Today I had a job interview. It’s only for a three-month fixed term deely at work, but it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? I got through the extremely picky preliminary stages, which involved emailing HR to express an interest in the position, and then the 45-minute ability test (which was quite good fun really), and today was the start of the interviews.
Mine was scheduled for 2pm, which meant six hours of pure terror waiting for the time to arrive. I’m terrible at interviews. If I’m asked to write an essay or do some sort of aptitude test it’s a breeze, but stick me in front of a couple of people asking questions and something in my brain goes terribly, terribly wrong.
So. After flicking through one of the laughably bad books in the work kitchen (it was about a British Rastafarian kung-fu master… it was dreadful) I was collected and lead to one of the meeting rooms, which today had been turned into THE CHAMBER OF PAIN. I sit down (bashing my work pass off the table as I do – always a good start) and we get started.
Interviewer Person: “Ok, can you give us an example of a time when *blah de blah blah something something*?”
It sounds like a reasonable request, but in my head this happens:
Me (internally monologuing): “Right. That’s not so bad. You’ve got at least a couple of examples of that on your notes, just relax and… I wonder why some pigeons have feathers on their feet? It always seems to be the ones that are black and white rather than the grey and pinkish ones… I should look it up when I get home. Hang on, have I started talking? Dude, they totally know you’re thinking about pigeons. Yeah, but… ok what did they want again? Actually I wonder how many species of pigeons we have in the UK? There’s wood pigeons, but they’re not like the city pigeons and there’s at least three kinds of those… Oh no, I’m in trouble here…”
Me (talking): “Well… ramble ramble ramble… ramble… ramble?”
The rest of the session was agonising, with lyrics to “Friday I’m in Love” and the singing verb endings from A-level French whirling around inside my stupid brain. What needed to be said was in there somewhere, but it got stuck. Oh well. I guess I’ll stay where I am for a bit longer even though I could totally do that job. Not that I’ll be bitter about it… *grumble*
Can I get a do-over? Preferably on paper and in a separate room. Or even from behind a veil with my voice altered to sound like Walter Matthau. That’s do-able, right?