A Confession

A few days ago, I gave a presentation at the company I work for.

2015-03-29 16.07.17
This picture appeared on my phone after one particularly heavy night in Liverpool. It’s the stairway leading up to a friend’s apartment – I don’t know who the guy is.

It was about how an effective search-engine optimisation guidebook could easily work to improve our company’s search-friendliness, work to convince the gullible internet that we are a legitimate source on the matter, and our authority is not to be questioned, and to provide a new way to collate a lot of our unread, back-dated information into one handy source which our customers could browse at their leisure.

I also listed the ways it could help our Sales team to collect much warmer leads than their cold-calling strategies do, how it could support the marketing process all the way through to completion and how we could no longer afford to lag behind on such simple marketing tactics, when our competitors offered them by the score.

The presentation took place over a webcam, and I watched them as I spoke. They changed from idle boredom, to idle curiosity, to intense discussion and fierce support. I said something, I can’t remember what, and my boss leaned forward and said ‘I agree’. Those were the only two words he spoke in the entire meeting.

It ended, we all agreed that it had been productive, and I went for dinner; I went for a long dinner. I listened to Andrew Jackson Jihad. I went to the book store, I had to touch the spine of Bukowski, Fante, Camus and Sartre; I had to caress Orwell and Huxley and Hamson. There was a woman standing next to me, flicking through a romance novel by some living writer, and I had to make my apologies in silence.

I didn’t want her to think that I was weird.

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