These days there’s not a lot of call for plain talking. So I actively practice my ‘exec-speak’.
I make sure low hanging fruit gets cherry picked when deep diving and blue skying outside the box. I don’t get on my high horse or try to flog it when it’s dead like a bull in a china shop; and I certainly don’t look it in the mouth in case it tries to bite the hand that feeds it.
I try to push the envelope with my wheels in motion, and my plates spinning as I get the inside track on the ground floor with my irons in the fire and my ducks in a row, they’re certainly hatched so I’ll be counting them, but in more than one basket, if you catch my drift?
Adept at the full court press, I come out swinging, with the gloves off and my fingers in the pies. When it’s the bottom of the ninth and you’re on a sticky wicket, about to strike out or hit for six, I’m not going to be pulling any punches or throwing towels in.
There’s an elephant in the room but I know how to eat it. If you need a shark who can roll up his sleeves like a fox rather than an ostrich, who fights his corner and gets a hole in one before it all goes to the dogs, then this lone wolf is your 800lb gorilla.
So reach out soon, and we can take this offline. After all, throwing the baby out with the stones in a glass house won’t gather much moss. You have to make sure it washes its face before you cut its nose off. I’m not one to walk on eggshells like everything is peaches and gravy, but I will make lemonade.
I’m green lighting this grey area before we all see red.
At the end of the day, it’s not my first rodeo.