The Interview
Today was the day of my job interview.
Making my way to the interview in the middle of absolutely no-where in the outer Suburbia of Norbiton I notice a single black shoe left abandoned on the steps of London Bridge Station. I take this as a bad sign, my metaphorical 'big black dog'. Size eleven.
I arrive an early hour and proceed to consume an entire plantation of the Congolese coffea plant, from which drink is derived. Gulping down hector after hector I eventually head on over to the job interview site, to loiter nervously outside with my hands in my pockets like a sex offender in a school car park on the last day of term.
It starts. My hands, now secreting an epic amount of sweat, dart out in all directions as I try and emphasize an obscure point about 'team work'. My left hand shoots out, as if of its own initiative, to the left and lingers uncomfortably in the air. I am given a look. I suddenly realize that I resemble an epileptic Woody Allen in the midst of an 'episode'.
I realize i've lost them when my shocking lack of knowledge about what the role i'm applying for actually entails becomes readily apparent (I stupidly ask "what do you expect from me?"). I have by this time, reached the point of no return. I clench my fists and lock my jaw. I consider actually fleeing mid-interview to the nicotine stained comfort of the local Esso petrol station. My interviewer takes pity on me and brings proceedings to an end.
Leaving, I gush about how lovely it had been to meet them with all the mock enthusiasm of a customer in a hair-dressers being asked "what do you think?" before leaving looking like Kenny Dalglish. The clear descrepency between the apparent reality and the intended meaning of the words that I find myself uttering becomes too much for the interviewer and she starts to laugh when I trill that I we will "speak soon!". Her final parting shot, simple but effective: "I really hope it doesn't take you long to get home after this".
Making my way to the interview in the middle of absolutely no-where in the outer Suburbia of Norbiton I notice a single black shoe left abandoned on the steps of London Bridge Station. I take this as a bad sign, my metaphorical 'big black dog'. Size eleven.
I arrive an early hour and proceed to consume an entire plantation of the Congolese coffea plant, from which drink is derived. Gulping down hector after hector I eventually head on over to the job interview site, to loiter nervously outside with my hands in my pockets like a sex offender in a school car park on the last day of term.
It starts. My hands, now secreting an epic amount of sweat, dart out in all directions as I try and emphasize an obscure point about 'team work'. My left hand shoots out, as if of its own initiative, to the left and lingers uncomfortably in the air. I am given a look. I suddenly realize that I resemble an epileptic Woody Allen in the midst of an 'episode'.
I realize i've lost them when my shocking lack of knowledge about what the role i'm applying for actually entails becomes readily apparent (I stupidly ask "what do you expect from me?"). I have by this time, reached the point of no return. I clench my fists and lock my jaw. I consider actually fleeing mid-interview to the nicotine stained comfort of the local Esso petrol station. My interviewer takes pity on me and brings proceedings to an end.
Leaving, I gush about how lovely it had been to meet them with all the mock enthusiasm of a customer in a hair-dressers being asked "what do you think?" before leaving looking like Kenny Dalglish. The clear descrepency between the apparent reality and the intended meaning of the words that I find myself uttering becomes too much for the interviewer and she starts to laugh when I trill that I we will "speak soon!". Her final parting shot, simple but effective: "I really hope it doesn't take you long to get home after this".