I Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 409, 18 July 1928, Page 4

I Mundane Musings

Our Business Men

Some of our business men bave singularly engaging ideas. A certain sales manager of a big bouse says tbat commercial men are beginning to realise the importance of tbe artistically-typed letter. “Every letter sent out costs something like Is (paper, envelope, postage and the typist’s time), and if a letter fails to express the firm’s personality it is money wasted.” And, speaking for himself, be says: “Give me tbe typist who sings and paints in her spare time; the girl with a taste for Chopin and Bach. Her letters will be works of art.” Oil, quate! Well, for the sake of a little friendly argument, we will pretend to oblige this gentleman by putting on his payroll one of those young ladies whose ancestral walls are a joy to the aesthetic eye with such elegancies as “Pictures of Two Bananas on One of the Best Fruit Plates,” “Miss Tutti Frutti, considerably after Harrison Fisher,” and who "rejoices in a personality which is the life and soul of any party in her set, and who is never invited anywhere without the stern warnitfg, “Now, mind, you bring your music with you.” And let us imagine her sitting, shorthand notebook in lap, before our sales manager, ready for his dictation, which, owing to the fact that he omits to remove his cigar from his mouth, goes something like this —dearsirswith referencetoyouresteemedinquirylbegto sayweareconsideringetc.etc. And let us still further imagine, this being a fairy tale, that our capable young woman retires to her cubbyhole which never sees the light of day, and with a couple of hundred watt-nots burning away the glad lights in her top-knot, she settles down to her lawnmower and turns out a really artistic letter, with all the p’s in opportunity and every little dot and dash expressing a meaning of its own. And now we will spy on our sales manager when he gets it back. Yes, he glows with pleasure at the exquisite sight. The tears of joy dim his eyes. And then he signs the letter. Wiggle, wiggle, scratch, dash. Sales Manager. And if you can read it you’re one of the world’s marvels. Which reminds me. The other day I was dilly-dallying round an exhibition of automatic calculating machines and was handed a dozen or so facsimile reproductions of glowing testimonials from the heads of some of the leading firms. And it was Important to note that not half the signatures were decipherable without the aid of a handwriting expert.

Which may, of course, be artistic, but it certainly isn’t big business. Mind, you, I don’t want to snub our sales managers. I’m all for artistic typists. Even for artistic bosses.

And if I were an office man I should be tickled to death to he able to get someone who typed like an artist, spoke like a duchess ought to, looked like a peach, worked like a nigger, made tea like a Geisha, chatted like an Egeria, turned up punctually like a prince, and behaved like a pet.And if I could get all this done up In one and the same girl, and for next to nothing, so much the better. But on looking down the situations vacant columns of any paper I see you have to pay as much as 25s a week for a competent typist only; while for an expert shorthand-typist with ex. refs., nothing less than £2 a week will do. And in the situations wanted column, one capable shorthand-typist (30), 12 years’ exp., thorough knowledge eng. and steel terms, also sec. duties, requires 455, and another with five years’ office experience, speeds 120-50; willing and adaptable and not afraid of work, wants a cool 355. Twelve years’ experience and salary 455! It is plain that this young woman can be no ardent devotee of either Bach or Chopin. Perhaps, poor thing, she has never even sung “I passed by Your Window.” Pity, isn’t it? Why, I dare say if she’d had an artistic education and could express it in her work for her employers she could have commanded her 47s a week any day. Dear me, yes.