Francis is supposed to be absorbing brand profiles when his phone rings and Posh Headhunter, whose love affair with Francis was less a one-night stand that a five minute wonder, bounces on to the line.
"HI!!!" she squeaks, in a voice radiating such an exhausting mixture of joy, delight,surprise and warmth that Francis contemplates having a short lie-down underneath his desk. "LONGTIMENOSPEAK!!"
That the fact they've not spoken is due entirely to her having failed to return a single one of Francis' calls appears to have escaped her notice.
"Anyway," she continues, abandoning the capital letters in favour of something less exhausting. "I'm not ringing with a job offer."
She makes it sound like the best news going. "Well, thank goodness for that," says Francis.
"The thing is," she says. "I'm actually trying to get hold of Derek. I believe you used to work with him. The thing is, we've got this really exciting opportunity in advanced adhesives, and I think it would suit him down to the ground. He's obviously a very dedicated man. He sent us this amazingly passionate e-mail. Wow! Was I impressed!"
The upshot is that she can't get through to him. Would Francis, she wonders, be able to ring him at home and pass on a message to get in touch with her ASAP?
"I can't tell you what a pleasure that would be," says Francis, with absolute truth.
Showing posts with label headhunter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label headhunter. Show all posts
Friday, 31 August 2007
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Learning the lingo: communicating in headhunterese
Francis' ex-colleague is having another go at making Francis fit for purpose, with the second in his 'how to get the job you actually want' series.
The colleague has been for an interview with a large company that makes things that stick (of the adhesive, rather than rumour variety, as I understand it).
The fact that he's been recommended for the job by Francis appears to have no bearing on his keenness to demonstrate to Francis just how candidate headhunter relationships should be tackled.
Francis has headed off to his new office to try the job out for size (worn at the edges, too short in the self-esteem department, no allowance for growth) and forwards his e-mail to me, with only a couple of dozen exclamation marks by way of comment.
'Dear Skipper' it begins - did I mention he refers to Francis as 'Skipper'. I put it down to the dead albatross he will carry around, although it's beginning to smell.
'Just a few typos but thought you might enjoy post-tele-con interview follow up e-mail'
'Dear Derek,
'Hi. Wow. Good to talk with you. Exciting. I look forward to meeting both yourself and Greg. (Careful, chuck, you don't want to peak too early).
'How does my experience sound? (Phwoaarrr....)
'4 years working in adhesive tapes (He says nothing about the five years it took him to unstick his way out again).
'Both experience sets with demonstrable brand building experience (Well, of course it does. You what?)
'Successful 3 retailer full range acquisition of full DIY tapes range (Oh, those old 3-retailer acquisitions. Bad Lindy's done lots - often all at the same time).
He finishes by highlighting some of his key qualities which he lists as Passion, dedication & an interest in Stationery.
I phone Francis, who sounds guarded but not actively miserable.
"Is this seriously what you need to say to get a really good job?"
"I don't know," says Francis, "But if it is, no wonder I've ended up here."
The colleague has been for an interview with a large company that makes things that stick (of the adhesive, rather than rumour variety, as I understand it).
The fact that he's been recommended for the job by Francis appears to have no bearing on his keenness to demonstrate to Francis just how candidate headhunter relationships should be tackled.
Francis has headed off to his new office to try the job out for size (worn at the edges, too short in the self-esteem department, no allowance for growth) and forwards his e-mail to me, with only a couple of dozen exclamation marks by way of comment.
'Dear Skipper' it begins - did I mention he refers to Francis as 'Skipper'. I put it down to the dead albatross he will carry around, although it's beginning to smell.
'Just a few typos but thought you might enjoy post-tele-con interview follow up e-mail'
'Dear Derek,
'Hi. Wow. Good to talk with you. Exciting. I look forward to meeting both yourself and Greg. (Careful, chuck, you don't want to peak too early).
'How does my experience sound? (Phwoaarrr....)
'4 years working in adhesive tapes (He says nothing about the five years it took him to unstick his way out again).
'Both experience sets with demonstrable brand building experience (Well, of course it does. You what?)
'Successful 3 retailer full range acquisition of full DIY tapes range (Oh, those old 3-retailer acquisitions. Bad Lindy's done lots - often all at the same time).
He finishes by highlighting some of his key qualities which he lists as Passion, dedication & an interest in Stationery.
I phone Francis, who sounds guarded but not actively miserable.
"Is this seriously what you need to say to get a really good job?"
"I don't know," says Francis, "But if it is, no wonder I've ended up here."
Wednesday, 4 July 2007
Old school pig heads
Interview of the Week is with a publishing company, which has decided to shake off its old school tie image and concentrate on building a new, hard-edged sales team with a non-book background.
Briefed by the headhunter, Francis arrives prepared to deny reading anything except job descriptions, and so determinedly hard-edged that it's a miracle his elbows don't leave dents in the boardroom table.
His presentation, "How I saw off the combined forces of evil and saved the ozone layer with a buy one, get one free promotion," goes down a storm.
He does another psychometric test. "You come across not suffering fools gladly yet a likeable manager," says the interviewer. "There's just one anomaly. You had to agree or disagree with this statement. 'Some people think you are pig-headed,'" yet you chose to answer 'don't know'," He sounds genuinely baffled.
"That's because I don't know," says Francis.
Later, the headhunter rings. The publishing company has seen five candidates who between them offer more hard edges than a dodecahedron wholesaler but has opted for a sixth - a brandy-swilling, old-school tie merchant who'd take second place to a marshmallow in hard-edge contest and has a solid background in......publishing.
Later, I come across some personal ads placed by job-seekers.
One is from a freelance crossword/word game compiler who finds himself 'left behind in the business race due to lack of email, fax or online facilities'. Is there a potential employer out there, he wonders, 'able and willing to forego this computer-obsessed society and get down to good old-fashioned sensible business communication?'
You can only hope.
Briefed by the headhunter, Francis arrives prepared to deny reading anything except job descriptions, and so determinedly hard-edged that it's a miracle his elbows don't leave dents in the boardroom table.
His presentation, "How I saw off the combined forces of evil and saved the ozone layer with a buy one, get one free promotion," goes down a storm.
He does another psychometric test. "You come across not suffering fools gladly yet a likeable manager," says the interviewer. "There's just one anomaly. You had to agree or disagree with this statement. 'Some people think you are pig-headed,'" yet you chose to answer 'don't know'," He sounds genuinely baffled.
"That's because I don't know," says Francis.
Later, the headhunter rings. The publishing company has seen five candidates who between them offer more hard edges than a dodecahedron wholesaler but has opted for a sixth - a brandy-swilling, old-school tie merchant who'd take second place to a marshmallow in hard-edge contest and has a solid background in......publishing.
Later, I come across some personal ads placed by job-seekers.
One is from a freelance crossword/word game compiler who finds himself 'left behind in the business race due to lack of email, fax or online facilities'. Is there a potential employer out there, he wonders, 'able and willing to forego this computer-obsessed society and get down to good old-fashioned sensible business communication?'
You can only hope.
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Moderate support
So far, Francis has met fifteen headhunters and ten prospective employers. In adddition to Mr Tosser, he's been turned down by two companies for being over-qualified; one vinyl flooring company for being under-excited, and by Posh Headhunter for not having enough hair - at least, in the right places.
This week, he's going back to see the merging companies which are now so involved with each other that they're almost ready to consummate the relationship with a candlelit announcement for two and a short but moving exchange of ringtones by the chairmen. But, like dippy lovers everywhere, the sheer excitement of the thing - should the new logo feature both the bride and groom's names? - is making them horribly indecisive, especially about the sort of employee they should be hiring together. Senior....or not? Experienced ..... or not? Oooh, it's so difficult to choose, they giggle.
While they mull over the candidates like a box of assorted chocolates, Francis' nerves are a little strained. I try to keep my questions light but supportive, wondering just when it was that a sports bra became the best role model available to me.
"So, what's the toughest question you've been asked so far?" I say.
"This one," says Francis.
Forget sports bras. I think we may be talking hernia trusses.
I know how to please my man. In a matter of seconds, I have transformed myself into a miracle of erotic desire and he has forgotten all his troubles, at least during the sultry half hour we spend together.
As if. This is mid-afternoon weekend reality with three children and two pets, all of whom see the remotest sign of tenderness as a challenge to their attention-seeking abilities that must not go unanswered. And the only way I'm going to achieve transformation into an erotic anything is with a blowtorch and a large crate of miracle filler.
Instead, the phone rings with a litany of things we've forgotten. In seconds, I've knocked back a few Dylithium crystals and am preparing to cross the universe via an intricate network of wormholes so that Leo can be delivered on time to the football training session that started half an hour ago; Beth can be at the other end of the galaxy to listen to a friend charming the locals with her wind band and Deborah can open channels of communication with alien lifeforms by cross-universe screaming.
Having triumphantly negotiated the time/space continuum, thanks to graduating with distinction in module three of the Government's enlightened new training scheme for mothers, "Your child remains government property and must be surrendered upon demand," I am a few miles from home when smoke begins to pour out from underneath the dashboard.
We're passing a government building at the time. Because of the bomb fun of the last few days, police are everywhere, checking cars and noting numberplates. Mindful of Vicky's recent car-burning exploits, I pull in, wondering if the car has Al-Quaeda sympathies. Either that, or it resents the new ban on smoking and has taken to consuming 40 a day in public places just to get its point across.
I get out and am completely ignored. I call Francis who arrives, opens the bonnet, checks the wiring and re-starts the engine, looking both weary and slightly disbelieving. This is the point when I want the car to belch one more tiny, but conclusive blob of smoke from under the dashboard so I can yell, 'Exhibit A'. Nothing happens. Fortunately, the smell of old burning remains.
"Hmmm," says Francis. "It's got a plastic aroma, with undertones of rubber." He sounds like a wine taster. "I think it's simply something that got caught on the manifold."
He sounds so authoritative that that some weak, feeble heroine of yesteryear, all I can do is simper up at him like a girlie weed.
Vicky replies to an earlier text.
"Is ure car ablaze? Honestly, that's sooo last wk! And its my job. Get a disaster of your own, u tight bitch."
I show it to Francis and he laughs as he drives us home. It's clear that the whole incident has made him feel a lot better, if only for the fact that I still have no clue exactly what a manifold is.
This week, he's going back to see the merging companies which are now so involved with each other that they're almost ready to consummate the relationship with a candlelit announcement for two and a short but moving exchange of ringtones by the chairmen. But, like dippy lovers everywhere, the sheer excitement of the thing - should the new logo feature both the bride and groom's names? - is making them horribly indecisive, especially about the sort of employee they should be hiring together. Senior....or not? Experienced ..... or not? Oooh, it's so difficult to choose, they giggle.
While they mull over the candidates like a box of assorted chocolates, Francis' nerves are a little strained. I try to keep my questions light but supportive, wondering just when it was that a sports bra became the best role model available to me.
"So, what's the toughest question you've been asked so far?" I say.
"This one," says Francis.
Forget sports bras. I think we may be talking hernia trusses.
I know how to please my man. In a matter of seconds, I have transformed myself into a miracle of erotic desire and he has forgotten all his troubles, at least during the sultry half hour we spend together.
As if. This is mid-afternoon weekend reality with three children and two pets, all of whom see the remotest sign of tenderness as a challenge to their attention-seeking abilities that must not go unanswered. And the only way I'm going to achieve transformation into an erotic anything is with a blowtorch and a large crate of miracle filler.
Instead, the phone rings with a litany of things we've forgotten. In seconds, I've knocked back a few Dylithium crystals and am preparing to cross the universe via an intricate network of wormholes so that Leo can be delivered on time to the football training session that started half an hour ago; Beth can be at the other end of the galaxy to listen to a friend charming the locals with her wind band and Deborah can open channels of communication with alien lifeforms by cross-universe screaming.
Having triumphantly negotiated the time/space continuum, thanks to graduating with distinction in module three of the Government's enlightened new training scheme for mothers, "Your child remains government property and must be surrendered upon demand," I am a few miles from home when smoke begins to pour out from underneath the dashboard.
We're passing a government building at the time. Because of the bomb fun of the last few days, police are everywhere, checking cars and noting numberplates. Mindful of Vicky's recent car-burning exploits, I pull in, wondering if the car has Al-Quaeda sympathies. Either that, or it resents the new ban on smoking and has taken to consuming 40 a day in public places just to get its point across.
I get out and am completely ignored. I call Francis who arrives, opens the bonnet, checks the wiring and re-starts the engine, looking both weary and slightly disbelieving. This is the point when I want the car to belch one more tiny, but conclusive blob of smoke from under the dashboard so I can yell, 'Exhibit A'. Nothing happens. Fortunately, the smell of old burning remains.
"Hmmm," says Francis. "It's got a plastic aroma, with undertones of rubber." He sounds like a wine taster. "I think it's simply something that got caught on the manifold."
He sounds so authoritative that that some weak, feeble heroine of yesteryear, all I can do is simper up at him like a girlie weed.
Vicky replies to an earlier text.
"Is ure car ablaze? Honestly, that's sooo last wk! And its my job. Get a disaster of your own, u tight bitch."
I show it to Francis and he laughs as he drives us home. It's clear that the whole incident has made him feel a lot better, if only for the fact that I still have no clue exactly what a manifold is.
Monday, 4 June 2007
Trivialising grief
Francis suddenly starts sneezing and cannot stop. It's a late onset allergic reaction. "Hay fever," he says miserably.
I'm not so sure. I think over-exposure to head hunters may be the trigger, exacerbated by the high seasonal superlative count in the recruitment ads.
"Consummate professional," I say to him. "Results-oriented."
He sneezes more each time. There's no help for it. From now on, he's going to have to attend all interviews in an isolation suit, including ear protectors.
Just in the nick of time, I have identified another exciting career opportunity for him. I come across this ad somewhere in the further reaches of cyberspace:
'WHAT IS PET LOSS COUNSELING?
'Pet bereavement counseling is individualized to meet each client's needs. Every counselor has a different approach. We use talk therapy to identify, and help you cope with, the emotional stages of grief. You may learn how to deal with insensitive individuals who trivialize your grief, a pet's terminal illness, and the difficult decision of euthanasia. We use healing tools, such a journal, planning your pet's final arrangements or funeral, and your spiritual beliefs.'
'Talk therapy' would presumably refer to the revolutionary art of speaking to somebody.
What with Bad Lindy's distinctly casual approach to dead animals (she was born to trivialise grief, and if there's ever a national 'Week of the Insensitive Individual' I suspect she'd be top choice for mascot) there's got to be a suppurating mass of undealt-with grief just waiting for Francis and his shiny case of healing tools.
"I'm not talking to people about their stupid hamsters," he says. Oh, dear. I greatly fear that Francis, too, may need to sharpen up that talk therapy before he can be let loose on a mourning public.
I go up very close to him. "Customer-facing. Strong people and networking skills," I hiss, meanly. His eyes start to stream. "You see," I say. "You should think about it."
I wonder if there's a way of combining pet loss counselling with Megadik?
I'm not so sure. I think over-exposure to head hunters may be the trigger, exacerbated by the high seasonal superlative count in the recruitment ads.
"Consummate professional," I say to him. "Results-oriented."
He sneezes more each time. There's no help for it. From now on, he's going to have to attend all interviews in an isolation suit, including ear protectors.
Just in the nick of time, I have identified another exciting career opportunity for him. I come across this ad somewhere in the further reaches of cyberspace:
'WHAT IS PET LOSS COUNSELING?
'Pet bereavement counseling is individualized to meet each client's needs. Every counselor has a different approach. We use talk therapy to identify, and help you cope with, the emotional stages of grief. You may learn how to deal with insensitive individuals who trivialize your grief, a pet's terminal illness, and the difficult decision of euthanasia. We use healing tools, such a journal, planning your pet's final arrangements or funeral, and your spiritual beliefs.'
'Talk therapy' would presumably refer to the revolutionary art of speaking to somebody.
What with Bad Lindy's distinctly casual approach to dead animals (she was born to trivialise grief, and if there's ever a national 'Week of the Insensitive Individual' I suspect she'd be top choice for mascot) there's got to be a suppurating mass of undealt-with grief just waiting for Francis and his shiny case of healing tools.
"I'm not talking to people about their stupid hamsters," he says. Oh, dear. I greatly fear that Francis, too, may need to sharpen up that talk therapy before he can be let loose on a mourning public.
I go up very close to him. "Customer-facing. Strong people and networking skills," I hiss, meanly. His eyes start to stream. "You see," I say. "You should think about it."
I wonder if there's a way of combining pet loss counselling with Megadik?
Sunday, 27 May 2007
What are they on about?
There's been nothing from the spa bath people. I imagine Mr Tosser and his team totally absorbed in a battery of gruelling factory tests; dropping babies in, perhaps, and seeing if they get thrown out with the bathwater, or sending everyone on a training course, naturally involving total immersion.
Nice but useless headhunter sends an e-mail saying that the role he had in mind for Francis that needed 'senior business building team leadership' changed drastically following the client meeting. It's now shrunk to a much smaller, junior business building role involving a box of Lego in the stationary cupboard.
But at last Francis has been invited to see another company. It's a chocolate firm hoping to team up with a cereal manufacturer for true love, cinema and theatre trips and the opportunity to make lots and lots of chocolate crispies when there's nothing else doing up at the factory of a Friday afternoon.
It's all getting on Francis's nerves.
"I hate having to go through all this, 'Yes, I'm professional. Yes, I can think of no better way to see out my days than by extolling the virtues of your...'" (insert product here).
To cheer him up, I decide to check out a few of the headhunters.
According to its website, the latest headhunter knows ' how important it is to recruit people who understand your business.' The firm can do this ...'Because we are those people.' Which, if true, is amazing. Not only do they interview candidates, they actually mind meld with them, too. No wonder they claim they add value. If inhabiting several bodies simultaneously isn't adding value, I don't know what is. They never stand still, they add. What with having to switch DNA all the time, it's not really surprising.
'The world of retail is changing,' says the second load of blurb, 'and more than ever, it is people who are making the difference'. As opposed to what? The flood of dolphins that swamped the employment market in the 1990s and really took the industry downhill, what with their insistence on jumping through hoops at work and getting paid in dead fish?
'To discover new islands', says the third, 'candidates need to lose sight of the shore'. I think we all know what they're on about. It's those dolphins again. Somebody's just going to have to stop them.
Then I come across a site called 'Doctor Job.' which, with its reassuring pseudo-medical title, will, I feel sure, have answers for every recruitment problem. But no. 'Can you answer Doctor Job's big question?' asks the site. I click. It won't let me on. I know why, though. The question is obviously, 'Why are dolphins still getting more than their fair share of the jobs?' and they're worried I'll go public with the information.
Francis will just have to change his name to Flipper and brush up on his sonar. Set to the right frequency, I gather that a technically adept dolphin can stun a whole school of herring. Now there's something that'll add a je ne sais quoi to his cv. Might help flog the odd spa bath or two, I shouldn't wonder.
Nice but useless headhunter sends an e-mail saying that the role he had in mind for Francis that needed 'senior business building team leadership' changed drastically following the client meeting. It's now shrunk to a much smaller, junior business building role involving a box of Lego in the stationary cupboard.
But at last Francis has been invited to see another company. It's a chocolate firm hoping to team up with a cereal manufacturer for true love, cinema and theatre trips and the opportunity to make lots and lots of chocolate crispies when there's nothing else doing up at the factory of a Friday afternoon.
It's all getting on Francis's nerves.
"I hate having to go through all this, 'Yes, I'm professional. Yes, I can think of no better way to see out my days than by extolling the virtues of your...'" (insert product here).
To cheer him up, I decide to check out a few of the headhunters.
According to its website, the latest headhunter knows ' how important it is to recruit people who understand your business.' The firm can do this ...'Because we are those people.' Which, if true, is amazing. Not only do they interview candidates, they actually mind meld with them, too. No wonder they claim they add value. If inhabiting several bodies simultaneously isn't adding value, I don't know what is. They never stand still, they add. What with having to switch DNA all the time, it's not really surprising.
'The world of retail is changing,' says the second load of blurb, 'and more than ever, it is people who are making the difference'. As opposed to what? The flood of dolphins that swamped the employment market in the 1990s and really took the industry downhill, what with their insistence on jumping through hoops at work and getting paid in dead fish?
'To discover new islands', says the third, 'candidates need to lose sight of the shore'. I think we all know what they're on about. It's those dolphins again. Somebody's just going to have to stop them.
Then I come across a site called 'Doctor Job.' which, with its reassuring pseudo-medical title, will, I feel sure, have answers for every recruitment problem. But no. 'Can you answer Doctor Job's big question?' asks the site. I click. It won't let me on. I know why, though. The question is obviously, 'Why are dolphins still getting more than their fair share of the jobs?' and they're worried I'll go public with the information.
Francis will just have to change his name to Flipper and brush up on his sonar. Set to the right frequency, I gather that a technically adept dolphin can stun a whole school of herring. Now there's something that'll add a je ne sais quoi to his cv. Might help flog the odd spa bath or two, I shouldn't wonder.
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