Kishore Singh: Crusoe on his own

PEOPLE LIKE US

I have never known what to do to keep office assistants gainfully employed and so am thankful that modern communications and technology have made them redundant for all but the seriously senior.

Journalists are expected to know how to type, and doing one's own letters has always been so much easier than dictating them and subbing the unproofed version. E-mail and the abbreviated SMS have made instant messaging possible and practical.

With the shrinking size of modern offices, it's easier to throw out papers than store them, and most journalists work on the premise that if you haven't found use for a document in a week, it's probably stale and, therefore, safe to trash.

And it's just as true that those press kits you stowed away in the bottom drawer the last time you cleaned (probably some time last year) are unlikely to be ever aired, so it's best to use the space for more relevant material, like emergency food stocks.

There was a time when a publisher I worked for, in a moment of weakness, decided I must have an assistant to ease me of the burden of my then considerable work. That month I got less done than usual because I was encumbered with Man Friday who proved to be more handicap than resource.

"I don't have the time," I lamented to the boss who squiggled his eyebrows in a splendid manner but required a response about the delayed goings-on in the office, "I spend all my working hours trying to think of work to keep my assistant occupied, which leaves me with no time to attend to some of my own." The assistant's career was cut dramatically short.

In another office, the head honcho would insist on an assistant because it involved the prestige of his office that, though small, had pretensions to style. A comely lady was hired for the task. Finding nothing to do, and tired of asking for work to be put her way, she threatened to resign, at which the boss had her attached to him as his assistant.

That was the last anyone ever offered to fund a secretary to share my labours, and I couldn't be happier. Unknown to me, in the non-journalistic community assistants obviously continue to thrive. During the course of the week, I will attend to at least a few phone calls wanting to make contact with my assistant.

Saying "I don't have one" is hardly good for the ego. And so, responding to the shrill summons of the phone, only to be asked if I am my assistant, I pretend that the worthy fellow has stepped out for the moment and the caller -- lucky him! -- has me direct and un-assistanted on the phone. "Thank you, Sir," respond most, "I'll call back later." Strange how popular the chap is, considering he doesn't even exist.

Two days back I took a call from the assistant to the CEO of company that was launching a new restaurant. Like so many of her ilk, she did not wish to speak with me.

"Will you tell your assistant to return my call, I need to find out from him whether you're attending the launch over the weekend?" she asked. "No," I apologised, "I will not be able to make it."

"That's a pity," she said, "but do remind your assistant to call me and tell me you won't be attending, so I can tell my boss I've spoken to your assistant, and he's confirmed you won't make it for the party."

"But I'm telling you so myself," I said, "so why have someone else call you with the same message?" There was a short silence on the line: "How do I know it's official," she finally responded, "unless I hear it from your assisstant."