‘International Custard have landed us in the soup again!’
The entrance into Sally Gulliver’s office of Nigel Binks, the mouse-like bespectacled Head of R+D, was preceded by this heartfelt wail.
He threw himself down in the chair opposite Sally and added for clarity: ‘I expleting hate International expleting Custard. The bunch of dirty expletives.’
Sally Gulliver nodded sympathetically and offered him a biscuit. Not for the first time I mused on the semi-mystical calming effects of the chocolate digestive.
‘What have they done now, Nigel?’
‘What they always do,’ sighed Nigel Binks, mournfully. ‘Taken all our best talent.’
‘What, literally?’ Sally Gulliver’s eyes narrowed. Somewhere behind her gaze I could see lawyers fitting telescopic sights to high-powered rifles, and snickering.
‘No no no, they’re far too clever for that. But everyone’s leaving us for them, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I hate those sinister fops at International Custard with their sharp suits and dark glasses and yellow dessert solutions and their strategies for taking over the world.’ He sniffed. ‘I won the pudding industry’s Boffin of the Year award three years running! I shouldn’t have to put up with this madness!’
Another chocolate digestive changed hands. Sally considered. ‘So, they pay more at International Custard?’
‘A bit more. They also give you your own sharp suit and dark glasses.’
Sally snucked. ‘Anyone can do fake glamour. Nigel, how busy are you?’
Nigel groaned. ‘Swamped. We’re developing this new self-inflating blancmange, and it’s a nightmare...’
‘So how much time do you spend with your direct reports every month?’
‘Well, I’m with them all the time.’
‘No, I mean, in conversation with them – about them.’
Nigel’s eyebrows leapt up faster than a self-inflating blancmange. ‘Good God, I don’t have time for that; that’s not what you’re paying me for, is it?’
Nigel’s eyebrows leapt up faster than a self-inflating blancmange
Sally smiled. ‘Well it is, actually. As the pudding world’s favourite boffin, you’re the reason many of the real stars come to work for us. But if you don’t have time to develop them, to show them how you do the things you do...’
‘... then they leave for somewhere else. International Custard!’ Aghast, Nigel slapped his forehead. ‘Don’t make me choose between the talent and the self-inflating blancmange!’
A sentence unlikely to grace a business meeting ever again.
‘Perhaps we don’t have to. But if you want to keep good people, I reckon you might need to let go of some things... Maybe we can even find you an assistant.’
‘And some dark glasses?’ asked Nigel, hopefully.
Next Friday: The Campaign for Even More Meetings
@BinglebyinHR
Bingleby was confiding in Richard Goff
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