Last week I wrote about the best possible way to work from home. Because, when it comes down to it, I’d rather be at home than in the office. There are less morons at my house. And I’m allowed in every room, unlike my Accounts department. I get just as wound up at home. But there’s a sense of freedom to be had, doing BD, sat completely naked.
Of course, given the onset of winter, that’s now a thing of the past. And because I’m seasonally obliged to get dressed, I take myself for a walk around the block.
On one such occasion recently, I answered the phone to a client I’d been waiting all day to hear from. You know the rush of excitement/panic, when you’re waiting on an offer and you see the phone number come up?
I hadn’t even saved the number. I just knew it off by heart. I knew the moment of reckoning was seconds away. I waited a few seconds, hushed the dog, and swiped right to answer.
Upon looking up and starting to needlessly pace, my right foot slipped in dog sh*t and I hit the deck.
Somehow the client didn’t hear. I put the phone back to me ear to hear the end of the decision.
“… news Ed. We’re making an offer. We deliberated over her salary but we think she’s worth it and would love her to start ASAP.”
“Ohhh, that’s excellent news” I winced. “I’ll give her a call now, she’ll be delighted.”
And as I lay there, RIGHT next to the dog sh*t bin, I realised a bus queue of people had witnessed the whole thing. I was still on the ground, with a sh*tty right foot, pushing my dog away, but with a huge smile on my face.
After dusting myself off, and finding a suitable twig to scrape the rank, gooey remains out the awkward crevices, I thought…
“You know what? At least I’m not at work.”
Because I reckon I could do deals anywhere. Even, as it turns out, while stacking it, in full view of a bus queue, after slipping in dog sh*t, next to the bin that’s designed to store dog sh*t.
Where specifically do I think I could do deals? These places…
Ahhhhh… there’s nothing quite like sneaking off for eighteen holes. The solitude of forgetting you’ve got a family. The camaraderie. The playful banter. The relaxation of allowing the pure hatred of the game to course through your veins. The fresh air filling your lungs as you slowly lose it with your mates, who’ve realised from your language, you’re probably quite a bad person. The retail therapy afterwards, where you replace your 7 iron you threw disgustedly into the lake.
Working remotely from a golf course could be a nice change of pace from the office. Firstly, lunch times would be infinitely more enjoyable smashing the living sh*t out of balls on the range.
Then, there’s the classic old boys, mildly nazi culture in the club house that won’t let someone get away with ordering a half pint without an audible sneer.
Nothing gets you up for a day’s recruiting like gentle bullying. And for al fresco fans, taking your laptop out to the 9th fairway could really spice things up. You know you’re going to get smashed in the head with a 200mph golf ball at some point. But which one will it be?
And this way, when you go home, livid, like you normally do, you’ll have a visible bruise to show for it. Not just another “yeah the candidate’s gone missing” story for the family. Who, by now, must be questioning why this always happens to you?
“Don’t pester your Dad kids, it’s not his fault he’s a failure.”
A strange mysterious man comes on stage.
He’s wearing a shiny suit.
He’s got a knowing smile.
He’s hiding something. What is it?
It’s dark. Pitch black almost. But for one spotlight. It sharpens your focus.
An alluring lady appears in the background wearing a tightly hugging, svelte dress. She’s got something in her hands she probes at the audience.
Her confident strut tells you she’s up to something.
You cast your eye at your watch in the darkness and think “I really should stop coming to PSL reviews. They’re all the same.”
And just imagine if you weren’t in the office, so you didn’t have to. You could go to magic shows. I’d still smash it.
No phone calls allowed in the audience of a magic show. Which means precious research time. No annoyances from candidates or clients. Solid time to yourself while you marvel at the tricks and showmanship on stage. You might pick up some sleight of hand too. Which would help you pull CVs out your arse, for your demanding clients.
“Now watch in amazement as this candidate DISAPPEARS WITHOUT A TRACE… *poooffff*”
It’s finally the weekend.
You rise from your slumber on Sunday morning with a whole day’s rest ahead. The calming warmth reminds you life’s alright you know. It’s only worth leaving for the steamy heat of the long shower you’re dreaming of. You pull back the curtains. The car’s a state. How long’s it been that dirty? Oh, someone’s written on it. What does that say? “I wish my wife was thi…” Ohhh for f… at least be original.
Off to the car wash.
And sat there, with the aggressive brushes chipping your paintwork, it hits you. You’re not contactable. It’s almost peaceful. The isolation and seclusion from the outside world means you can hear yourself think. Finally. Think of the admin you could do in here.
It costs £5 for a ten minute wash and wax. You spent 11 hours in the office on Tuesday and it cost you £15,000. This is a bargain.
Also, whenever you need bringing back to earth, just open the door. Step out. Arms wide like a starfish and you’re taken on an exciting little journey to the brink of death. More refreshing than the merry-go-round you’re taken on by candidates and clients every waking minute of the day.
You even leave with a new appreciation for life. So much better than the office.
You rise up at 4:30am. Feet down on the ground. Stretch in the mirror.
My god what a handsome individual you are. Down a pint of water. Quick wash. Runners on. Gym!
You’re there before anyone else. Obviously. You wish the latecomer on reception ‘Afternoon’ with a wry smile. You piss excellence. Quick 8 miles on the old tready and it’s chest day. God you love chest day.
If at this point, by some miracle, no one else has realised how truly, utterly amazing you are, making deals on a treadmill will drive it home.
“Hi, yeah, Dave? It’s me, Ed. Look, I don’t expect you to be up yet, but I’ve got an offer for you. As soon as you wake from your 12 hours sleep in a few hours give me a call back. My PA Verity will have the details if I’m already in the club. OK, Ciao for now.”
A few phrases that’ll help in this scenario:
“I don’t care how much it costs”
Every recruiter worth their salt’s done this.
Recruitment requires attention round the clock. Every day. It pulls on the bottom of your coat, nagging in a whiny voice until you do something.
So, you give your opinion. You try your absolute hardest to help everyone make the right decision. And after you’re truly invested in time, focus and effort, they ignore you and do what they want.
Normally, the exact opposite of your advice.
To recruit on an incentive takes a special brand of mojo.
Maybe your company goes all original and thinks outside of the box. A day at the races. And in a lot of ways a day of losing money hand over fist, coupled with bags of promise and ultimate rejection is similar to a day in the office. If anything it’s easier.
You go in hard on the first horse of the day. £50 on the nose. They fall at the first jump. Refreshingly predictable. You dig deeper, chasing the loss. Before lunch you’re £260 down but have had enough Guinness and sh*t champagne to make it strangely funny. It also pales insignificant to the £20k fee that’s definitely coming in later.
The email you’ve been waiting for pings in from the client. You squint one eye, so you can read it.
*Final interview request*
At least a horse puts you out your misery within 3 minutes. Some clients probably need a committee to decide their lunch orders.
“Can’t do next week, I’m away, but would be good to see them again the week after. Can you check availability?”
Now watch your inebriated thumbs run wild as the 9th glass of champagne sinks in. You miss the autocorrect on ‘Kind retards’ and click send.
You could have been anywhere in the world today, it wouldn’t have mattered. Just as well you did enough deals to earn this spot on the incentive. Losing money in the cold, with people you hate. Just take another 100 notes out and go for broke on a 25-1.
At least Guinness can’t change it’s mind. That’s getting drunk no matter what happens. Just like you.
Let me know where you’ve been working from recently. I’d love to hear.
Just don’t expect an answer to emails before Monday. I’m WFH.
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