Consortium meetings
I am sitting in my hundredth
consortium meeting and scribbling this blog to fight a serious attack of
boredom which is overwhelming my whole being. Consortium meetings have their
own group dynamics which needs to be followed meticulously and carefully.
The less
important people i.e. senior officers of smaller banks, who are conscious of
their lower status in the pecking order but resent it, come late to prove a
point that they also are important. They are, however, careful not to be so
late that the meeting would start off without them. They keep sending messages
to their minions, who arrive early to reserve important seats for their bosses,
about their whereabouts.
These worthies
keep striving to keep their inflated egos airborne by asking for green tea when
everyone is having juice or vice versa. They spurn cookies and ask for roasted
(not fried) almonds (not cashew nuts) and throw a minor tantrum if these are
too salty.
These
gentlemen always dress garishly; and prefer suits with loud stripes and
psychedelic ties. After the meeting kicks off, the Company bore, normally the
CFO, launches into a 50 page power point presentation starting with the company’s
genesis as a mom and pop shop in 1918. By slide 2, everyone whips out his
blackberry and starts playing BRICKS seriously (Bricks is the only game which
comes free with the blackberry). Then, the ritual of picking up the cell phone
and walking out while furiously whispering into it, and returning in the same
manner, starts. The movement of people in and out of the meeting hall closely
resembles the ten hats of an expert juggler in the circus. Then the
presentation mercifully ends and the serious discussion starts. As the company
officials would already have taken care to speak to Individual bankers, the
consensus is quickly and smoothly achieved. The pompous ass tries feebly to
disagree on some minor trivia but is disdainfully ignored by everyone. The leader
concludes the meeting succinctly and then the serious business of wining and
dining starts.
Time for me to mutter my well-rehearsed
excuse and make my exit before the garishly dressed boor launches into his
limited stock of dirty jokes.
