 5 minutes late to the arranged meeting place at Leicester Square tube station and found my date looking less than happy. She was a petite American girl of 30 and was checking her watch. “Hi” I said. “Hi, you’re late” she said with her arms folded. “Oh, sorry about that, I was engrossed in reading and went way past my stop”. “Well I’ve done that before myself, but even so..” She can’t be serious, I thought, it’s 5 minutes, not 50. I asked her if she’d like a drink. “Yes that would be nice” she said.

We walked to a pub just off Shaftsbury Avenue. It was a cosy place with sofas upstairs and a clientele that was slightly less touristy than a number of bars in the area. We had just ordered drinks and were standing at the bar. She was in the middle of talking about her job as a project manager in a bank, when I accidentally yawned. “Am I boring you?” she demanded. The realisation that I had just yawned in her face suddenly dawned on me. Shit, “I’m sorry” I said. “I was at a close friend’s birthday party last night and it didn’t finish until very late” (8am to be honest). “Hmm ok” she said, sounding unsure.

We moved to one of the sofas and carried on our conversation. She started to talk about how she was finding life in London, having recently moved here from Manhattan. Now I like Manhattan and so we found a bit of common ground. From a bit of a shaky start, this didn’t seem to be going too badly.

A girl walked over and asked if the sofa opposite was free. “Er, yeah, sure, help yourself” I said. “Thanks”, she said with a smile as another girl and a guy joined her. I turned back to my date who had now crossed her legs, folded her arms, and was checking her watch. “Er, are you ok?” I asked, sensing hostility. She snorted. “Well you’re obviously only here with me because you can’t go home with her!” The girl on the sofa overheard and raised her eyebrows. I was stumped. “Huh? – She asked me if she and her friends could sit on the sofa, I said yes. What’s the matter?” I’d hoped that she might be reasonable, but she simply raised her tone. “Well nothing, if it wasn’t for the way you were flirting with her!” I had never heard anyone use the word flirting with such vitriol. “Are you serious? She asked a question, I answered, that was it” I said, incredulously. She looked at me, legs still crossed and arms still folded. “Well I’m not going to have sex with you now!” she spat. The girl on the sofa coughed into her drink.

“I’m gonna go” she said, standing up. “Really? I thought we were just starting to hit it off.” “Are you kidding me? I’m not sure I want to see you again” she retorted, zipping up her jacket. I was tempted to make a W with my fingers and thumbs. That would have been too much of a red rag though and instead I mouthed “WHATEVER” as she reached down to pick up her handbag. “Well are you at least going to walk me to the station?” “What do you mean, at least. You’re the one who’s leaving early”. I said, standing up. “Oh, so I’m walking on my own then am I?” Bile was oozing from her every pore. I sat down again slowly and smiled at her before confirming “Yes, pretty much”. She turned and seconds later she was gone.

The girl on the sofa leaned forward. “Excuse me, but I don’t think she was all there . You’re probably well rid of that one”. Her two friends agreed with her. “Would you like to join us?” “Thanks” I said and for the next two hours we talked dating horror stories, relationships and politics – not sure how we moved onto the last topic, but it was a lively discussion. We got to the end of the evening and the girl on the sofa and I exchanged numbers. We are still friends to this day and I have mentioned her a few times before in this blog. Regular readers will know her as G, and this was the bizarre tale of how we first met.

Childhood Nostalgia

I have many fond memories of my childhood years. Some of the fondest though are based in Clacton on Sea. It was the place where my grandparents on my father’s side lived. We were not terribly wealthy when I was growing up. Many school friends would talk about their summer holidays in Corfu or places in Italy. Their trips all seemed very grand and beyond our reach, and yet it didn’t seem to matter. From being a toddler through to my teenage years, my brothers and I would spend at least one week a year at Clacton on Sea and we loved it. We would walk from my grandparent’s house, past a very large mock Tudor house that supposedly housed a pop group (whether it actually did or not, we never found out). It had a big sign on the door warning of a Doberman patrolling the grounds, although we never saw it. We would walk excitedly towards the sea front, eagerly waiting for the moment when we would catch our first glimpse of the sea. When we finally got there, we would marvel at the pier in the distance. The walk along the sea front seemed to go on for miles. We would become more eager the closer we got to the pier, watching it grow on the horizon line. Once there we would scour underneath it for any discarded remains of the fishermen's catch that morning.

I make reference to all of this because I travelled to Clacton again last week, to visit a friend who has recently bought a house there. I am a sucker for nostalgia and can be prone to sentiment. So I decided to revisit the childhood stomping ground of those early years. One of the first things I noticed was the chav nature of the town centre. It was most likely always that way in hindsight and such is the innocence of the young mind that we probably just used to see through such things. The amusement arcades in town, once seemingly like a mini Las Vegas, now looked small and provincial and used by pensioners and a few hoodies. The pier no longer seemed to go out for miles to sea and the amazing rides we used to go on were now closed down until late spring. When we were very young, we used to wonder what might be out to sea in the distance – Sharks? Treasure? Pirates perhaps...? Now I know. It’s a wind farm and is 5 miles off shore.

The details of the road my grandparents lived on are so clear in my mind. The imagery from childhood so vivid that it was like comparing photographs of now and then. To my mind it was exactly the how I remembered it, even down to the colour of the paintwork above the garage door next to the house itself. I looked up the driveway and was overcome with an urge to walk up to the front door and call on the new owners, wondering what the house looked like now. I got halfway, paused and then turned back. I decided that some memories are probably best left in the past.

So you may be thinking that the passage of time has taken the sheen of a once favourite place by the sea. The truth however, is quite the contrary. What actually happened last week when visiting Clacton was that I walked some old walks and drove the roads my father and grandparents used to drive. I ate in cafes by the beach where previously my mother had bought us buckets and spades and for two days I was taken back to the memories of one of the happiest times of my life.

I popped into my local pub to meet a friend, upon returning to London. We hadn't seen each other for a little while and he asked what I’d been up to. “I’ve just spent a few days with a mate in Clacton” I said. “Clacton on Sea? He asked "That’s a bit bloody boring isn’t it?” "Only a bit mate" I told him, "only a bit".

First Date Politics

We had first met a week earlier, at a leaving party for a mutual friend. We hit it off reasonably well and exchanged numbers, agreeing to meet for drinks.

"I'm not going to kiss you" she said. Two minutes earlier we had been talking about tapas. The only thing we had discussed passing our lips was the chorizo on the specials board.

"Really... Why do you say that?" I asked "Because then I'd end up sleeping with you" she said. "Is that the new rule? Kiss someone and you have to sleep with them?" I said. She laughed and poured out the remainder of the bottle of rose. "I just thought I'd put it out there" she said. "Look, a kiss is a kiss" I said, "and it doesn't have to be followed by anything ok, so let’s just chill and enjoy the Rose”. I raised my glass “Cheers”

Five minutes later we were kissing. "I thought you didn't want to kiss me". "I didn’t but I liked what you said". With that she got up and walked to the ladies room, leaving me scratching my head, trying to remember what I’d said – if ever there was a time to write something down etc.

I was finishing my drink as she came back. “Let’s go somewhere else.” she said, finishing her drink. It was only after we had left that we saw the time. It was gone 01:30 and any of the bars nearby would be closing shortly. “Do you have anything to drink at your place?” she said “Yep, wine, gin, take your pick” I said, as I hailed a black cab.

Once in my flat I opened a bottle of Rioja left over from Christmas. I was pouring the glasses in the kitchen when she joined me and kissed me. We started drinking the wine and 5 minutes later we were in bed. So far so wet you might say.

We kissed as she lay on top of me, naked as the day she was born as our legs entwined and then...

Her – I can’t do this

Me – I’m sorry?

Her – No, I can’t do this

She pulled away and paused, and then moved on top of me again, kissing me as her hand reached down to discover how happy she had made me.

Me – Are you sure, because it doesn’t really feel like you can’t from here... or there (as she continued stroking mini me with her fingers)

Her – Well I shouldn’t. .. Oh but I could so easily have sex with you now.

Me – Knock yourself out

We kissed again, our bodies a tangled collection of limbs as we moved under the duvet. The momentum was building, our hands searching each other as she broke the kiss again.

Her – No I can’t. I don’t like sleeping on the first date.

Me – So stay awake.

Her – I shouldn’t.

Me – But we’re here now and this feels great, and we’ve had a lovely evening, so why not just relax and enjoy it.

She kissed me again before saying “ I can’t, but I’d love to”. And with that, she rolled off me.

“That’s fucking outrageous!” said G when I told her the next day. “It’s women like that that give the rest of us a bad name, you should have called her a cab and told her to leave”. A girlfriend of G’s was with us (we’ll call her G2). She said “You know what you did wrong don’t you? You should have gone downstairs and teased her, she obviously just needed coaxing.”

And herein lies the problem for us guys. We are forever being told that a girl has a right to say no whenever she chooses – period! Surely though if a woman wants to say no, then it should really be before she undresses and starts playing with the old chap. What’s a guy to do - should he leave well alone if she’s in two minds, or as G2 said, to go downstairs and wait until the volume changes?

On the night in question we slept on opposite sides of the bed. She caught the tube home in the morning. I agreed with G however and probably should have called her a cab. It’s not always easy though. When you’re pitching a tent under the duvet, the last thing on your mind are taxis.

Relationship Trouble

Upon returning to the UK, the first thing to note is the sudden change in temperature. The grey and cold of the weather in London is reflected in the tone of my mate M who calls me to see if I fancy a beer and a chat.

We meet in a pub just off the Embankment. Apparently the on/off relationship of the past 7 months with the accountant is now off again. In all the years I have known M, I haven't known him to be quite this hung up on a girl. Usually he is gregarious and good fun. Today however he is quiet, fidgety and looking like a confused child.

Me - So what's the story mate.

M - Oh i'm just feeling a bit down. It's the accountant. It's not happening.

Me - Really? To be honest, we've sort of had this conversation a few times before.

M - I know, but i've had enough now. I'm crazy about her but it's all me and i'm the one making all the effort.

Me - In what way?

M - It's always me who arranges things when we go out. It's me who calls her. I always have to go to her neck of the woods and she's only been to my place twice. She's interested and then she's not and then she is again. It's just doing my head in.

Me - Am I right in guessing that you're always available for whatever date or time she suggests?

M - Not necessarily.

Me - Honestly?

M - Ok, maybe.

Me - I was in a similar situation with someone just over a year ago, you remember? I received advice from my teenage niece of all people. Guess what she said.

M - No idea.

Me - She said shag her and then don't call her for a week.

M - And did you?

Me - Well no, but that's not the point.

M - Huh?

Me - The point is that you're too available. You're at her beck and call and she can reel you in anytime she wants.

M - So what would you do?

Me - Personally I think i'd draw a line in the sand and move on. Anyone who makes you this unhappy can't be worth it surely.

He looked forlornly into his beer and for a moment I had a horrible feeling that he was going to cry. With women crying in public, I usually feel a protective streak to make sure they are ok. Men crying at a funeral are in a bonding and sharing experience. But a man crying in a crowded pub on a Saturday afternoon is just.. well.. slightly embarrassing. Yes I know, that sounds harsh. Although that's probably because the person whom the tears are for, doesn't seem to be worth a single one of them. If I were to be protective as if he were a girl, then that would prolong the melancholy.

Me - Mate you're not going to cry are you? No one's ever going to shag you if you cry in a crowded pub.

M - No, I'm just thinking. I'm going follow your niece's advice.

Me - My niece is a teenager.

M - I'm still going to follow her advice.

He won't though. In reality, he'll follow the first part of my niece's advice and negate the second part, call her 2 days later and we'll have a similar conversation to this one in about 2 - 3 months time.

I'll tell you something my friends. I am always hearing stories about men being bastards - be it my friend G and the latest bad boy she is dating. Or be it the media circus surrounding the pantomime villainy of Ashley Cole. But seeing a grown man close to tears in a busy pub on a Saturday afternoon, makes you realise that when it comes to being a bastard, there is no monopoly between the sexes.

Bangkok Bar

Aware that I was travelling on my own, I popped into a bar at the end of Kao San Road. I remembered going there when I was last in Thailand about 7 years ago and where I had met some single travellers.

It was crowded as I walked in. Thai girls were playing pool with western travellers. Elsewhere football fans were watching the premier league on the big screen in the corner - I had forgotten it was a Sunday.

Standing at the bar drinking a beer, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a Thai girl. She was pretty, petite and about 28 years old.

TG - Hello, where you from.

Me - England

She blew me a kiss and started to dance in front of me.

"I think you're in there mate" said a voice from behind me. I turned around to see a young guy on his own. "You reckon?" I replied. His name was Paul, he was 19 years old, on his first trip to Thailand and his mates had deserted him.

She walked up to me again and tugged on my t-shirt. "I like you" she said, before dancing some more. I chatted to Paul in between bouts of having my t-shirt tugged. We talked about where we were planning to travel to and what we planned on doing. I wanted to scuba dive in the islands. Paul wanted to have a few suits made as he was starting a job upon his return to the UK.

The girl tugged my t-shirt firmly as she walked up to me again.

TG - you, me boom boom, boom boom.

Me - Boom boom?

She grabbed my t-shirt, gyrated against me and grinned.

TG - Yeah boom boom, boom boom.

She whispered in my ear "Two Thousand bart"

I looked around at Paul, who was now talking to another Thai girl, and he gave me the thumbs up.

Me - I'm sorry, but no thanks.

TG - Boom boom, boom boom.

Me - Er.. still no i'm afraid.

She walked off as I looked at the girl with Paul. She was gyrating against him and he had his hands on her bum. She was quite tall as Thai girls go. Paul lapped up the attention as she kissed him and whispered in his ear. Seconds later he reached for his wallet and looked through the contents just as she turned to look at me and smiled. I could see where this was leading, and so I tapped him on the shoulder.

Me - Paul mate, are you doing what I think you're doing?

Paul - Yeah, why not, when in Thailand and all that, plus it's only Forty quid.

Me - She's not very petite like the other one.

Paul - Yeah but I quite like that. My ex was taller than me.

Me - Have you seen her Adam's apple? It's bigger than my fist.

Paul - What does that mean?

Me - Mate, it means that she's got a big cock.

He was aghast, as he took a fresh look at "her". Needless to say that he saved his money and bought me a beer instead. "Live and learn eh" I said. "Aye mate, cheers".