I note with a blend of emotions for which there is not yet a German abstract noun that we are approaching the anniversary of the inauguration of our new home workspaces. That means that as HR manager of ours (corporate mission statement still undecided; it is a tie between: “This is fine, “Barely coping” or the more upbeat “Aspiring to adequate”), I am considering the annual appraisal process. It is time to evaluate performances, set objectives for the coming year and provide constructive advice and mentoring.
In a past life as a junior corporate lawyer, I was trained to deliver feedback, so I bring the cutting-edge corporate psychology of 2001 to the task. I will be using the “praise sandwich”: say something nice, slip in the bad thing you really want to say, then more bland niceness to close.
“So, I’ve really been impressed this year,” I may say to a valued junior team member, “by the career development you have done on lunch – great work. This year, let’s aim towards also maybe turning the hob off after use? But the three tins of chickpeas, two packets of microwave rice and a tablespoon of cumin was amazing, I need the recipe.”
“I love,” I might say to the senior facilities manager, “your tireless energy, verve, and powerful motivational speeches. What would be really great, would be if you could try delivering all of that more quietly? But really, wow, your enthusiasm is an inspiration.”
I can’t pretend I’m looking forward to my own appraisal. The 360-degree feedback I have tentatively solicited from my co-workers recently has yielded constructive criticism of my lack of enthusiasm, controlling rigidity, financial mismanagement, asking questions at the wrong time and inability to close doors. Areas identified for improvement: everything.
I am not as bad as the printer, however. Having decided in recent months to only obey one – male – member of the workforce, its chauvinistic reign of terror must be curtailed. It has already printed out its final written warning (smudged, several pages missing); the next step will be its P45.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
