Keanu Reeves is a Better Career Advisor than Britney Spears

Guess who’s been writing internal news articles again? Below was produced to promote the tool I’m developing as part of a team for a sub-project at work. More details below but so far the reception to both writing and project outputs have been great.

 

Keanu Reeves is a Better Career Advisor than Britney Spears

 

When I was a little girl I wanted to be Britney Spears. Then around the age of seven I realised it would be a difficult career path (turns out it’s a ‘dead man’s shoes’ role), so instead I settled on hard-hitting journalism, only to find myself documenting the adventures of a pineapple in a party hat (don’t ask). Post University there were three years in charity and now I’m fast approaching two of the same at Nationwide but it’s only recently that the words ‘Project’ and ‘Management’ have sprung out as possibilities for someone like me.

I applied to be on a team for this year’s Association for Project Management (APM) challenge with echoes of Britney in the back of my mind. What skills and qualities do you

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Take on a crazy challenge alongside the day job or delete the email?

need to have to enter it? Where do you go to access accredited material? Is Project management even the right career? I was about to call it out on when someone else said it, and then another, until we’d all agreed that between our collective 17 and a half years’ experience no one knew the answers to these fundamental questions. Our deliverable was born; in four months we’d build a tool to help practitioners focus their development time more effectively. We would call it the “Project Development Matrix” (and Michael, our project manager, would tell me to stop suggesting we wear long coats and shades like Keanu Reeves’ did in the 1999 film The Matrix). With our tool all you’d need to do is answer a few questions and the answers would automatically populate charts to help tailor the development plan of the user.

 

The APM challenge is designed to develop project management qualities and knowledge of the project lifecycle. We produce detailed reports to deadlines, stage project boards with our sponsor and must deliver what we set out to do. For the finals night in May we’ll either have produce additional material or present to a panel. You’re up against teams from a range of organisations so company lingo has to be stripped away and everything taken back to APM fundamentals. The project would be enough of a challenge for a single co-located team, however we’ve added a layer of fun to the mix by basing ourselves across two Swindon and one London office.

Snow
Snow put central London into a state of paralysis

So where are we now? In February we housed a focus group to get consumer views and refine our ‘product backlog’ for the first release, with a view to develop and expand the tool and its use case after that. No project is entirely smooth running, given the snow I experienced in central London I struggled to see why the original focus group in Swindon had to be moved, but it’s the setbacks you learn best from.

 

The tool is presently due for release at the end of this month. Give it a go and let us know your thoughts. Any issues and I’ll don my shades and get Keanu to enter the Matrix himself and investigate further.

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Alice Bennett and the Mystery of the Three Eggs

Alice Bennett and the Mystery of the Three Eggs

By Alice Bennett, aged 26 (& 1/4)

 

It was Tuesday evening and Alice was relaxing in her room with a healthy dose of catch up TV.

‘Hmm,’ she thought, ‘by choosing to watch American reality show “The Bachelorette” I severely risk damaging my IQ and the Feminist cause, however I have already listened to two hours of Classic FM today and learnt about the benefits of a Public Council on Radio Four. I think I can treat myself.’

Just as Alice leaned forward to reach the play button her phone buzzed awake. The surprise caused an elbow-jerk reaction, knocking the stained mug’s overfilled tea contents all over the dark mock-wood next to the bed.

‘Fudge!’ She actually said.

The text has come from Alexandre, a delightful young flatmate who had many wonderful qualities including, notably, being of the French persuasion. Alice had learnt this one evening when she muttered ‘c’est mort’ as a farewell greeting to her younger sister on the phone and ended the call with Alex thinking she was the French Godfather. After the initial encounter the poor European was left quite perplexed with English culture.

Alex had put a message in the flat’s social media group chat to enquire as to the ownership of the three eggs in the kitchen. Alice knew exactly what Alex was referring to, there had been three medium sized hen eggs in a saucepan of water all day. When she’d originally seen the eggs sat in water on the cold hob her first reaction was balanced, educated and above all very cosmopolitan in outlook.

‘Eh, must be a French thing.’

Now Alice would never want to be labelled as culturally insensitive or stupid, but now she had to admit she was both. She felt like a muppet, a right muppet indeed. Slouched in Gap jogging bottoms and a strap vest top of brown, Alice pointed a finger at season thirteen’s first African-American bachelorette.

‘You did this’ she hissed.

Alice realised then that getting out of her room may be a good idea. She picked up her phone (because she’s a millennial) and ventured into the dark hallway. Halfway down the stairs she saw Alex stood at the sink with a hoody on. While she could not see his face Alice had to make the assumption that it was Alex and not some random intruder, after all if Crimewatch had taught her anything gang members do not tend to carefully stack Tupperware boxes on the counter, they steal them.

‘They aren’t my eggs!’ Alice called out, piercing the silence with her brash statement that entered the world more cockney than either party expected. The loud noise in the nearly quiet flat made Alex jump in sudden panic. No one in the establishment makes conversation, let alone that of the light hearted, small-talk kind.

‘Oh right,’ Alex responded. ‘I am not sure why they are there.’

‘Beats me. I saw them there before but didn’t know what it was all about. I assumed they were yours.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re French!’ The words burst out of Alice’s lips like Brian Blessed storming towards a voiceover contract.

‘Great, now he’ll think I’m a racist. An egg soaking racist’ Alice thought.

Alex laughed. ‘No, not mine. I do not cook eggs like that!’

‘Well who do the three eggs belong to then? Why would anyone do that?’

‘Maybe it is preparation for a meal.’

‘Don’t be daft, English people aren’t as exotic as that. And Daniel doesn’t cook anyway, lucky sod who gets free food from work while some of us live on scrambled eggs every night.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said they cannot be Daniel’s. The three eggs must belong to someone else.’

Alice and Alex laughed some more over the matter. Alex stood firmly in the kitchen, Alice crouching on the stairs, the two had quite the chin wag. In the end Alice raised herself and started ascending the staircase once more.

‘See what the others say, but this is the most British thing I’ve been in debate over in the long while!’

Two minutes later Daniel entered his response into the group chat ‘not me! I don’t cook! Laziness < cooking’ before taking his turn to enter the small kitchen and see the spectacle for himself. Alice who was busy preparing herself for the pub (if chav wear wasn’t acceptable in Swindon it probably wouldn’t be suitable in trendy London) took it upon herself to pause her preparations re-join her flatmate’s debate, this time sporting a pair of cheap leggings and a long top.

Three grown adults, staring at three pale eggs in a pan of water. As real life mysteries go it was enough to top any mid series episode of Midsummer Murders and even Alice acknowledged that seeing the eggs gently bump into each other was probably witnessing more action than in the whole duration series thirteen of The Bachelorette.

‘Talk about a love triangle! Left egg is such a player’ she thought.

‘So who’s eggs are they?’ Daniel asked.

‘Quelle mystoire.’

‘Please stop speaking bad French.’
‘Sorry.’

‘But they are not our eggs?’ Alex continued.

Alice pointed her thumb in an upward direction. ‘They must be Lily’s. But all the same it’s quite the English mystery don’t you think?’

Both boys shrugged, it seemed Alice was more invested in trying to ship this as some kind of scandalous tale than her roommates. In many ways it was to be expected, back in the Cotswolds she could see great appeal in “The Mystery of the Three Eggs”, she need only open with a description of the semi-clean environment and she could have housewives fainting. But in the here and now all three fleshy compositions decided that little nor much interest in doing something with the shelled eggs while they sat unclaimed in a black pan, chilling in a pool of odourless water.

‘I’m going to the pub’ Alice stated on the way back to her room.

About five minutes later a blunt message came through from the final flatmate. ‘Not mine’ it stated.

‘Curiouser and curiouser! Who on Earth is the owner of the three eggs in a flat in Wapping?’

For Alice the mystery simply did not make any sense. Was there an egg bugler, an egglerer on the loose? Was it the egg God bestowing medium price range goods on Alice in return for long months of searching for value? Why did the faith of Dale’s Dad on The Bachelorette mean Rachel had to send him home at the rose ceremony? For poor Alice this whole situation really was quite a conundrum and she hadn’t consumed enough wine to be processing words like conundrum. Wanting a break from it all she tugged on a lightweight jacket and some pearls (obviously) and with a flash was out of the front door and on her way to a large glass of wine. A place where closest thing served to an egg was some kind of hipster named beer.

Alice was about half way to the pub when she felt the phone vibrate in her rucksack.
‘Wow, I’m like Chaka Khan after a ten-year media break,’ she thought to herself.

Given it was dark and she was listening to a banging tune by Genesis (who FYI are still a cool and acceptable band to appreciate in the 21st Century), well she decided to simply not give the buzz any attention until she was in the safety of a local boozer.
Sat at a high table amongst the warmth and safety of a large number of semi-drunk regulars she pulled out the little iPhone to view the message that had come through minutes before.

‘So mine, but I don’t remember’ was the short but self-explanatory message from the fingers of Alice’s French friend. She sighed and took a slight sip of her 150ml house wine (Alice being, as ever, somewhat of a tight wad). ‘Of course the eggs were Alex’s all along! Classic Agatha Christie plot, the Frenchman did it! It’s always the Frenchman! Or is it always the butler? Did French people exist in 1920s Britain when Christie was writing? Maybe I should look it up.’ But before Alice could sink herself into an even deeper, potentially borderline insulting, hole another thought popped into her mind.

‘Why don’t I sit here in this pub and write out this whole account? Yes, that would be a good idea. It’s so classically middle-England! Creating a soap-opera drama over something so trivial as three eggs. People will instantly get it and find it charmingly hilarious.’

But then sat in the crowded Wapping pub, immersed in a great deal of other fascinating conversations in all manner of tongues, another thought popped into the head of the young professional.

‘But what if people read the tale and feel let down? What if they read the whole account expecting some hilarious punchline or deeper meaning, but instead get only three grown adults staring at a pan of eggs? Wouldn’t they be really disappointed? I would be if it were me.’

At that very moment the twentieth spam message of the day came into her email account, this one being from Groupon with the promise of ‘mega discounts on cheese’. Alice opened her laptop and smiled to herself. For if there’s one thing spam emails and novels like Fifty Shades of Grey have taught society anything is that people are a sucker for a catchy headline.

She started to type.

“Giant Hamster or Tiny Rhino?” The Time I Interviewed a Senior Finance Executive

For my second of two articles I had to produce for the internal monthly newsletter I decided to do an interview with a senior bod in the organisation. However this is me and while I’m still clinging onto the famous ‘graduate’ gold pass (I’m not a graduate, but there has to be some perks to people forever calling me that), well, it seemed perfectly reasonable to take a different stance on the traditional dry corporate interview the Executive Committee usually answer via email. Even though you won’t know the guy directly I hope you get what I was trying to do here, I certainly got the feeling he did.

Jeremy Paxman got nothing on me.

 

Closed Conversations with JS, Head of Digital

 

JS: So why are we doing this?

AB: I thought it would jazz up the newsletter interview if we got to know the man behind the face. Don’t get me wrong, I love Digital strategy…

JS: *Chuckles*

AB: …but we don’t really get to know you. Shouldn’t take long but before we start I should say you’re allowed to decline questions or terminate the interview should you feel uncomfortable

JS: What are you going to ask me?!

AB: I’m just covering my back J

JS: *Chuckles* okay, go on.

 

AB: What’s your favourite chocolate bar?

JS: Galaxy

 

AB: Biggest strength?

JS: Resilience

 

AB: Football or Rugby?

JS: Rugby

AB: Favourite team?

JS: Bath Spa

 

AB: Playground nickname?

JS: Ginge

 

AB: Would you rather be a giant hamster or a tiny rhino?

JS: Tiny rhino

 

AB: Bath Spa or Swindon?

JS: As in the city?

AB: Well, yeah, I wouldn’t make you compare Swindon to basic hygiene.

JS: *Laughs* fair enough, Bath Spa

 

AB: What’s your Zodiac sign?

JS: Cancer

 

AB: Morning lark or night owl?

JS: Morning lark

 

AB: Tea or coffee?

JS: Coffee

 

AB: Would you rather meet an alien visitor of travel into space?

JS: *Pause* travel into space

 

Favourite band/artist?

JS: Anything before 1998

AB: What happened after 1998?

JS: It all went downhill

 

Describe yourself in one word.

JS: *Long pause*

AB: Just anything

JS: It’s a tough one

AB: Have you never had to answer that at an interview?

JS: I haven’t been interviewed in ten years! *long pause* Determined

 

AB: Digital or analogue?

JS: Analogue…joking! Of course it’s Digital.

AB: God, you had me worried there for your job. As if an analogue fan could head up digital, I’d have to get you escorted of the building out on principle!

JS: *Laughs*

Why Can’t Men be More Like Snack Bars?

I was recently sat in a bar with a glass of wine and my new portable laptop (best investment of the year so far) when I had a flashback to all those Jordans’ Frusli snack/cereal bars I bought before London. Remember those?

So I decided, quite randomly, to send a letter to the lovely people at Jordans to make them aware. Of course this is me so naturally it wasn’t a standard letter. I took a sip on my rapidly depleting glass of red and wrote the following:

Dear Sir or Madam,

RE: Why can’t men be more like Jordans Frusli bars?

My name is Alice and I’m a finance professional and freelance blogger/kooky lady living in the centre of London. Now I’m pretty sure you’ve taken one look at the RE there and thought “hmm, this complaint may involve the assistance of a therapist, or a year seven biology guide”. But before you fear on that front, don’t worry, I know men can’t actually be like your Frusli bars. Everyone knows men are made out of used socks, cheese puffs and that weird smell no one can ever quite place. I think it’s a mutation of Lynx. Anyway, I’m not stupid but hear me out on this.

I relocated to London in May last year, a pretty stressful process as moves go. I was leaving Swindon with not a clue in the world what to do. I assumed that everything in London was expensive and topped with some kind of skinny foam, so I thought it wise to stock pile on what I knew to be good, wholesome and something I could pretend was 3 of my five a day. In my keen to stockpile for an event that you may have thought was a new Cold War I may have bought enough boxes to reach my hip… [picture insert]

You can imagine the fun I had transporting those from Paddington to E1. With everything else my bags weighed a ruddy tonne. However, unlike the many, many men who walked on by, the energy I got from a blueberry Frusli bar helped give the me energy to lug those bags on/off tube lines and up a flighty number of stairs. The power of the Frusli!

Once in the flat I managed to locate a drawer to put my various bars in to which I was quite satisfied. The drawer has since become a mini shrine to the many snack bars I have and, unlike men, I find the content of the drawer provide much enlightenment. Do I eat chocolate? Do I go out food shopping? When I open my Frusli drawer it always shows me the way. And I tell you what, they never ask me to make them a sandwich as a solution to my query.

Frusli bars offer variety, they have a fruity content and are even eco-friendly without rubbing it in your face (I see what you did with the packaging). They don’t take up space, they can accompany any meal or make time for you any point of the day and my parents love them. In fact, in many ways they’re the perfect partner. Wait a moment, maybe they’re too good…

Ok scratch the above, this is now a complaint letter. Congratulations on making something awesome that keeps me going and kept me strong when I didn’t know where to buy eggs in this crazy city. But you’ve made something too good so now I’m unable to find a living male who is as adaptable as an apple and cranberry cereal bar. Disgusted.

I look forward to hearing how you’re going to resolve this matter ASAP.

Yours Faithfully

I wrote that and sent it without re-reading it (until now, golly gosh that Merlot). I genuinely thought I’d never get a response. Another crazy lady from London. Well I was very firmly proved wrong when today I received a large parcel from the customer service team at Jordans. Inside the cardboard box was a letter.

Dear Alice,

Well what can I say? Other than, yes! Our Frusli bars are pretty awesome and they do offer the standard when it comes to offering variety and honest goodness. I am certain however, that there is a guy out there with equal qualities who can make time for you at any point and, most importantly, help you find eggs in the crazy city. In the meantime, here are some more Frusili bars along with some of our breakfast cereals – who knows, maybe once you’ve found Mr Right you’ll be able to enjoy our Granola together for breakfast.

All the very best,

Emma Morris, Customer Experience Advisor

And under the letter was this!

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How awesome is that! Completely unexpected as well. The luxury of Jordans cereal! I’m used to handling own brand Wheat Biscuits so this really is a massive step up. And given when I had to reschedule the missed delivery Mumma Bennett was convinced that I’d be getting her quilt cover this is very much a surprise to everyone. Mumma B said I must have written a very good letter to get such a response from the company…well, now you’ve seen it I’ll leave that final call with you.

(Ps – Jordans/Emma, I’m still hunting for the best reasonably priced eggs in London and a man, in that order.)

Toto, I Don’t Think We’re in Swindon Anymore: On Moving to London

The below was written as part of an internal communication piece showcasing employees who have chosen to relocate for their work. My piece focused on moving to London but with a classic Alice twist.

I wake each morning and stare at an isolated patch of peeling paint. I don’t how it came to be or why I look blankly at it every morning, but it has become a weird habit I’ve developed since relocating. Everyone has habits here, some people get through their commute with a super-skinny-muchos-frappy-bean café deluxe, others smoke like the bellowing car exhausts on Tower Bridge, for me staring at length at a flaky patch is mine. And I wonder why my Mum worries for me.

The most over repeated piece of advice on Development schemes is to make your own opportunities and I suppose for me London represented this to the extreme. If I could survive in the big smoke I could thrive anywhere. Combined with an exciting placement proposition I could hear Threadneedle calling in May 2018.

Upon arrival I told myself that I wouldn’t become another digit on London’s loneliness statistics which is why I have made every effort to try new things outside of work. “Speed-friending” events are all the rage in central London, up there with humanitarian clubs and vegan veg-outs. Regardless of my outlook I’ve attended all manner of get-togethers and learnt so much of wider society. I’ve even learnt to embrace my inner hipster, sitting crossed legged at acoustic sets and hanging out in independent coffee shops in berets and neck scarves (and getting subsequently mistaken for being French. “Je suis…Anglais”, the end result of five years of the British education system).

From the moment I leave my flat each morning I’m reminded of how far removed I am from Swindon. The smell of soot in the air, angry cyclists cursing at pedestrians, the wrapper of a tourist poncho blowing down the street, admittedly my battered copy of Lonely Planet didn’t prepare me well for daily life in the capital. But through perseverance I’ve forged my own lifestyle and friendship groups and that’s what I’m proudest of. The experiences I encounter, good and bad, are shaping me into a stronger person, the person I never thought I could be.

My advice to anyone considering placement relocation comes as no surprise. Do it! In the protective bubble of development schemes there’s a lot to gain from taking a plunge. Just don’t get in the way of my morning commute, yeah?                            

More Than Just a Sandwich

Recently myself and a small team have been working closely with a local charity in Swindon (Wiltshire, UK). The Sandwich People (headed by The Salvation Army) are a small catering enterprise that help those experiencing hardship retrain and get themselves back on track.

Having recently spent time volunteering with these guys (hence the classic local paper pose) I can vouch that everyone from the management to those producing and selling really do put their all into what they do.

Click this link to read the official article: ‘The Sandwich People’ a scheme to help homeless people

To find out more about how to buy (and thereby support) this great team visit their website The Sandwich People
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I’m Ruddy Awesome

The below piece was something I recently did for my organisation’s internal newsletter. At the time it got a lot of praise and a few chuckles so I thought I’d share it with my lovely readers as well (be it with a few tweaks to make it understandable to an external audience). Enjoy!

I’m Ruddy Awesome

 

Recently myself and a group of work colleagues undertook a two-day Mindset and Attitude course. Now, while all those in attendance will completely understand the term ‘lollipop moment’, say that to the rest of the world and you only get concern over my company’s funding policies (especially when you talk about the whole ‘tied up with rope, blindfolded and groping about “game”’ and dancing around to ABBA). With my Excel course I got given manuals to leave about my desk (‘look at me, I’m so smart. I have manuals!’) but Mindset, well, it’s harder to explain.

‘Annie, right now are you in the box or out the box?’

‘…I’m at my desk?’

 At Mindset we discussed our values and career aspirations and learnt ways to communicate better amongst other valuable exercises. On paper it was a jolly outing interjected with TED talks and Psychology lessons, nothing that you’d think would make much difference. However, in the weeks and months since I’ve started to form a new perspective.

The thing is when it comes to the day-to-day I’m pretty modest. I know how to talk to people and how to construct a fabulous bit of writing, but when someone tells me I’m awesome I’ve never been good at taking it onboard. I throw my head to one side and my hand goes all limp, finished with an ‘oh you’ as I quite literally bat away the feedback. Mindset and Attitude helped me acknowledge this and, when I struggled to praise myself, Richard Thorpe (the man leading the sessions) got the group to fill in. Being unable to run away from the positive comments of my peers turned me beetroot red, but five minutes was all it took for me to realise my own strengths and qualities.

A couple of weeks later I was in an art gallery in Bath (as you do) when the room steward grabbed me mid-exit. Much to my surprise, the lady proceeded to shower me with praise. She’d been fascinated by how I’d taken in the art on display (because apparently there’s a right and wrong way to view art) and didn’t want me to leave without saying something. Aside from thinking ‘how do I get “art viewing” on my CV?’ I also found myself smiling, eyes locked and hand firmly at my side.

I left the gallery feeling great. An actual lollipop moment! I also realised that in my quest to be a classy, empowered lady maybe I had been one all along. Perhaps I’d been my own blocker, taking in only the bad comments and pushing away the good.

Take aways from Mindset and Attitude include making time for people (a cheeky Facebook like at 7am does not count) and an end to copious coffee drinking at 10pm. Going forward I’m going to hold my head that bit higher and tell myself I’m the best thing to happen to every meeting. Why? Because I’m ruddy awesome.

 

More information on the Mindset Coaching offered by Richard Thorpe can be found on his company website: https://www.wiseheart.co.uk/ or contact Richard direct at richard@wiseheart.co.uk