A couple of weeks ago I helped staff a booth at a big-arse manufacturing trade show.

I learned why I’ve never worked in retail jobs dealing with the public and why I probably shouldn’t. Ever. There’s some raving fruit amongst the public and they all seemed to gravitate towards me. Maybe it’s my sunny disposition and pleasant face that attract nutters from miles away, or maybe they cling like barnacles to anyone who gives them more than a passing glance of eye contact. I don’t know, but it’s scary.

The funniest visitor was a chap who wanted some information on lightweight materials for a project he was working on.

“What are you building?” I asked (regretfully, with hindsight).

“A flying car. The materials need to be as light as possible.”

My brain seemed to split in two, with one half deciding it wanted to say, “You’re bloody kidding me,” and the other, polite, nutter-attracting half wanting to say, “Oh, really, that’s fascinating. Tell me more.”

I’d cracked the sads earlier at a co-worker earlier for coming in over the top of my enquiries and ‘stealing’ the possible leads, and he made the mistake of trying to steal Mr AirCar before listening to the conversation. This time I let him push in and I stepped back to watch the show.

Half an hour later, and after I’d been for a long walk and refreshment break, Mr AirCar was lamenting how the strict our government is with rules governing flying cars. Who’d a thunk it? Apparently you just don’t build one and take to the sky; there are other considerations such as licencing, road/airworthiness and not having mid-air collisions and killing the poor punters at ground level. As much as I think my taxes are wasted at times, I don’t mind a few dollars going towards development of flying car policy and regulation.

A long fifteen minutes later, and after I’d gone to another stand to steal a stress ball (I needed it by then), he’d spread his blueprints over the table. This man was hell-bent on putting his car in the air. I looked at the designs and couldn’t see the reason why the wings were going to be transported in a trailer behind the car — you press a button from the console and the wings will emerge so you can take to the skies. Goodness knows how you take off, land and control a moveable trailer behind the car — I am obviously ignorant of the laws of physics relating to flying cars.

I didn’t want to ask questions about the trailer in case I was dragged back into the conversation, so I stood back and dusted the booth while my co-worker tried to extricate himself from the man’s clutches. That, my friends, is payback for stealing my leads.

But feel free to shoot me down in flames (not literally) if flying cars come soon to a dealership near you.

Crank-o-meter: scared for the future

Hello, I’m still around. (comradeharps: there’s a picture below, so be careful at work).

I’ve finished the temp gig and sampled every food place in the Collins — Exhibition — Little Bourke — Swanston Street grid, so come and talk to me if you want to know where to get minced beef in your tofu and vegetables.

The good folk at the temp gig were lovely and took me to lunch and gave me lots of hugs on my last day. One lady (from another department, mind you) gripped me octopus-style and demanded I not leave, which was sweet but unsettling. I had to make sure she didn’t steal my ID card so I couldn’t leave the building. While the work (being blackbanned from almost every hospital in Victoria for haranguing doctors who can’t complete simple paperwork) wasn’t a good fit for my, um, temperament and patience, the people were lovely and I can only hope for the same culture in the new job.

My favourite memory of the last two months was the state government’s advisory notice in the women’s toilets. The mind boggles.

Please excuse me while I go and polish my shoes and iron a shirt for my first day tomorrow — and devote some time to a wee panic attack!

Crank-o-meter: nervous

I haven’t written lately as I haven’t had much to say.

I finished the job last Friday and, as it turned out, most of the staff were out of the office. I dashed out to an interview at lunchtime, returned, tidied the last of my belongings and left my building keys and mobile phone on my former desk and looked to say goodbye to someone. The only person left had hands covered in something grimy, so we said goodbye without shaking hands and I wandered off. The end.

I’ve had a handful of interviews from the introduction letter mailout, which has been encouraging as far as refreshing interview skills, but not progressing real opportunities as the chats have been more of the meet’n'greet variety. But I’ve had two interviews with a business that seems well managed and focused, and I’ve been told to expect a letter of offer by the end of this week. The role doesn’t start until February or March because this is a shitful time of year to start someone in a job, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed the offer arrives and has some decent content in it.

Apart from that, I might have an interview for another real vacancy late next week (again, from my letter mailout). Of the couple of dozen jobs I’ve applied for online, only one company has bothered responding and not one agency has bothered. This irks me because I spend considerable time personalising each application and lug my phone everywhere in case someone calls — it’s just plain old mean to keep applicants wondering rather than sending a blanket ‘no’ e-mail when they’re out of the running. Plonkers.

The only other thing to report is the alternator’s gone on the Datsun so my family kindly loaned me the alpaca transporter. If you see someone grooving along at 80km/h on a 100km/h freeway in a Nissan Vanette of various brown shades, please say hi. I’ve fetched a load of hay but I haven’t been asked to deliver alpacas anywhere yet. I’m unsure if they stand in the back or if I need to secure them with seatbelts. The Vanette doesn’t travel quickly, but safety of hairy occupants is paramount.

Crank-o-meter: blah is a state of mind

One of my favourite phrases when I realise I’m following predictable behaviours, or when others have already discovered something I thought I’d invented, is “But I’m a snowflake, damn it, a freakin’ unique snowflake!”

I’ve been in a mind-numbing and depressing (the mindset, not the mental condition — I’m snowflakish enough to have both) state since my employment was terminated and I’ve been oscillating between denial, sadness, bargaining, thoughts of bitter revenge, anger and fear. Then I found a copy of Andrew May’s book, Between Jobs: A Redundancy Survival Guide, in my career library and realised that my ride on the rollercoaster of moods was entirely normal and following a predictable path forged by many thousands of people before me. Oh. I’m not a snowflake.

I got cracking on the new job search quickly while I was still in shock and registered with a few companies’ online candidate management systems, but then realised I needed to follow the advice I’ve rammed down so many others’ throats to contact companies directly. They may not have a vacancy at that time and of the right level and type, but it shows a positive attitude and motivation. So I trawled the internet and found 20 companies within commuting distance who supply to defence and I spent a day researching and locating senior managers’ details. I wrote personalised introduction letters and enclosed a copy of my resume and mailed the lot out Monday week ago. (I mailed instead of e-mailed because people receive 70-plus e-mails a day versus jack-shit mail, and jack-shit mail is often read as a break from bulging e-mail queues.)

I met a director from a company last week who was impressed with my initiative; even though he doesn’t have an obvious vacancy in his team, he likes my skillset and if I can come up with a proposal for a job I can create there, he’ll do the same and see if we can make a job. On the day I walked away wondering why someone would be so nice and surely he’s not serious, but my battered confidence is starting to recover and I’m going to type something up today. I received a funny stream of consciousness e-mail from a lone trader who somehow manages big-ticket industrial projects and we’re catching up to say hello — if he ends up selling the business to a company sniffing around there might be scope to make something happen and, if nothing else, he sounds completely nutty and we’ll probably become best nutty friends.

And yesterday a sales manager called to say my timing was spot-on to make an approach because he’s been wanting to grow the business for two years (is that all?) but his team’s been so busy that he hasn’t had time to work on anything but core activities. He interviewed a few people a month ago but they’d dealt with more transactional activities rather than long-term, challenging, obstinate, confusing clients, which is where my background taming large government departments might be useful. I’m going to see him later in the week for a walk-around.

I don’t know if any of these prospects will lead to anything concrete, but I’m starting to quell that feeling of pending doom. But if these jobs don’t pan out, I am going to work as the person who writes pithy quotes for desk calendars. This was the other day’s potential contribution:

Friend: So, how are you going?

Me: I’ve got my head above water. But don’t be leading me to any water!

Crank-o-meter: up to series four of Melrose Place. Amanda had great hair in that season.

Hi.

I think someone famous said that bad things never happen at a good time, or something along those lines? It’s coming to the quiet, pre-Christmas job market and I’m still a little depresso and flat, and today I got whacked with losing my day job.

May I have some positive thoughts, good karma and all that, please? I’ve never lost a job before and I don’t know when this shock’s going to wear off so I can get moving on something else. Thank you.

Crank-o-meter: watching Melrose Place DVDs until my brain kicks in. That Patrick Muldoon was a hottie. And Jane had awful dress sense for a fashion designer.