Only 20 CEOs of the world’s Fortune 500 companies tweet according to FastCompany.com, yet a new report from the McKinseyGlobal Institute ‘The social economy: Unlocking value and productivity through social technologies’ suggests of the 4,200 companies analysed, social technologies stand to unlock between $900 billion to $1.3 trillion in value.

Being technologically savvy is pretty critical to maintaining our employability at work. I still feel like I’m 21, and thought I was quite ‘connected’, yet there have been a few instances recently that have made me question my ability to keep on top of things and therefore keep my thinking and my approach fresh. One event in question was a friend asking on Facebook how to find the hashtag on her keyboard. I said I don’t even know what a hashtag is. Another friend of hers replied (to me) #Imaybeoldbutyouareolder. A Twitter insult no less. It made me realise I am so in the dark about social media yet maybe people are tweeting critical insights in my field and I’m missing them? Even Buckingham Palace tweets. I’m not tweeting, or being tweeted at.

But should you tweet? Should you be an avid social technology user as a business person?

I’ve started asking individual clients – the very successful ones naturally – what they get up to by way of social media. You’ll be pleased to hear that, unless they work in media and entertainment, generally they’re avoiding exposing their good selves on Twitter. They lack both the time and the inclination to do the job properly on public forums and attach their names so openly to it – and frankly as with most of us lack the sharp wit and humour to do an interesting job. They’re typically on LinkedIn, the choice du jour for touting your wares and being headhunted. All however check out prospective job candidates with basic google searches. That raucous hen night kissing a policeman photo? It will come back to haunt you in the form of a withdrawn offer, confirmed by CareerBuilder’s research into 2,300 HR professionals.

It’s worth keeping in mind the variety of ways it can backfire, though even this depends on perspective. In the UK recently Waitrose, the supermarket chain, challenged shoppers to “finish the sentence: ‘I shop at Waitrose because …’ #WaitroseReasons“. Basically this opened the floodgates for ridicule of the shop’s posh image. Tweets posted included: “I shop at Waitrose because it makes me feel important and I absolutely detest being surrounded by poor people”, “I also shop at Waitrose because I was once in the Holloway Road branch and heard a dad say ‘Put the papaya down, Orlando!'”

In the end Waitrose tweeted: “Thanks for all the genuine and funny #WaitroseReasons tweets. We always like to hear what you think and enjoyed reading most of them.”

The jury is still out – a PR coup or a bit of a damp squib? At the very minimum a salutary lesson around what can happen and why you need to proceed with caution.

Gradually I amuse myself, slowly building up a list of stock phrases. The excitement builds with each utterance of a cliché. Will it be on my hastily crafted bullshit bingo? How should I reward myself? Once the game peaks how will I be able to contain myself? I pull myself together and ask a few sensible questions, staring intently at the curves of his mouth, and the way he chews occasionally on a small flap of skin on his lip.

“So Bob, what do the T and the W of your scrabble cufflinks stand for?” My mind whirrs… not surname linked. Maybe his children’s names? I have to know.

“Think win-win. One of Covey’s”.  Bingo. I must stop. Surely he can see I’m excited now? I even jumped slightly, yet this loss of self-control is so unprofessional. My inner child is doing the merengue with some salsa moves. I even want to ruffle my fingers through his decadent, untidy hair, but I’d only receive an official complaint.

I consider using this opportunity to share his psychometric scores. Nothing else is working. I sit on my seat and gingerly extract the results from my folder, turning it over and over in my hands. The atmosphere changes. He knows something is not right yet retains a glint of superiority. Only I know he has scored in the low average in his reasoning test. Yet it makes sense. The bravado, the swagger, the cliché but the lack of rich thinking and insight.

“If you had to compare yourself to your peers and senior managers, how quick do you think you are on the uptake? Quick, incisive, maybe too fast for others? Somewhere in the middle? Or reliant on instinct, experience but a little cautious perhaps even slow with the unfamiliar”. My inner child is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot. Will he admit to needing to reflect? To being functionally siloed in approach? To needing his newly hired exMckinsey strategist to do the thinking and create the models for him? The evidence is there – we’ve discussed as much.

“Much faster. I have no problems”.

Oh my.. I didn’t know it would feel like this… didn’t know it could feel as good as this… My thoughts are scattering …. There’s only schadenfreude….  only him…. only me….  oh please… I stiffen. I must help him.

His lips are parted. He’s waiting, coiled to strike. Hunger  – acute, liquid and smouldering, combusts deep in my belly. There is a loud rumble. Holy hell this is embarrassing, and to think we are on the cusp of some insight.

“You’ve got a real taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Smith? You’ve become unappeasable in your questioning” he mutters

“I’ve only got a taste for getting to the nub of issues Bob. I need to share your actual result with you.”

He visibly sinks as the score is revealed. My inner child skulks into the corner, no more inner salsa moves.

“I’m tired today – I’m sure this is wrong.”

“But didn’t you say you failed your maths GCSE ? It’s not an inconsistent score with your academics. The important part is knowing where you sit and how you use your intellect, not the score.”

“Never mind me, I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His eyes are alight with the potential distraction. Double crap. Where’s he going with this?

“Really the focus here needs to be on you Bob.”

“What other services do you offer? I have a few team members I could use some help with. They’d enjoy this.”

I squirm, thrown by the offer that would clearly help me hit my sales target. But this is off piste. It’s not the time to do business development.

“I think that’s another conversation, Bob. I just need to focus on you right now.”

“I have a budget of £50,000,” he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is this a bribe?

“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I mutter, annoyed.

His gaze is intense, all humour gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What’s going on? I have to go—now.

“I think it’s time we finished. I need you to reflect on the questions I’ve asked to day ahead of our next session and what they indicate about your self-insight”.

We leave the room. My PA leaps up and retrieves his jacket, which Bob takes from her before she can help him with it. The finger he’s been using to rub his spot presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting—awkwardly on my part given I’ve just seen the biro on my cheek, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in, desperate to get out for some food. I really need to get out of here. We collide and become wedged in the door. When I turn to look at him, he’s laughing. I get out and let my client leave. He really has very, very bad taste in shirts. It’s unnerving.

“Miss Smith,” he says as a farewell.

“Bob,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.

“Mr. Green is for you at reception, Miss Smith.” Receptionist Number Three says. Is it even legal to make executive assistants cover reception I muse to myself. Gathering up my notebook, I abandon my mug of coffee, a fine triple shot latte, and make my way to the ground floor. I wipe my mouth to make sure there are no biscuit crumbs remaining.

I ask him to come to my office. As I open the door I trip over the bin. Such a clutz! Why did I leave it there? Suddenly two large hands are round my waist helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed. He must have felt the ribs of my support underwear. I look up and see a snigger cross his face. To be fair it looks bad.

“Miss Smith.” He extends his hand to me once I’m upright, knowing that in this power struggle he is already ahead of the game. “I’m Mr Green. Call me Bob please. I’m hoping you can shed more light on today’s session” I don’t know why but I shudder. Maybe it’s the cold room, or the effect of the coffee suddenly gripping me.

So middle aged – and yet his CV says he did GCSEs. He’s of medium height, with pointed Europhile shoes and a stripy shirt. I lose myself in his scrabble cufflinks. It takes a moment for me to compose my thoughts.

“Um. Of course—” I mutter. This is what living in the suburbs does to you. Gathering myself, we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel myself recoil as I feel his moist palms. I withdraw mine hastily, slightly disgusted. Must remain open-minded. There is so much more to a person than their handshake and shoes.

“I have some questions, Mr. Green…. Sorry .. Bob.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear, drawing down the left side of my cheek with my biro, a mistake I am not to pick up on until later. “I thought you might,” he says, defensively. I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating, though realise my skirt has ridden up past mid thigh and is probably ruining it all by flashing my knickers. I start taking notes and try to look professional. Why does he stare so intently at my face?

“Have you done much development in the past, and if so what would you like to get out of today?” I look up at him. He looks vaguely confused. First basic question and he’s stumped.

“Success is all about developing yourself, Miss Smith, and I’m very good at judging myself and others. I know what makes me tick, how to engage and motivate others. My team think I’m a great leader.” He pauses triumphantly.

“How do you know? Have you asked.” This isn’t on my list—but he’s so arrogant. His nostrils flare momentarily in anger.

“I don’t need to ask, Miss Smith. I can tell. I think it was Zig Ziglar who said, “People often say that motivation doesn’t last. Well, neither does bathing – that’s why we recommend it daily”.

“You sound like a narcissist.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Anyway, what would you like to get out of today?”

“Of course it’s always interesting spending time on one’s own development needs,” he says without missing a beat. I look at him, bored already as he wheels out more predictable bland commentary and only in the first five minutes. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again. Damn that coffee.

Why is this so difficult? The way he stares at my cheek? The way he strokes his index finger against a ripening spot on his jaw? I wish he’d stop doing that. God it’s annoying.

“So what do you think you need to develop?”

“Everyone needs to develop yet we all need to align that with a healthy self-concept. I focus on managing my strengths,” he continues, his voice slightly high-pitched. The pressure is on.

“Do you feel you have many over-played strengths?” Narcissist.

“I have a team of over 12 people, Miss Smith. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to decide to go on holiday that’s 12 people who would struggle for two weeks not knowing what to do.”

My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of basic delegation skills.

Next week: Part 2, in which Miss Smith starts to realise there is more to Mr Green than poor managerial skills