The trouble with words

The friend of a friend is a poet. She's had some modest success - something that's pretty much par for the course with poets, I guess - and is currently studying for an MPhil. She enjoys her life. You'd describe her as cheerful. Her poetry, though beautifully evoked and thought-provoking, reveals a rather darker side of her personality.

Her proud mother, thrilled when the first slim volume is published, gives a copy to a colleague. A few days later, she takes the mother aside. "I'm so sorry," she says, in a low voice, laying a sympathetic hand on her arm. "Your daughter must be terribly unhappy."

Today, Francis shows me the job spec he's received. He doesn't understand a single word. "Stand back - I'm an intellectual," I say, assuming that one of his more irritating passive-aggressive moments is coming on, and taking the letter from him with the leave-it-to-me body language he's come to know so well during our years together.

And blow me down. I don't understand a single word either.

The company is 'a commercial vehicle' (I thought that meant a lorry) 'which operates a number of product licences' which are 'either generic or niche branded products obtained from big pharma at the end of there (sic) product life cycle.'

But wait. There's good news. Because, 'after further significant investment in product licences, the board believe they now have obtained the critical mass necessary to move direct to consumer.'

Well, thank goodness for the happy ending after that humdinger of a cliffhanger.

And that leads to Francis' role which will be 'establishing a critical mass upon which new product development and licence acquisition can be sustained'. Well, of course. As if it needed explanation.

As quite an experienced critical mass myself - and getting massier by the minute - my own suggestion - that we track down the letter writer's mum, put a consoling hand on her arm and say "I'm so sorry. Your son must be terribly unhappy," - is rejected by Francis as unworkable.

"So what are you going to do?" I ask.

"Phone a friend," says Francis. "He's established a critical mass before. I'll get him to tell me what to say at the interview."

"What if you get the job?"

He smiles. "Like you said yesterday, why don't we worry about that when it happens?"

Touche.

Damn.