shares in a competitor - that way if your employer goes bust you don't lose your savings as well. Still, we were getting a very healthy fee from Crest for setting up their scheme, so who am I to knock it?
Crest Electronics is one of the Scottish new wave companies, non-union, full of earnest young men and women grateful to have a job and keen to work long and hard for the good of the firm. They'd have been right at home in Japan, in fact it was the land of the rising yen that had saved many of them from the dole queue. The Japanese had set up a few assembly plants in Scotland along with their American counterparts, and before long they'd created the socalled Silicon Glen, and anybody who was anybody, Motorola, IBM, National Semiconductor, had to be represented north of the border. Soon the big boys were investing 50 ~
millions in wafer fabrication facilities to churn out tailormade silicon chips, and there was a golden opportunity for local entrepreneurs to get in on the act, supplying services and components.
But unlike Aberdeen, where the locals were quick to make a killing by ripping off the oil industry, the Scots were slow to exploit the sunrise industries, with one or two notable exceptions.
Crest is one of those exceptions, manufacturing things like circuit boards and electronic bits and bobs that I couldn't begin to understand. Profits had risen through the roof and they'd be going public before long, assuming the bubble didn't burst.
They wanted to share their good fortune with the workforce and Scottish Corporate Advisors was more than pleased to help.
There were a few minor creases to be ironed out, and they'd wanted to redo their profit forecasts in the light of a pick-up in advance orders, but they left after an hour and a half eager to tell the workers the good news at the next daily industrial liaison discussion circle, or maybe they'd interrupt the lunchtime aerobics class. Whatever, our five-figure fee would be in the post.
'You didn't really need me today,' I told Shona as she drove me to the airport.
'Don't you believe it,' she said. 'They aren't the only clients who are getting edgy because you're not around. We're not a one-man band, we're a team. When we bill them it's on the basis that they're getting both of us, our combined experience and skills, not just mine. Your 51 presence convinces them that they're getting their money's worth.' The voice hardened, it had an edge that I didn't like, I'd heard her use it on bolshy carpark attendants and unhelpful shop assistants. On a good day she could use it to slice cheese. 'Let's be honest, you're not pulling your weight. For the moment I can handle it, but not for much longer.'
Message received, Shona, loud and clear, don't rub it in. 'I'll be back soon, I promise. Three weeks maximum. Cross my heart.'
She nodded curtly and didn't say another word until she dropped me at the airport and kissed me on the cheek. 'Be careful,' was all she said before driving off. At least she didn't say 'Don't go.'
The first time I met Tony Walker was more of a head-on collision than a meeting. We were both after a small meat processing firm in Paisley, outside Glasgow. It did little more than take in ecarcases at one end and throw out plasticpackaged joints and chops at the other. It had been a family-run business for years but the directors were a far cry from the nineteenth-century founders.
They all drew very high salaries, ridiculously high in view of the dwindling sales and non-existent profits. They drove around in brand new BMWs, except for the old man of the firm who kept the chairman's title, salary and Rolls.
In its heyday Young's Meat Processing pie was a gold mine, and during the sixties it had gone public with investors desperate to buy shares. Things started to go wrong some fifteen years later, and by the time Tony and I were interested it was on the slippery slope to liquidation while 52 the family swanned around in their flash cars and spent more
Crest Electronics is one of the Scottish new wave companies, non-union, full of earnest young men and women grateful to have a job and keen to work long and hard for the good of the firm. They'd have been right at home in Japan, in fact it was the land of the rising yen that had saved many of them from the dole queue. The Japanese had set up a few assembly plants in Scotland along with their American counterparts, and before long they'd created the socalled Silicon Glen, and anybody who was anybody, Motorola, IBM, National Semiconductor, had to be represented north of the border. Soon the big boys were investing 50 ~
millions in wafer fabrication facilities to churn out tailormade silicon chips, and there was a golden opportunity for local entrepreneurs to get in on the act, supplying services and components.
But unlike Aberdeen, where the locals were quick to make a killing by ripping off the oil industry, the Scots were slow to exploit the sunrise industries, with one or two notable exceptions.
Crest is one of those exceptions, manufacturing things like circuit boards and electronic bits and bobs that I couldn't begin to understand. Profits had risen through the roof and they'd be going public before long, assuming the bubble didn't burst.
They wanted to share their good fortune with the workforce and Scottish Corporate Advisors was more than pleased to help.
There were a few minor creases to be ironed out, and they'd wanted to redo their profit forecasts in the light of a pick-up in advance orders, but they left after an hour and a half eager to tell the workers the good news at the next daily industrial liaison discussion circle, or maybe they'd interrupt the lunchtime aerobics class. Whatever, our five-figure fee would be in the post.
'You didn't really need me today,' I told Shona as she drove me to the airport.
'Don't you believe it,' she said. 'They aren't the only clients who are getting edgy because you're not around. We're not a one-man band, we're a team. When we bill them it's on the basis that they're getting both of us, our combined experience and skills, not just mine. Your 51 presence convinces them that they're getting their money's worth.' The voice hardened, it had an edge that I didn't like, I'd heard her use it on bolshy carpark attendants and unhelpful shop assistants. On a good day she could use it to slice cheese. 'Let's be honest, you're not pulling your weight. For the moment I can handle it, but not for much longer.'
Message received, Shona, loud and clear, don't rub it in. 'I'll be back soon, I promise. Three weeks maximum. Cross my heart.'
She nodded curtly and didn't say another word until she dropped me at the airport and kissed me on the cheek. 'Be careful,' was all she said before driving off. At least she didn't say 'Don't go.'
The first time I met Tony Walker was more of a head-on collision than a meeting. We were both after a small meat processing firm in Paisley, outside Glasgow. It did little more than take in ecarcases at one end and throw out plasticpackaged joints and chops at the other. It had been a family-run business for years but the directors were a far cry from the nineteenth-century founders.
They all drew very high salaries, ridiculously high in view of the dwindling sales and non-existent profits. They drove around in brand new BMWs, except for the old man of the firm who kept the chairman's title, salary and Rolls.
In its heyday Young's Meat Processing pie was a gold mine, and during the sixties it had gone public with investors desperate to buy shares. Things started to go wrong some fifteen years later, and by the time Tony and I were interested it was on the slippery slope to liquidation while 52 the family swanned around in their flash cars and spent more
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