Despite my social skills normally hitting somewhere around the 'lame' to 'retarded' mark, I love interviews. You get to sit in a room and talk about how awesome you are for an hour or so. Normally you have to pay someone to provide a service like that, but with interviews it's free! And what's more, it's kind of expected you're going to big yourself up so you have free reign to really lay your awesomeness on thick. I like to pretend to be this dynamic young go-getter who drops corporate-speak into conversation as easily as Britney Spears drops babies. I'm cool, I'm calm, I'm collected. I'm the diametrically opposed version of myself in everyday life. It's like playing dress-up.
But then, THEN, I went and had an interview at a certain County Council today and all my joy at partaking in interviews has been sucked out. Maybe forever.
I arrived on the dot of 11.26. This is about 20 minutes later than I would normally turn up for an interview (I freak the fuck out if I'm not early for everything. It's called 'being a control freak' and will probably contribute to an old age plagued with heart problems... the smoking, all-round-chubbiness, and no exercise might help with that too). This is after having been blown to bits thanks to the ever-so-slightly breezy weather conditions and left with a hairstyle resembling Amy Winehouse on a bad day (relative to her). The signing in process went all quite smoothly although I started to wonder if I'd overdressed a tad as everyone else appeared to be in tee-shirts and mildly-jazzy neck scarfs and I was in my 'I look and feel like a goon but at least I'm wearing a suit' suit. I had been pre-warned in my letter that there would be a one hour exam. 'Oh snap, there's no way I won't rock the fuck out of that shit' I thought somewhat naively (and arrogantly). 'My mad exam skills will see me through anything', figuring that maybe I'd have to read through some examples of the sort of problems I might encounter in the job and then have to apply some super-badass mojo to fix it. Again, bullshitting is one of the few talents I possess that actually does come in handy once in a while (my other 'talents' of procrastinating and sitting down whilst judging people is less marketable in the current business climate). But, no. They wanted me to DO WORK. Like, actual work that I might be asked to do in the job. This is something I'm less able to cope with. Not that I'm a bad employee but I learn by asking questions and being all annoying to whoever is training me. Not by being stuck in a room on my lonesome and having to emerge 60 minutes later with a handful of graphs depicting fuck knows what and a flow chart all about the process of obtaining planning permission.
For the first five minutes I had trouble reading the words and was overwhelmed with an urge to run very far and very fast away from the building and go chain smoke on a park bench somewhere instead. I'm much more comfortable doing that than being shown up as having no right in being given an interview for a job which I obviously know I am no way near qualified for. However, I persevered and then (what felt like) ten minutes later the very lovely-and-obviously-bordering-on-having-a-mental-disorder lady that was tasked with showing me into the office popped her head round and said in a much too jolly way 'Time's Up!'.
I was about two-thirds of the way through the most impossible assignment I've ever been asked to do (to the point that I'm actually wondering if they were just trying to mind-fuck us before the interview to see how we cope under pressure... but then this is LOCAL government we're talking about and not MI5) and was this (*indicates tiny amount*) close to asking for more time but by this point I'd pretty much decided that, to paraphrase George McFly, this job was not my 'density' so figured I might as well get the treat of running through my 'seriously, I'm fucking awesome' speech in the actual interview. The only problem being of course that they now had physical proof that I am in fact a complete wastrel.
At this point I feel I should point out that, even before all this, I probably should have been aware that the job wouldn't be a good fit for me when, well firstly, I didn't quite understand the job description one-hundred per cent. That might have been our first clue. Perhaps. But also, we were required to fill in a medical form which had the AUDACITY to ask 'Have you ever taken any drug for reasons other than medicinal?' I obviously ticked 'no' (as I'm not a complete imbecile) whilst smirking knowingly to myself (because I like to pretend I live inside a tv show at times and figured camera 4 would pick up on the irony). But COME ON! whose business is it of yours 'The Man'? I'm not a skag-hag or a crack-whore if that's what you want to know but other than that... Fuck off. Anyway, depends on what your definition of 'medicinal' is doesn't it? I won't start my soapboxing on the drug laws in this country but the idea that they even have the right to ask that makes me want to punch holes in walls. I even had to provide my average weekly intake of alcohol and tobacco. Am I going to coming into work drunk? No. Am I going to come into work hungover occasionally? Possibly. Am I going to reek of fags all day long? No. Am I giving myself a slow yet assured death due to my smoking addiction? Possibly. But, to be honest, it's got nowt to do with you (or you, or you, maybe you) so leave me alone to destroy myself if I so choose. As long as I guarantee to turn up for work and do the job your concern ends there mmmkay?
So there was all that running through the back of my mind anyway... and then I met the interviewer.
Good.
Grief.
Occasionally men around the 50 mark seem to get a bit 'familiar' with me. I have no idea why; I have Molly Ringwald hair, a nose stud, and I collect Moomin memorabilia. I have nothing in common with a white haired aging hipster (although I do really enjoy air-drumming to the first 3 minutes 24 seconds of 'Heart of the Sunrise' by Yes... but I also have generous-sized breasts and a fair amount of junk in the trunk which may have more to do with it). When I was planning on doing my masters in Guildford we were shown round a house by a man called 'Frank' who had no sense of humour, a cowboy-themed mobile ringtone, and a rather disturbing habit of staring at me incredibly intently when he spoke (even when it was Chloe asking the questions he would still direct his answers at me). Frank really really creeped me out.
The interviewer, almost immediately, reminded me of Frank.
I got up to shake his hand and we had this weird fumbly moment where our hands wouldn't quite get into the right 'handshaking' positions. I'm not entirely convinced Mr CreepyInterviewer wasn't just trying to find ways of holding my hand for longer than is comfortable.
I was then shown into a room where (thank Christ) there sat a pleasantly plump looking chap who must have been about 35. With introductions out of the way the interview FINALLY started. I was confident and relaxed and chatty (mostly because by this point I didn't care). The only moment I was thrown slightly when I caught Mr PleasantlyPlump smiling to himself as he looked upon Mr CreepyInterviewer giving me the eye (or 'sex look' to coin my latest phrase) whilst asking about my 'best attributes'. But I did manage to make them both laugh a bit (Creepy more than Plumpy admittedly) and think I made a good impression overall. But no, I don't know what SQL or GBT, or whatever bizarre acronyms they were asking me about actually mean. Yes, I did start to drift off when Mr Creepy was telling me more about the role (God damn my unable-to-concentrate-even-for-a-second-on-shit-that-I-have-no-practical-interest-in brain). These are probably more important in whether I will be considered for the role than whether Mr Creepy thinks I have a nice rack and Mr Plumpy finds me mildly amusing when I'm being all self-deprecating about my obsessive list-making tendencies. And thus endeth the interview. Although first I had to endure the most uncomfortable five seconds of my entire life and ride down in a lift with Mr Creepy:
'Shall we take the lift?'
['NO NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NO' ] 'I'm happy taking the stairs!' ['Forced cheerfulness makes me puke when other people do it Mr Creepy, don't make me be someone I hate']
'Oh, I'm feeling lazy today, let's get the lift'
['IT'S THREE FLIGHTS YOU POTENTIAL DATE RAPIST'] 'Ok!'
Needless to say, I emerged unharmed. Thankfully. (Although awkward social experiences do affect me more than most so we have yet to see if there has been any lasting psychological damage inflicted).
However, the best thing about it all? The fact that I was getting interview experience, or that I managed to overcome my very real and irresistible urge to run as fast as I could and stuck it out, or I didn't get raped? No. The best thing was that as I got out of the building my first thought was 'That'll make a really good blog post'. God, I'm cool.
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