“What is your policy on concealed weaponry?”
I started out for Southampton at 5.30am on Wednesday. I’m a bit of a control freak so the thought of getting stuck on the Newbury Bad Road at rush hour didn’t really appeal to me and I’d been up since 4am anyway. It only took about two and a half hours at that time of day and I didn‘t get lost once, so I was a least an hour and a half early for the open day.
It was a glorious sunny morning, I had a flask of coffee, sandwiches (on rye), my knitting, a book and radio 4 for company so it wasn’t really a hardship. The piece about “How Green were the Nazis?” at around 8.20ish nearly made my mascara run. I phoned glove_puppet, as it was early evening for her and she told me to ask her usual interview questions: “What is your policy on concealed weaponry?” and “Can I keep sperm samples in the fridge?”
I then got to bimble around the fancy hotel in my “pretending to be a respectable member of your society “ suit, drinking herbal tea, reading the complementary papers and wondering if the apples on the table were for eating or decoration. I went to a presentation about living on Guernsey and spent about half an hour being pleasant and interested (read: sucking up) to the lady who was going to interview me later.
My interview was brought forward from 2pm to 11.30am, which thankfully, meant I didn’t have to wait around all morning. I found someone interesting to talk to while I waited and drank more tea. I told her glove_puppet’s joke about concealed weaponry but I don’t think she really got it, so I didn’t bother with the one about sperm. I felt the interview went swimmingly well, but then it’s always hard to tell. There weren’t as many people there as I’d imagined and there seemed to be plenty of jobs available so I’m quietly confident. I'll hear early next week.
On my way out of the hotel I‘d had enough of being a responsible adult and spotting the comedy revolving doors and no one about, I couldn‘t resist. I was very reserved and only went round once. As I came out the other side the concierge, in full Cinderella’s coachmen attire, popped his head around door he was holding open at the other end of the glass frontage.
“Can I help you ma’am?”
I gave him a cheeky grin, squeeked,
“I had to go through the revolving doors,”
and scuttled off towards the car park, snickering to myself.
Me in my “pretending to be a respectable member of your society “ suit.
Terrible picture but you get the idea (I don‘t really have a yellow face, btw).
I was in a super mood and as I’d finished at least two and a half hours early and the sun was still shining, I decided to treat myself to sandwiches on the beach. I drove down to Calshot, which looked on the map like somewhere that ought to have a beach and indeed it did, complete with pretty little multicoloured beach huts. I sat on the beach and ate the rest of my sandwiches, then I decided to take my socks and boots off and have a little paddle in my suit. Well, nobody knew me and it made my soul feel good.
Calshot Beach
By the time I got the map book out to start plotting how to get home, the adrenaline had worn off, I’d been awake for too long and I’d lost all power of rational thinking. Two out of three of the potential routes involved long stretches of motorway. That combined with the evening rush hour, made me question whether my eyes would be able to stay open or if the matchsticks would snap, so I decided to wind my way cross country through the Cotswolds. With hindsight, it may not have been the best of plans because by this point my short term memory had also escaped and I was unable to remember which towns I was supposed to be heading for, in which order. I did however get to do Birdlip via the scenic route just before sunset, which I haven’t done for far too long and which is always special. With regular stops for map checking and one stop for emergency amusing sign photography and pork chop buying at a farm shop, I eventually made it home. I ate some leftovers, then crashed into bed.
Glove_puppet didn’t know she had her own special crossing points.