I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again with a “believe you me” thrown in for good measure. Networking is essential if you want to live.
Whether you cultivate contacts online and never leave your room or you like to go out and press the flesh in a manner that won’t get you arrested – networking is all about making contact and most importantly making a good impression.
Man is not an island. England is an island. Man is not. Don’t get confused and lead your pub quiz team to miserable failure.
Since working for myself, I have attended many a networking event and I like to think I’m getting better, but I learned an invaluable lesson last week about the combination of ink and your own face. It is much better reserved for those moments with a close friend when you’re drawing smiling faces upside down on your chin. It is not a good idea for networking.
For this particular event the first part of the evening was smooth sailing. I was confident, friendly, met some great contacts and was feeling pretty darn thigh slappingly good about myself.
As the group was lead into the auditorium for the second part of the evening of inspiring talks I took my seat next to an interior designer – and it is to this lady that my article and apology goes out to.
Whilst listening to the talk I had the end of my pen casually tipped to my lips as i listened in between taking notes.
It was two hours before I noted some stray ink on my fingers. Worried that I may have transferred some to my face, I reached for my compact to see.
Over the last two hours as I had been lolling the end of the pen in my mouth I had managed to trace a thick smudge of black ink all above and below my mouth in a rather spectacular portrayal of a five year old who has been left alone with a felt tip.
I am not talking a few lines, I’m talking a smudge the width of a chubby fingertip all around my mouth and as it had been some hours that I’d started smudging the ink definite staining was taking place.
Cue frantic smudging, licking, wiping, and foundation cover up but unfortunately, the interior designer left rather hurriedly before I could explain to her that I wasn’t crazy (prior to her leaving I had been beaming and smiling completely unaware that I looked like Heath Ledger’s “Joker”).
I am not loopy – I am just a public emblem for anyone who has ever tripped up in public, had something stuck in their teeth in a meeting, accidentally sent tiny spittle over the desk in an interview or left the toilets with their skirt in their knickers.
Remember, a little social embarrassment means a good story to tell. Too much social embarrassment means no friends to tell it to.
