Human Resources - 09/Jul/2012
Arthur was concerned. All his gambling debts, paid off. He had a company, an assistant. He was in danger of becoming... prosperous.
This was a new experience. Mr O'Neill was 'satisfied' with the three girls he'd 'recruited'. So satisfied that Arthur was now running a recruitment agency. "Hire me some more, sixty or seventy should do."
Even that wasn't enough. He now had a 'line manager'. Ms Jones was tasked with ensuring 'everything went smoothly'. When he'd explained he worked best in a 'freelance, creative fashion', she looked him in the eye.
"I did the job interviews on those... young ladies. Brilliant from a skills perspective, a human resources nightmare. You didn't recruit them, you didn't 'discover' them, you literally built 'Angels'. If you're a HR consultant then I'm Princess Di."
Arthur considered calling her 'Your Highness', but it didn't seem really safe. Ms Jones, a lady in her late forties, walked with a slight limp. While her skin hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, he sometimes detected a hint of Glasgow in her voice. Her neat trouser suits implied business practicality not anything resembling glamour. And she could write an email that'd slice the meat off your bones.
Because he was no fool, Arthur asked for the project brief. And, the real brief. It was Stellvia, again. Attractive young women were required. Skilled, useful, ones. Dedicated. Loyal. Had he mentioned attractive? Once or twice he wondered if that was a pitying look Ms Jones gave him.
For a brief, mad, moment he considered starting an 'exotic' recruiting agency. Employing women who'd given up hope. Had no self respect. Wave them into heart-stopping beauty. Force useful skills into their heads. But, even he had his limits. And there was probably a law against it.
OK. It came down to skills and glamour. And, he guessed, education. He wasn't making more Angels. He'd had a chance to think about it and realised how lucky nothing'd gone badly wrong. But, glamour. All those beauty parlours did it. Surely he could come up with something?
Single women. At least one relevant skill or hobby. Willing to travel. Eighteen to twenty-five years old. Physically active. No major health issues. Who was he? A 'Big Brother' recruiter?
Self-reliant? Minimum education? Driver's license? He was totally out of his depth, here. People were just waiting for him to fail. Loyalty, dedication? Nothing like the 'Charlie' trick would work again.
Stick to what he knew. He started with a tanning bed. There were new regulations, and some of the older beds had been ruled unsafe. So he got one cheap; he could fix it.
Ms Jones controlled the purse strings, too. Or, at least, she checked his purchases with an eagle eye. Insisted on seeing all the original receipts. Cheap wasn't a problem, but there had to be clean accounts.
A teacher friend his aunt knew. Mrs O'Hare. Husband left her, terminally shy. Almost afraid to leave her own house. But brilliant at personal instruction, clear English diction, writing and presentation skills. Supposed trained to be an actress, but ended terrified of audiences.
If he could get it right, he'd get eager girls, sorry, 'young women', sharpen their skills, glam them up (teeth whitening?), and throw them, sorry, 'present them', to Ms Jones. A bit of a thin plan, but best he could think of. He needed all the help he could get.
His assistant, 'Rod' he liked to be called, was a youth in his late teens. Tall, skinny, a slight stammer, and someone who looked at fatty food and sprouted a crop of pimples. Still, he was good enough to take-over Arthur's TV and electronics repair business, and do most of the simpler work, unsupervised. A good job, as "Lagrange Recruitment" was taking all his time.
Why him? He wasn't a business man. He just liked playing with machines. What if they found him out? Still, he'd got a return invite from those science fiction reading students.
Maybe one of them would have a good idea?
--
"It is the business of the future to be dangerous" - Hawkwind
Arthur was concerned. All his gambling debts, paid off. He had a company, an assistant. He was in danger of becoming... prosperous.
This was a new experience. Mr O'Neill was 'satisfied' with the three girls he'd 'recruited'. So satisfied that Arthur was now running a recruitment agency. "Hire me some more, sixty or seventy should do."
Even that wasn't enough. He now had a 'line manager'. Ms Jones was tasked with ensuring 'everything went smoothly'. When he'd explained he worked best in a 'freelance, creative fashion', she looked him in the eye.
"I did the job interviews on those... young ladies. Brilliant from a skills perspective, a human resources nightmare. You didn't recruit them, you didn't 'discover' them, you literally built 'Angels'. If you're a HR consultant then I'm Princess Di."
Arthur considered calling her 'Your Highness', but it didn't seem really safe. Ms Jones, a lady in her late forties, walked with a slight limp. While her skin hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, he sometimes detected a hint of Glasgow in her voice. Her neat trouser suits implied business practicality not anything resembling glamour. And she could write an email that'd slice the meat off your bones.
Because he was no fool, Arthur asked for the project brief. And, the real brief. It was Stellvia, again. Attractive young women were required. Skilled, useful, ones. Dedicated. Loyal. Had he mentioned attractive? Once or twice he wondered if that was a pitying look Ms Jones gave him.
For a brief, mad, moment he considered starting an 'exotic' recruiting agency. Employing women who'd given up hope. Had no self respect. Wave them into heart-stopping beauty. Force useful skills into their heads. But, even he had his limits. And there was probably a law against it.
OK. It came down to skills and glamour. And, he guessed, education. He wasn't making more Angels. He'd had a chance to think about it and realised how lucky nothing'd gone badly wrong. But, glamour. All those beauty parlours did it. Surely he could come up with something?
Single women. At least one relevant skill or hobby. Willing to travel. Eighteen to twenty-five years old. Physically active. No major health issues. Who was he? A 'Big Brother' recruiter?
Self-reliant? Minimum education? Driver's license? He was totally out of his depth, here. People were just waiting for him to fail. Loyalty, dedication? Nothing like the 'Charlie' trick would work again.
Stick to what he knew. He started with a tanning bed. There were new regulations, and some of the older beds had been ruled unsafe. So he got one cheap; he could fix it.
Ms Jones controlled the purse strings, too. Or, at least, she checked his purchases with an eagle eye. Insisted on seeing all the original receipts. Cheap wasn't a problem, but there had to be clean accounts.
A teacher friend his aunt knew. Mrs O'Hare. Husband left her, terminally shy. Almost afraid to leave her own house. But brilliant at personal instruction, clear English diction, writing and presentation skills. Supposed trained to be an actress, but ended terrified of audiences.
If he could get it right, he'd get eager girls, sorry, 'young women', sharpen their skills, glam them up (teeth whitening?), and throw them, sorry, 'present them', to Ms Jones. A bit of a thin plan, but best he could think of. He needed all the help he could get.
His assistant, 'Rod' he liked to be called, was a youth in his late teens. Tall, skinny, a slight stammer, and someone who looked at fatty food and sprouted a crop of pimples. Still, he was good enough to take-over Arthur's TV and electronics repair business, and do most of the simpler work, unsupervised. A good job, as "Lagrange Recruitment" was taking all his time.
Why him? He wasn't a business man. He just liked playing with machines. What if they found him out? Still, he'd got a return invite from those science fiction reading students.
Maybe one of them would have a good idea?
--
"It is the business of the future to be dangerous" - Hawkwind
