The ticket to promotion.

There’s a lovely spa hotel, on the south coast of south-east England near LittleHampton, that sits behind a pebbly beach, separated by a thin barrier of trees, nettles and undergrowth, where Mrs C and I often visit if we’re feeling a bit ‘flush‘ and in need of a pamper.

The hotel is called Bailiffs Court but the beach is called Climping beach. Both Mrs C and I used to visit the beach with our families when we were children (not together obviously) like many young families continue to do. Typically English, not particularly glam, awkwardly stoney, with those slime-covered tide breakers spaced across the sands; but when the tide is out and the sun is shining it’s spectacular.

If you get up early enough you’ll often see horseback riders galloping through the gentle surf.

In the summer months the car park is rammed, there are campers squashed in to small grassy enclaves with portable service-station BBQs, dogs chasing waves and there is a small kiosk that sells ice creams, warm Coke (Cola) and arm-bands.

This random car park always reminds me of a story, a story that is something of an urban myth, but that is amusing nonetheless*. It goes something like this:

Years ago there was a man, let’s call him Ted, who collected the parking fees for all the hundreds of cars that came for the day, day in day out, year after year, over the summer. This was before automated pay machines, apps or even barriers and kiosks.

Ted was well liked with a cheery disposition and a leathery tan, a regular fixture every year, taking the £2.50 parking fee and issuing a ticket that you displayed on the dashboard.

(I mention this for any Gen Z readers, as it might seem ludicrously archaic as a system)

Anyway, one summer, a few years back Ted was no where to be seen. No one was taking the parking fee.

So a concerned holiday-maker contacted the local council to find out if Ted was ok, had he retired, or worse?

“Yes, I am calling to find out about Ted at the Climping beach car park, has he retired?”

“At which car park?”

“Climping Beach”

“Who do you say?”

“Ted, the man who takes the parking fee, at Climping Beach…for the last twenty five years!”

“Er…I’m sorry we have no record of anyone authorised to take parking fees at Climping, that’s a free car park and always has been”.

Which brings me to the point of this story.

You can do all the training and fill in all the applications and conclude you ‘deserve’ a promotion at your next review, but the easiest way for a boss to tell if you are right for that step up is if you are already stepping up.

Take a look at what other people at that level are doing. Start having an opinion, start organising stuff. Start taking care of things.

‘Leave that to me’ is every Creative Directors favourite thing to hear.

Of course, doing some nice work along the way doesn’t hurt and not every creative cares about promotion, or indeed money. And that’s fine too.

But if you’re ambitious, get yourself a leather pouch and a roll of tickets and start taking £2.50 for a day’s parking fee.

And who knows, one day you might be on that tropical beach, sipping cocktails with Ted.

Send him my regards.

*This story is somewhat of an urban myth but was originally thought to be about Bristol Zoo car parking but I have ‘re-purposed’ it for my own evil use. Typical bloody adman.