Interview

I had set the alarm on my mobile for 8am. Extremely presumptuous of
me I know, given that I never, ever wake up to the demanding call from
that irritating sound.

How right I was! The shrill beeping did nothing but render me in
"snooze" mode for the next hour. Pointless as I could hardly re-enter
the world of ignorance while my brain was disturbed every fifteen
minutes by such technical abuse.
Covers thrown back in irritation (and cursing everything and anything
under the sun) I rolled my drowsy carcass off the double bed and fell
to my knees. Favourite slippers playing hide and seek yet again. I
grimaced as my cooling toes curled up against the freezing cold of the
kitchen floor. Kettle empty as ever; I filled it up to the one-cup mark
and flicked the switch.
Returning to the bedroom while water bubbled electronically and trying
not to look at my bed, I took in the floor. Beneath skirts, blouses and
blister inducing foot ware, (which hardly ever saw the light of day) I
began the painful process of choosing "Interview" clothing. My mind
flitted back briefly to the previous evening. Jack HAD advised that I
prepare for the interview before going to bed. Four glasses of wine
later, I decided I couldn't be arsed with it. Plenty of time for THAT
in the morning I had reasoned. Shit! He was bloody right again!

I could almost hear the clock ticking.

In my slightly inebriated frame of mind last night, I had planned that
a) I would get up at 8am (ha!)
b) I would dive straight into the shower, no coffee, no breakfast, just
get clean! (Double ha!)
And c) I would arrive at the interview with at least half an hour to
spend. As the hands of my wall clock were racing round I began to feel
hysterics coming on.
Thinking of coffee, I trooped into the cold kitchen once again.
I won't offend sensitive ears by the language that burst from my lips
as I realised I hadn't switched the kettle on from the wall plug (it
wasn't pretty!), I angrily headed for the shower.

Feeling "slightly" refreshed I began searching my meagre wardrobe (and
floor) for suitable clothing.

Half an hour later, I had still been standing there damp hair frizzing
round my reddening face as yet more cursing fell from my mouth into the
"jumble-sale" of my bedroom.
I decided on a red blouse (at least five years old) and a pair of pin
striped DKNY trousers (quite new actually, although fashion designers
across the globe would have died with embarrassment at these two items
of clothing any where near each other, let alone on one body!)
Satisfied, I put them under the iron.

I tackled my fluffy bonce with an array of hair gloss, smoothers and
the odd blast of hairspray. Christ, I looked a sight! Another twenty
minutes was spent blow drying, re-wetting then blow drying again. I
won't even go into the make up fiasco! (It's far too painful)

My interview was at noon. It was now getting on for eleven. I had to
get my ass into gear.
I gathered up my folder containing certificates, bank details, and
other scraps of paper that I felt might impress the panel.

The clock was ticking louder.

Glancing in the mirror (well, microwave door) I grabbed my car keys and
dashed out of the house.

A short distance down the road, I happened to notice I had no petrol.
Yet more cursing and fumbling one hand steering, the other searching
for cash. My purse sat, mocking me on the kitchen work surface.
I had to go back home.

I was greeted my Homer, my dog as he jumped up excitedly at me. I felt
a damp patch and looked in horror at my left leg. Stinking "dog-drool"
seeped through my best trousers and I think that the neighbours may
have heard my swearing this time, if they hadn't before!
A damp cloth was dabbed on the evil stain and I snatched up my purse
and left the house AGAIN.

More time wasted filling up the car.

The radio did little to soothe the anger building up within me as I
sat, motionless in lunchtime traffic. I couldn't bring my self to look
at the digital display on the dashboard. I figured that if I didn't
know what time it was, it might somehow not be galloping forward. My
blouse was getting creased. My posh trousers were defiled by doggy
drool, and my patience was fraying rapidly.
Cars and lorries snaked through the roads at a snails pace and I felt
like swearing again. In fact I think I must have swore the whole time
while I sat in that hateful traffic jam.

At last!
I arrived at my destination. Only to find that some thoughtless tossers
had not saved me a parking space. How inconsiderate can you get? I
thought briefly of just parking up at the back of them and leaving my
car blocking anyone who wanted to exit the car park. I decided against
it. Somehow I didn't feel it would improve my chances at the interview.
It was a close call though!

Legging it up from a road I don't recall the name of (I had been
resigned to parking on some ones drive) I puffed and panted, regretting
not for the first time, all those cigarettes that had passed my lips
over the last seven years. I felt a wreck. I most definitely LOOKED a
wreck and my trousers still held a telltale damp patch near the
crotch.

I might just make it though I thought. It was nearly twelve, but I was
almost there.
Directed by various members of staff in the building (I managed to
loose my way twice) I eventually found the room I was looking
for.
Strange, no one was around. Waiting room void of potential candidates
and the coffee machine looked cold too. I sat down on the nearest chair
and breathed deeply. I fancied I might be the only candidate. The job
could be mine. Heeheheh. I smoothed my hair and waited.

At ten past twelve, I began to get restless. My shoes had most
certainly created at least three blisters on my right foot and the
blouse I was wearing felt damp across the shoulders.
I decided I should find out what was going on.

Retracing my steps back down the long corridor, I searched for the
reception.
I found it. A bored looking woman with dry, frizzy hair glanced up
expectantly from heavy hooded eyelids. I think we stared at each other
for a few minuets when at last she asked what I wanted.

I left the building on popping blistered feet and face as crimson as
the top I was wearing.
I could almost hear the hoots of laughter AT MY EXPENSE as I walked as
quickly as I could down the street to my waiting car.

Getting in to the illegally parked vehicle, I sank into the driver's
seat. Tossing my folder on the passenger side, I went over what that
bitch-faced woman had said.

"The Manager has been taken ill, so therefore all the interviews have
been postponed until next Tuesday. We did call you this morning and
left a message on your answer machine"

As I lit a fag and screeched out of the road with no name, I imagined
the red light flashing on my machine back at home. I turned the ringer
off the phone the night before, so as not to be disturbed the following
morning. I had not wanted to be woken before 8am, coz I needed plenty
of kip before the interview.

My face still burning, I re-entered the lunchtime traffic I had only
recently emerged from and headed for home.