“You might as well just go for it. Whatever happens, you’ve got nothing to lose. It’s not like it will cost you anything”, they say. I am referring to the words of other people, when you find yourself once again procuring a job interview for a vacancy you now feel ambivalent towards. But don’t be fooled; their advice is little more than a flawed lie. Because other people talk rubbish. Fundamentally they must hate you. Or is it just me?
The interview I had been invited to attend was scheduled at quite short notice, so the chances of getting a cheap advance train booking had long passed. Bottom line it would be £60 each way; thus in its very cost exposing their first lie. Yet these other people continued with their fantastical blabbering.
“Why don’t you drive up the night before after work and stay in a Premier Inn?” they suggested, “You could spend a nice evening in Brighton – turn it in to a bit of a trip too. And then when you wake up, rather than having to make a long journey in the morning, fretting about hold-ups and finding the interview destination, you can relax, clear your head and have a casual stroll along the beach. “
It doesn’t seem like bad advice on paper, does it? It almost sounds practical. Well that’s what they want you to think. Haven’t I told you already? Other people talk rubbish. Because by the time I arrived (past 11pm, after getting lost for two hours trying to locate the damn Premier Inn in a pedestrian area via a car, with a sat nav determined to procure me several fines for driving in bus lanes), there was little time to explore Brighton. In fact there was precious little time to make it before last check-in. At least there was some sense of pleasure accrued from the relief of my eventual arrival. Something about booking into and waking up in hotel room all by myself gave me a peculiar sense of being an adult. Pathetic really. I am 32 years old.
In fairness, amongst all their lies, there was some solitary advice that these other people got right; I did wake up feeling refreshed. I had a leisurely lie in bed watching BBC Breakfast News a while, before showering, donning my best interview suit and pulling open the curtains to survey the beautiful bohemian seaside town before me. It was absolutely pissing down.
The interview wasn’t until 2.30pm and check out time for the hotel was 11am, so the intervening time was spent jogging from cafe to cafe, in order to avoid turning up at my interview looking like an elephant who’d walked through a car wash. Now I like coffee as much as the next man, but three and a half hours of solid coffee drinking would surely waiver anyone’s enthusiasm towards the beverage. Oddly enough, such level of caffeine consumption in solitary, brooding cafe environment doesn’t become particularly amenable to settling to one’s nerves either.
In fact by the time it was nearing 2.30, I was so wired with pinball anxiousness that I seriously considered bailing out and heading home. But something willed me on. Not sure what. I don’t think it was the desire for the job providing me with motivation anymore. More likely it was the thought of the petrol , hotel and inflated Brighton cafe costs going to waste whilst not even having any of the much-acclaimed ‘interview experience’ to show for it. Although I suspect such lauding of ‘interview experiences’ is yet another ill-fated advisory rhetoric of those “other people” I was telling you about earlier. Because minutes before heading over to my interview, I was forcefully obliged to relieve the heavy contents of my agitated, coffee-ridden bladder; which, I grant you, should be a fairly simple and mundane procedure; one which I performed to text-book perfection. I’ve never understood men who don’t bother washing their hands afterwards though. Through the performance of this ritual of hygiene, I believe myself to be in a courteous minority. Much to my own disservice. Because rather than the conventional and conveniently pressure-controllable dial-taps, these ones were those press-down sorts. The water pressure was far from shy. And I held my hands underneath the flow, inadvertently being in a position to direct the tap’s heavy geyser-like gush toward the general fly-hole and upper inner-thigh area of my suit trousers. I almost suspect these taps may have been some sort of elaborate joke set-up. Especially since there were no air dryers I could use to draw damage limitation from. Just one of those paper-towel dispensers containing some teal-green sheets which, after a slightly aggressive and desperate rub, provided little benefit beyond leaving a light, dusty residue to draw attention to any of the remaining moisture on my groinal area.
With damp, teal flecked trousers, I entered into my appointment with a panel of prospective employers. Predictably, the interview itself didn’t go all that well. Upon arrival I was asked if I would like a glass of water. I declined, mainly because I have a hang-up about putting people out. I feel awkward when people want to do things for me. I am the type of person who says ‘thank-you’ far more than is actually necessary. I can’t merely accept the altruist gestures of others. It makes me uncomfortable. I felt as though I should be asking the interview panel if I could fetch THEM a glass of water. But she pressed the issue further, saying that she’d fetch me one anyway, and I could always drink it should I became thirsty during the interview. This time I relented. To be honest, I was pleased the small plastic cup was insisted upon me. The levels of coffee I had consumed this morning had perversely made my mouth and throat all claggy and dry. I was oddly dehydrated. So thirsty in fact, that when she bought the cup over, I kind of forgot myself, contradicting my earlier protestations by taking an immediate massive swig from the vessel. The first question had been whether I wanted a glass of water, yet apparently I couldn’t even answer that one correctly. How was I going to fare with real when the real interview questions were fired at me?
The immediate realisation of my faux pas wrong-footed me and I was concerned that it would be a preface that would pretty much set the tone for the following 30 minutes. I needn’t have worried, as I found that my appointment had drawn to a premature conclusion by 3.50; which seemed quite surprising, having felt like I’d been in there at least four days. As I stood in the entrance hall of the building preparing to leave, I felt rather gutted to have spent a couple of hundred quid and a 350 mile round trip on what was effectively a bad interview. The briefness of my 20 minutes with the panel was evidence enough that things had not gone particularly well, and that it would be very unlikely I’d be the candidate filling their vacancy. But in their defence, how could they possibly have entrusted me with this new position? I had walked into that interview donning the appearance of a man who didn’t even know the appropriate times in which fluid should be entered and expelled from his own body!
Before stepping out the door, one of the staff members asked, “How did you get here all the way from Wolverhampton?”
“By car.” I replied.
“That’s a shame.” She said, “I should have told you before you came, we’re paying expenses on all train tickets”. For one final time, I had fallen foul of the suggestions of other people.
I was pleased I put myself through the process, but also disappointed with myself (and the shoddy advise of other people, obviously). I certainly can’t think of much worse torment than facing the indignity of failure. Well – aside from the prospect of being called for a 2nd interview of course.
