The Chymical Mix

For many years now, I have suffered from Pedigree pet food syndrome. I discovered it many years ago, and in the grand tradition of such things, as the discoverer, I named it. My discovery was made while I was reading about Pedigree pet foods, hence the eponymic nature of the syndrome.

I was working as a research assistant in the medical physics department of Leeds University, and was approaching the end of my contract. Idly flicking through the New Scientist jobs section, I saw the advert for a scientist to work on the development of pet foods. The advert was smart, authoritative, serious in tone and aimed at the career scientist, one with the potential to be a project leader. This is all very good, and, as a trained scientist, any opportunity to apply scientific principles to further knowledge and the greater good of society is of course to be encouraged. But seriously, developing pet food?! I thought about applying for about 22 seconds – after all, the salary was very attractive – then I burst out laughing. There was no way I could take that job seriously, and that, in a nutshell, is Pedigree pet food syndrome. It is the comical reaction to a job that really should not be taken seriously, but is deadly serious.

Of course, Pedigree pet food syndrome is caused by different job types, depending on your individual outlook on life. Also, I have the utmost respect for anyone who is doing such a job, not least for keeping a straight face in all the project meetings. I actually met someone in a Pedigree pet food job while I was attending my SERC graduate school, as part of my PhD studies. He was nicknamed “the Fairy man” at work, because he was the product manager at Procter and Gamble for Fairy liquid. All that training and learning, to end up making washing-up liquid. I know that there is much more to it than we might initially think, but I would last about 3 days before being summarily dismissed for lack of gravitas in the role.

Of course, by great irony, I have ended up in a faux-Pedigree pet food career. I am a technical author, and nobody reads my work. Even I don’t always immediately fire up a help file if I ever get stuck with some complex piece of software. My daughter often reminds me that I dented her music stand when I first set it up, because I did not read the instructions first. You get the drift. That new gizmo comes out of the box and you push the buttons, hoping that it will do something useful. The carefully crafted prose and illustrations are discarded carelessly onto the floor. Of course, now that they are wordless, have “intuitive” illustrations and are meant to be comprehended by every country, I don’t blame you. So, anyone can ask me what I do, and when I tell them, they laugh, and say, “What sort of a job is that, writing something that noone will ever read.”

“Pedigree pet foods,” I say.