Booked Until March

Dear friend,

The riddle first, as ever. Your century today, and the whole letter turns on how a man says a single sentence about March.

Two firms are booked till after Lent,
Same six weeks' wait, same time is spent.
One says it low, and half apologises,
One says it plain, and names the date.
Same caller hears the selfsame news.
Why did one stay, and one refuse?

Hold your answer. Story time.

The Story

Two firms in the same trade, and the work, all together now, was equally good. Both were properly busy that spring, and both had about six weeks of work in front of them when the same sort of enquiry arrived.

The first was embarrassed by his own diary. He heard the request, winced audibly, and said he was so sorry but he could not get to it until the middle of March, and he knew that was hopeless, and he would try to bring it forward if he possibly could.

Consider what the caller learned in those eleven seconds. That the wait was a problem, since the man selling it had said so. That March was a disappointment rather than a date. And that the arrangement might change if she pushed, which invites pushing, and turns a plain fact into a negotiation about who deserves the earlier slot.

She rang somebody else, and the man's apology had done all the work of losing her, since the six weeks alone would not have.

And when he did squeeze people forward, which he often did out of the same discomfort, he took the time out of customers who had waited politely and been promised a day, which is the Friday problem arriving by a different door.

The second firm said it plainly and without a shred of apology in the voice. I am booked into the middle of March. I can give you the seventeenth, and I will hold it if you would like it. If something frees up sooner I keep a short list and I will ring you.

Three things happened in that sentence that did not happen in the other.

The wait became information rather than a fault, and a fact stated calmly is not argued with. It became evidence, since a person who cannot start until March is a person other people have chosen, and a caller with no other way to judge you reads a full diary as a recommendation. And it became a decision she could make, with a date attached, rather than a vague hope she would have to manage.

She took the seventeenth. Some callers did not, and said so pleasantly, and one of them came back in the autumn because she had remembered him as the one who was busy.

The short list did the rest of the work. When a job finished early he rang down it, and offered the gap, and the person who took it was delighted rather than merely served, because she had been given something scarce rather than sold something ordinary.

The Lesson, Since You've Earned It

A wait is not a defect. It becomes one at the moment you apologise for it. The customer has no independent view of whether six weeks is long: she takes her reading from your voice, and if you present it as a failing she will accept your assessment and act on it. Present it as a fact with a date attached and she will do what people do with facts, which is decide.

And there is more in it than the avoidance of harm, since a full diary is the only piece of evidence about your work that a stranger can verify without knowing anything about your trade. She cannot judge your craft, your prices or your reliability. She can see that other people have already chosen you, which is why the busy man is quietly persuasive and the man with immediate availability has some explaining to do.

So say it plainly, name the date, hold it, and keep the short list for cancellations. That last piece is the part almost nobody bothers with, and it converts a fortnight of dead time into work while turning the customer who takes it into somebody who has been done a favour.

Two cautions, both of which decide whether this is honest. The wait must be real, since an invented scarcity is discovered eventually and takes your guarantee and your testimonials down with it, as the letter on writing what you would read at home set out. And do not squeeze people in out of discomfort, since every jumped queue is taken from somebody who behaved properly, and the trade you gain that way is bought with the trade you already have.

Three questions, and listen to yourself before you answer:

1. How do you say your lead time aloud? Say it now, as you would to a caller. If it contains sorry, only, or afraid, you have taught the customer to treat it as a problem, and she will.
2. Do you offer a date or a delay? A delay is something to be endured and a date is something to be booked. Name the day, hold it, and put it in writing the same afternoon.
3. Have you a short list? Half a dozen names who would take a gap at short notice. Without one, every cancellation is a hole in your month rather than a favour you get to hand somebody.

The Answer to the Riddle

Why did one caller refuse?

Because she was told, by the man himself, that his own diary was a disappointment. The six weeks were identical in both firms and only one of them was described as a failing, and she took the description on trust, as anybody would. His rival named the seventeenth, held it, and let the fullness of his book say the thing about his work that no advertisement can say without sounding like boasting.

The verse:

Say sorry for the wait, and lose them,
For sorry says the wait is wrong.
Say March, say hold it, say you'll ring,
And busy does the selling for you.

Until next time. Go and rewrite the sentence you say about your lead time, remove every apology from it, and start keeping a short list.

P.S. This is also the cheapest test of your prices you will ever run. A diary full six weeks ahead at every enquiry is not a triumph of popularity; it is usually a sign that you are a little cheap, and the queue is the market telling you so in the politest available manner.

Also in the archive: The Draper's Three Days, By Friday, Please and The Bell on the Far Bank.