‘Here we go again.’ I grump to my rival manager H, the vertically challenged Lothario.
‘You take it all too literally,’ He responds from somewhere uncomfortably close to my groin. ‘Just let it all wash over you, say the right thing at the right time and leave it to the youngsters to lap up all the bull they’ll be peddling.’
H has a point I grudgingly admit, but I think my capacity to swallow any more pseudo-sales babble has probably been reached. I’m starting to reject.
‘This is the funniest bit,’ Whispers H conspiratorially. ‘See how sad their lives really are!’ And after a short intro from the double-act facilitating – God how I hate that term – the course on Cross-selling in a changed market place begins with the obligatory personal introductions, and a hilarious fact about what the individual did at the weekend.
Christ I could tell them all about cross selling, I think angrily, as the first tentative hand goes up volunteering to kick-off proceedings. Sap. Bloody seething selling has been my stock in trade for some time now. Not ostensibly mind, that would take self-destruction a tad too far, but in the form of therapeutic blog entries and idle day dreams as to how I’d do it all differently if I came round again.
‘And we had a family barbecue.’ Drones some earnest new negotiator to a stifled laugh from H. I’m not really listening as my mind is frantically searching for some snippet of not-too-revealing home-life trivia I can divulge, to the less than interested audience. All I can think of is the disastrous first visit to Ikea my wife dragged me on recently.
Now call me old fashioned but if I wanted to experience a maze I’d ship along to Hampton Court and get lost in there. Being totally disorientated and staring at an information board informing me: You Are Here, only served to increase my anger at the soulless experience. Like those estate agencies that refuse to put properties in the window, something wasn’t gelling here. And I couldn’t actually buy anything – just look and get more and more disorientated. The only difference to a garden based labyrinth was the odd soft furnishing and throw cushion display, instead of those fast-growing screening conifers.
‘You know your trouble don’t you.’ Begins H as we take a coffee break and balance what taste like yesterday’s pastries on our saucers.
‘Go on then tell me.’ I say, knowing he will anyway. Never miss the opportunity to put down a competitor. That I did learn, long ago.
‘You keep trying to buck the system.’ Informs H with a hint of glee. ‘And you just mark yourself out then – particularly with your office’s sales figures.’
‘They didn’t get the rant about Ikea did they?’ I ask mournfully, as I swipe a second Danish from the tray and regret it after the first mouthful.
‘Tell them what they want to hear.’ Coaches H. ‘Most of these muppets probably shop at the Swedish barn, particularly those two.’ H indicates the terminally dull course facilitators as they flit around the room forming “business-buddy relationships”.
There’s nothing new under the sun of course, I haven’t learned that much since early Dale Carnegie and Pendle selling system indoctrinations, so twin-earning opportunities and multiple incomes streams, are just like avocado bathrooms, morphing to whisper grey, through to white and back. Same product - different wrapping. Anyway I still can’t get over the fact I want to act for the vendor and get them the best price. Something that can only be blurred when you are tasked to flog the buyer mortgage and insurance products, plus solicitor services and swap-shop utility tariffs.
I still vividly recall a drafted in American trainer preaching his letter-based selling system to a sceptical bunch of Brits. The man had a moustache – a sign now I think of it – and seriously expected straight-laced UK agents to write to buyers and sellers on birthdays and the anniversary of their purchase to say Hi, and remind them you were their Estate Agent For Life. My ex-boss never did forgive me for laughing out loud.
‘You know what you are don’t you?’ Concludes H as we traipse to the car park. ‘A dinosaur.’
He’s dead right.
‘You take it all too literally,’ He responds from somewhere uncomfortably close to my groin. ‘Just let it all wash over you, say the right thing at the right time and leave it to the youngsters to lap up all the bull they’ll be peddling.’
H has a point I grudgingly admit, but I think my capacity to swallow any more pseudo-sales babble has probably been reached. I’m starting to reject.
‘This is the funniest bit,’ Whispers H conspiratorially. ‘See how sad their lives really are!’ And after a short intro from the double-act facilitating – God how I hate that term – the course on Cross-selling in a changed market place begins with the obligatory personal introductions, and a hilarious fact about what the individual did at the weekend.
Christ I could tell them all about cross selling, I think angrily, as the first tentative hand goes up volunteering to kick-off proceedings. Sap. Bloody seething selling has been my stock in trade for some time now. Not ostensibly mind, that would take self-destruction a tad too far, but in the form of therapeutic blog entries and idle day dreams as to how I’d do it all differently if I came round again.
‘And we had a family barbecue.’ Drones some earnest new negotiator to a stifled laugh from H. I’m not really listening as my mind is frantically searching for some snippet of not-too-revealing home-life trivia I can divulge, to the less than interested audience. All I can think of is the disastrous first visit to Ikea my wife dragged me on recently.
Now call me old fashioned but if I wanted to experience a maze I’d ship along to Hampton Court and get lost in there. Being totally disorientated and staring at an information board informing me: You Are Here, only served to increase my anger at the soulless experience. Like those estate agencies that refuse to put properties in the window, something wasn’t gelling here. And I couldn’t actually buy anything – just look and get more and more disorientated. The only difference to a garden based labyrinth was the odd soft furnishing and throw cushion display, instead of those fast-growing screening conifers.
‘You know your trouble don’t you.’ Begins H as we take a coffee break and balance what taste like yesterday’s pastries on our saucers.
‘Go on then tell me.’ I say, knowing he will anyway. Never miss the opportunity to put down a competitor. That I did learn, long ago.
‘You keep trying to buck the system.’ Informs H with a hint of glee. ‘And you just mark yourself out then – particularly with your office’s sales figures.’
‘They didn’t get the rant about Ikea did they?’ I ask mournfully, as I swipe a second Danish from the tray and regret it after the first mouthful.
‘Tell them what they want to hear.’ Coaches H. ‘Most of these muppets probably shop at the Swedish barn, particularly those two.’ H indicates the terminally dull course facilitators as they flit around the room forming “business-buddy relationships”.
There’s nothing new under the sun of course, I haven’t learned that much since early Dale Carnegie and Pendle selling system indoctrinations, so twin-earning opportunities and multiple incomes streams, are just like avocado bathrooms, morphing to whisper grey, through to white and back. Same product - different wrapping. Anyway I still can’t get over the fact I want to act for the vendor and get them the best price. Something that can only be blurred when you are tasked to flog the buyer mortgage and insurance products, plus solicitor services and swap-shop utility tariffs.
I still vividly recall a drafted in American trainer preaching his letter-based selling system to a sceptical bunch of Brits. The man had a moustache – a sign now I think of it – and seriously expected straight-laced UK agents to write to buyers and sellers on birthdays and the anniversary of their purchase to say Hi, and remind them you were their Estate Agent For Life. My ex-boss never did forgive me for laughing out loud.
‘You know what you are don’t you?’ Concludes H as we traipse to the car park. ‘A dinosaur.’
He’s dead right.
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1 comments:
Brilliant post.
And anniversary cards from 'my estate agent for life', eh? Give the trainer his due: if you weren't before that, you would certainly have become memorable. Gaggingly unforgettable, even.
Jaundiced seller
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