I glance at the clock on the town hall: 8 minutes to go...
Deciding that it is now not too early to go in for your first job interview, I round the corner into sight of my destiny. Destiny as in weekend job for the next year and a bit. So not really destiny at all in fact. Nope. The oaf continues:
I have somehow managed to land myself a job interview at the local Museum. Striding up the main steps, I have to dodge hoards of tourist returning to their cramped, smelly and dangerously seat belt lacking coaches. How I pitied the fools.
Now however, I wish they would pity me. I am staring straight into the barrel of an overloaded shot gun, with the museum manager idly stroking the trigger.I swallow my spit and tears, and push forwards against the side entrance, the one leading to the offices of doom.
"Hullo, erm, I'm here for a job interview," I mumble at the security officer. I wished he would do a search and find some dangerous article on my person so he could escort me to the police and throw me in jail away from the dreaded interviewer... locked away... safe from harm.
"Ah yes, you must be Torquer. Please, take a seat," replies some anonymous bloke behind a desk with 'Bob' stamped onto a badge on his chest. What? How does he know my name? They must only be expecting one person for interview. Therefore, by the clever deduction of the Torquemeister, I must be the only person being interviewed - therefore no competition. I suppose I could have been the only boy here, but you never know, there are an awful lot of post-ops wandering around Liverpool these days to mess my careful deductions up.
So, I take a seat on the worn but ergonomically arranged seats in the waiting room. There are piles of leaflets for the museum's various attractions scattered tidily on the table in front of me. I do not bother to pick them up, I have already revised every damn exhibition there has been on for the past year: J Ensor, Belgian painter, died 1949, exhibition currently at the art gallery in Port Sunlight; P R Chang, Chinese sculptor, still alive, jewelery and sculptures currently on display at the museum.
"Your interviewers, will be down shortly," the security officer who ironically stole the 'Peter' badge off another tells me.
Shit! Two of them? Are women interviewers a good thing for my prospects? Professionally, bien sur. Are they old? Will they like a charming young man like myself - or do they hate all scouse teenagers?
Ping! The lift doors grind slowly open...
TO BE CONTINUED
4 comments:
Job interviews are the first test of life on young adults. Will you crumble down and shiver? Will you be sick? Will you get so nervous you will start stuttering like a moron? Will you forget important dates from your own resume? Will you feel like peeing exactly at the beginning of the interview? All this may happen, and try your cold blood.
Creepy indeed!!
Acutally, most of it was dramatised. But hey, I'm a writer, its my job (not really).
Tune in next Monday for the concluding part of the job interview! Dun, dun, duhh!!
Ah, but there resides the glamour, my dear, not on the mere facts, but on how they are narrated, to surprise and amaze your audience. That's the job of a good story-teller.
And you think I'm a good story teller? Half a million readers can't be wrong...
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