Kismet

So. Job interview.

The day did not begin well. I got up nice and early, had a shower and washed my hair, as you do when you want to make a good impression. I was less than halfway through getting it dried when my hairdryer stopped going HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO and started going h-hoooo-Hooo-HOOOOO-h-h-h-ooooOOOOoooo.

There was an alarming smell of burning. I switched it on and off a few times. The burning smell got stronger. I consigned it to the bin, muttering "fuckfuckfuck" under my breath.

So, I had to try and towel-dry as much hair as possible, brush it through, put it up and hope for the best.

Not an auspicious start.

I got to the railway station much later than planned, thanks to the full-on West Wiltshire Slow Tractor Driver Of The Year victory procession I ended up taking part in. When I got there, the ticket machine was out of order so I had to buy one from the little man behind the desk. He was engaged in a long, complex discussion with a woman who was insisting that she could buy a season ticket between Bath and London from him.

He was very polite, far more so than I would have been in his shoes*. His response was along the lines of "I'm terribly sorry, madam, but Bath Spa is on a different rail network. We can't sell you a ticket from Bath. You need to go to Bath for that."

He repeated that statement, varying it slightly with each telling, about four times before she flounced off.

I bought my train ticket, and the car park ticket, then had to run** to the car, dump the ticket, then run back to jump on the train. And, because I was paying for the ticket, I didn't go First Class. Ugh.

Anyhoo. FInally arrived at Waterloo, and succesfully navigated the Tube to Victoria (two trains! No confusion!), then realised I had left my A to Z at home. Arse.

I ended up asking two geezers where the street I was looking for was, and eventually saw the building where the interview was being held. I scampered along, having to do a quick sidestep to avoid a cross-looking woman who came out of the shop on the corner.

As I did so, I failed to notice the huge dip in the tarmac, stepped down the hole and almost fell over, only saving myself by doing one of those flailing arm staggers for 50 yards along the pavement. I stopped, checked for sprained ankles (none) and dignity (none), then looked back at the woman who had come out of the shop.

She lit a fag, looked at me coldly and said in a French accent "You are not wearing senseeble shoes." Bitch.

I was, too.

Anyway, by the time I got the actual office and told the receptionist I had arrived, I was bit flustered. Luckily I had allowed plenty of time, so was half an hour early. She said "I will ring them and tell them to come and collect you."

Excellent. I would sit and wait to be collected. I sat. I waited. And waited. And waited.

When there were 5 minutes to go before my interview was due to start, I went back to the receptionist and asked when they were coming to get me.

"Oh" she said "They weren't there when I called, I'll give them another ring."

Yes, do that, you dozy cow, or I will be sitting here for the rest of my life. Did she think they'd know I was there through some magical sixth sense? Fer feck's sake, she'd been sitting there for 25 minutes watching me pace around and check the time. Fuckwit.

The interview did not go well, I think. I blithered on like a fool for 45 minutes, they looked at me pityingly, we all shook hands, I left. I didn't bang my head on the wall outside, which was probably a good thing, but I felt like it.

I find out this week if they want me. I am not holding my breath.


*I hope she was psychic, and heard me saying "Oh FUCK OFF you halfwitted bint," in my head.

**Slowly, much like a diplodocus.