Question: other than fiddling one’s expenses and having a deep mistrust of change, what do hundreds of my colleagues and I have in common with a large proportion of Labour MPs? Answer: we will all be looking for new jobs sooner rather than later.
My bosses – sorry, ‘senior colleagues’ – have concluded, possibly through a series of high-level meetings and complex drinking games, that decimation is the best way to save money during the recession. They are making redundant 10% of the workforce; specifically those who actually make the company profitable – and it is at least still making a profit, unlike many of its competitors. Jolly clever, I’m sure they believe, but doomed to failure.
Not that I care what the long term effect on the company is as, having become more disillusioned and increasingly lazy with every passing month, I decided to volunteer for the chop. The consequence of this brave/foolhardy (delete as appropriate) decision, however, is the terrifying prospect of having to make a curriculum vitae.
I will admit that having been employed without a break for more than 20 years, albeit by two different (yet depressingly similar) employers, keeping my CV up to date has been just below holidaying in Helmand or being Gary Glitter’s agent on my list of ‘50 Things To Do Before I Diet’ [sic]. The last CV I authored – right after I left school – was compiled so long ago that instead of printing it I had to have it written by a monk onto vellum. Unfortunately I suspect that most prospective employers are going to be more interested in the experience, technical expertise and interpersonal skills I have gained throughout my employment, rather than the B grades I gained in Maths and Geology. Unless of course they are looking for mathematician geologists, in which case a B probably isn’t going to be quite good enough.
An unimpressive CV wasn’t a problem when I applied for my first job – a sales assistant in a sports shop. “No need for a CV, mate.” He was an Australian living the dream. “Can you tell the difference between a footy and a golf bat?” Nor, indeed, for my second job as a carpet fitter; “Can you carry carpet and make casual racist or homophobic comments?” It’s a shame they hadn’t asked if I was allergic to underlay or I could have saved myself four weeks of uncontrollable itching.
Regrettably, my achievements and accomplishments since I left school are not particularly noteworthy either. I haven’t been the CEO of my own global company, I have never backpacked across south-east Asia during a gap year, and nor did I quite make it as far as university (damn that Geology B! And I suspect I could have made a fair stab at it too, had a mad knifeman not had a fair stab at me during my final term at school). I’ve never even seen an episode Hollyoaks. In short, there’s barely enough to fill half a sheet of Basildon Bond’s finest A4.
So, what am I going to do? Well, I’m going to do what everybody else has always done and make it up. Now all I have to do it find a job that requires someone with an Olympic Gold Medal in Archery, three Academy Award nominations for Best Best Boy and a PhD in propulsion technologies. It’s not exactly rocket science.
Or I could just claim to be the man who was in charge of a large multinational and sacked all its best staff. But no-one would want that on their résumé, would they?
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