Leave me hangin' on the telephone

Recruiters would make the ideal speed dating participants. They are generally attractive, attentive and ask all the right questions. They also come with cool names that have hyphens, are androgynous or from the old world (here's looking at you Barnabas and Vivian). At the end I want to take them home and introduce them to my parents. Unfortunately in Melbourne, the above still holds true, but the recruiters I have met believe in feeding you sugar cubes with one hand and flicking you with a whip with the other. These are my experiences, so I know I am generalising given my small sample size, there may be recruiters called Stuart or Lauren out there, but I am yet to encounter them.

The Melbourne experiences has been the complete opposite of that i have had in my former home London. (Pontificating begins now) In London, you generally have to beat them off with a stick and the spray them with cold water using an elephant hose, Rambo First Blood style, to get them to stop calling you. I had one guy who would religiously call me and speak to me like his best mate to get me to view job specs even when I was'nt on the market for a new role. He could set a world record for squeezing in as many words into 30 seconds without taking a breathe.  

Anyway back to the Melbourne (fill in whatever nickname you have for recruiters here) at hand. The first recruiter I met was from, let’s call the firm Michelleangelo Patagonia, the rather young and well groomed gent was trying to make me believe that the Melbourne eCRM marketing landscape was as advanced as London and NYC. When questioned about what roles he had that supported this claim, he directed me to some direct marketing positions. Just because both terms have marketing in them and start with a 'D' doesn't mean they are the same thing.

The meetings I have had with other recruiters are life affirming ego trips. I come out endorphin's stimulated and one step away from solving the riddle of life, the world hunger crisis and explaining the big bang theory in interpretive dance. I am strutting down the street like a 1970’s pimp wearing a fur coat, a velvet hat with an peacock feather in it and shoes with a live aquarium in there soles. I am hoping this is just not me, and other readers can relate to this. Alas, in the coming days I am left hangin' by the telephone like a girl who gave it up on the first date and is now waiting for that marriage proposal that won’t ever come. The job hunt continues.

I wonder what my London friendly/ stalker recruiter is doing and if he needs a chat.