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was a better choice than someone who might have been parachuted in by senior management to take charge. He was going to use the phrase “parachuted in” to make the point. In fact, his speech was to be peppered with jargon, which he hoped would impress everyone who heard it.
    Once ensconced in the role, Nik was looking forward to worrying about personal performance targets and appraisals. He would mither over budgets. He would be properly anxious about illegal workers and Home Office raids. But, for now, the subject that most keenly absorbed him was the question of how to attract and retain foreign tourists—especially Americans—and how to persuade them to leave glowing reviews on travel booking sites.
    “We are fortunate to operate in an area rich with history,” Nik told his staff, as proudly as if he had created the history himself. The expressions on the faces of his staff ranged from a sullen I know! to a vacant What are you talking about? to a more gratifying How fascinating , from senior receptionist Miss Wendy Chen, who was new to the hotel.
    Nik said, “What’s our core business?”
    There was a silence. There was no hostility in it, but neither was there any energy in the room. Nik smiled. He bounced on his feet to bring the energy up. He said, “That was a trick question! Conferences are very important to us. But so are American tourists. We have more than one core: what are we, an apple? No, indeed. This hotel is a honeycomb, full of worker bees!”
    There was another silence. The speech had worked better at home in his bedroom, where Nik had even built in pauses for appreciative laughter and earnest questions, which he had acknowledged in the mirror with a gracious nod and a smile. He continued: “I want to see each and every one of you giving one hundred and ten percent when it comes to our conference delegates. And another hundred and ten percent for our American guests.” Mathematics wasn’t his strongest subject. But then he wasn’t giving a lesson in percentages, he was trying to motivate his staff.
    “What about Americans attending conferences?” asked someone, trying to catch him out.
    “Well, it’s quite simple. When you are dealing with American guests,” said Nik, “whether their purpose in coming here is business or pleasure, you go the extra mile.” He put his clenched fist just above shoulder height, as if he was about to walk that extra mile now. He was Dick Whittington on the road to London, off to make his fortune with his belongings in a handkerchief slung from a pole over his shoulder: a decent, honest man from humble beginnings who had risen to great power. Someone—Albin, one of the chefs—saw another amusing reference and sang, “Heigh-ho!”
    Someone else joined in: “Heigh-ho!”
    Nik knew what was going on. They resented his promotion. They weren’t sure if they were going to take him seriously. They weren’t sure if they were going to follow his orders. They were being impertinent, but in a way that would allow them to claim they were “only joking” or, “I thought we were friends, Nik” if he got cross about it or threatened to report them to Human Resources.
    The chefs were a nightmare anyway. Now the TV was full of programs about celebrity chefs (when did chefs become the new rock stars, and more to the point, why?). The fryers and bakers in his kitchen thought of themselves as artistes: Picasso with a pickle. They were weasels, the lot of them.
    His staff were staring: bored, amused or bewildered. Dry mouthed, Nik looked around for inspiration, trying to remember the thread of his speech. Weasels…Dick Whittington…Disney…Oh yes! That was it: Americans. A sense of desperation now urged him into fanciful rhetoric. Departing from his carefully rehearsed speech, he said, “Let’s say our American guests are cold: let them know you’d do anything to warm them. You’d fetch them a blanket, you’d hand over your jacket, you’d…you’d peel off a