From the desk of Augusta Straightarrow, Training Coordinator and accidental office pariah, during her newly acquired free time.
For those unfamiliar with the Serpico Effect—named after the famous police officer who faced severe retaliation for exposing corruption—it’s the sobering realisation that exposing widespread misbehaviour makes you as popular as a printer jam before a deadline. As Charlie Munger wrote in his Poor Charlie’s Almanack: “If enough people are profiting in a general social climate of doing wrong, then they’ll turn on you and become dangerous enemies if you try and blow the whistle.” It’s akin to being the only person who notices that the emperor isn’t wearing clothes, and then being uninvited from all future royal fashion shows.
I’ve been contemplating the nature of professional development lately. Not the conventional kind that enhances one’s current role—though I’m sure someone somewhere still does that—but rather the creative interpretation that has transformed our office’s training budget into what I can only describe as a renaissance fair of random expertise.
You see, I made what I now recognise as a career-limiting act of integrity when I started actually reading the training approval forms instead of just rubber-stamping them like a proper professional. The revelations began with Humphrey from Accounting requesting certification in “Advanced Underwater Basket Weaving for Financial Excellence.” His justification? “Helps with understanding liquid assets.” I noticed Sarah from HR had already approved it with a sticky note reading “Promotes work-life balance and maritime-financial synergy.”
The thing about having a surname like Straightarrow is that people tend to assume certain things about your character. That you’ll shoot directly at problems rather than gracefully looking the other way. I’ve found this reputation rather hard to shake, especially since discovering that half the IT department was enrolled in “Professional Fortune Cookie Writing for Error Message Optimisation” (supposedly developing the art of turning 404s into cosmic guidance), while our entire Marketing team was pursuing certificates in “Competitive Cat Whispering for Business Communications” (for mastering the art of appearing aloof yet irresistible to clients).
The real masterpiece was our COO’s application for a “Medieval Jousting Leadership Intensive.” The form explained how charging at problems with a pointed stick while mounted on a horse would revolutionise our approach to quarterly planning. The fact that he had listed “owns a horse” under “relevant prerequisites” suggested a level of premeditation I found both impressive and concerning.
I made my next mistake in scheduling a meeting to discuss these “innovative learning opportunities.” I came armed with charts, graphs, and a colour-coded presentation about actual job-relevant training options. In retrospect, I should have recognised the warning signs when everyone showed up wearing their newly-issued chainmail from “Defensive Armour Strategies for Middle Management.”
The training committee’s response showed the Serpico Effect in all its medieval glory (apparently someone had already completed their jousting certification). Not only did my name disappear from professional development email chains, but I also found my office chair mysteriously replaced with a throne of rubber swords, and my morning coffee mug bore the ominous inscription ‘Valar Morghulis’ in Comic Sans (and if you must know, it translates to “all men must die” from the Games of Thrones).
I now spend my days navigating the office undetected, honing my skills in stealth and camouflage. I’ve mastered the art of blending in with the potted plants (despite being allergic to ferns) and disguising myself as a photocopier (complete with occasional paper jam noises for authenticity).
I’ve also taken to eating lunch alone in the break room, accompanied only by the gentle sounds of the Marketing team practicing their cat communication skills with the office’s resident feline. Their latest breakthrough was teaching it to ignore emails with the same efficiency as senior management.
So, here I am, the Frank Serpico of the office.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to process a request for ‘Professional Interpersonal Skills Through Mime.’ Apparently, it’s essential for our new silent meeting initiative—which, coincidentally, began right after I raised my concerns. Though I suspect it’s less about improving communication and more about ensuring whistleblowers can only blow silent whistles.