The first rule of selling is to be sure the person you are talking to has the authority to buy.

.

Gissajob

Bob was half an hour early but at it was dry and warm in the labour exchange. Being lunch time there was only one official and a man about his age being interviewed.
He sat down picked up an old newspaper and tried to concentrate on the half finished crossword but voices from the desk intruded on his thoughts.
'Are you of a musical bent Mr Cornwold?'
'No' came the reply 'I'm tone deaf'
'Well this job would be perfect for you. The Beatles need a road manager, someone to look after their bookings, transport, press interviews and generally be their front man'
'No no' he said 'that wouldn't suit me I've got a phobia about bugs and insects'
'I see' said the official. 'Well how about working in a university? Magdalen College Oxford is looking for a new Master, what sort of degrees have you got?'
'Well' he said 'I've got my school leaving certificate and my scout's proficiency badge in knots, but I don't fancy living in Oxford'
'Pity' said the official 'it would have suited your qualifications'
He picked up another white card from the pile on his desk.
'Now this one is interesting' he said 'MGM are desperate for a man to direct a new film they're producing in Rome, all expenses paid and a private villa on the coast'
'Is there a yacht' said Mr Cornwold.
'Err let me see' came the reply 'yes a forty footer, Dragonfly Class with three lady crew members'
By now Bob had ceased any pretence of not listening, he was on the edge of his seat, as soon as that pillock had finished he'd be straight in there, any one of those jobs would do for him.
This time though Mr Cornwold was tempted, he scratched his ear, leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
After a slight pause he said 'No… I don't think so. Spaghetti brings me out in a rash and anyway…' But he didn't get any further; suddenly there was a loud shout from the back of the room
'Oi, what the ell are you two playing at, get away from my desk before I call security. Bloody cheek'…

©PJH
2005