The Interview

And so the time came upon us for The Interview.  A toe-curling 30 minutes last week where the very apparatchiks I've worked with over a grim two year period, have permission to ask me questions they already know the answers to, and then argue the toss about my particular strengths and weaknesses.  I'd love to call it Kafkaesque but I've never read his works, have no real idea what it means and will stick to unpretentious words such as annoying and unnecessary given the current criminal staff shortage we are enduring.  Anyway, the management have suddenly realised that temps are running the shop, that they might actually leave for better jobs and this cannot be tolerated.  So in the dead of night, they cooked up a plan to slot us all into preferred roles hoping upon hope that all would be well again.  Trouble is, some of us don't like to be 'slotted'.

Let me take you back to last Thursday at noon when I'd not had my tuna salad for fear of a grumbling digestive system interrupting my interview; only a mere banana sustained me through the allotted half hour of torture.  I'd rigorously prepared myself for a good grilling from the Andrex Puppy, so imagine my horror to find the Fruit Bat sitting at the desk and next to her, her familiar; a woman who clutches her chest whenever she encounters me, obviously sensing my true demonic nature.  Luckily, she was writing notes and keeping time or we'd still be there having a counselling session.  It started well under the circumstances,
"I see that you've been with us for exactly two years Raven?"  Don't I know it? "And you're very versatile."
"Well I have been at work for most of my adult life, it stands to reason I've picked up something."
"Quite. And here you've been working on the wards, medical secretary and now Reception."
"Reception's only an emergency cover for an hour maximum."  It's so stressful, I have to go outside afterwards and pretend to have a cigarette, a desperate act for a lifelong non-smoker.
"Have you thought of adding Bookings to your experience?"
"I have thought about it and the answer's no."  The Fruit Bat pressed me for a fuller answer.
"I can't fit anything else into my brain. I already have two analytical jobs and a third where I type clinic letters for two days a week ..."  I had the list ready:
Gynaecology, Gastroenterology, Urology, Orthopaedic, Rheumatology, Dermatology, General Surgery [hernias] and a Plastic Surgeon, although the last one's a bit fluffy and is mainly boob jobs.


The Fruit Bat dismissed this lifelong expertise and asked me straight out if I was interested in applying for the full-time secretary/administrator role they'd cobbled together?  You have to see the job description; it's more like a management dustbin with so much other stuff in there, it made my eyes revolve like a fruit machine.  There's also the knubby issue of who's going to do the actual typing?  Ancient wisdom helped me keep my beak shut.  You see, I gave up secretarial work in 1997 and I can be that specific about it because I'd got to the top of my game and was utterly brassed-off with working for people less capable or qualified than me for half the salary.  And after a long stint on the top floor of Leicester City Council, known locally as Faulty Towers, I temped for bit and found myself working for medical insurers [PPP before they were discovered by AXA] at a business park on the edge of town, while they were interviewing for a branch administrator. What an unhappy place?  Please, thank you and professional courtesy were left at the door and ignoring anyone who wasn't a total cow to their co-workers was the daily message.  I went to the pub every lunchtime just to see a smiling face. On my final jubilant morning, I looked up to find the class bully standing at my desk saying,
"Do you have to leave today?"  I so wanted to but we also had to eat.
"Erm ... I'll ask the agency."
"Don't bother, I've spoken to them and we'd like to offer you the job. You're brilliant."  I knocked the static out of my ears. Wild horses couldn't have dragged me back the following week.  In fact, I spent a well-fed six months at M&S before I ventured into another administration role.  So why should I step down that well-trodden path again in 2014?

My interview also contained other well thought out questions regarding my strengths and weaknesses, computer skills and inside leg measurement.  We'd also been provided with a grid on which we had to indicate our preferred hours of work during the week and the Fruit Bat was somewhat nonplussed to find I'd not selected a pattern of 24x7.  She looked at me sideways,
"I see you only want to work one in four Saturdays?"
"That's right."  Other ward clerks are available.
"Wouldn't you like to start earlier, at seven perhaps? And stay later.  Four'ish?"  She's up to something.
"No. Because that means I have no life."
"Oh I like the early start, you get so much done."
"Well you do it then but don't ask me to get up at five thirty every Saturday morning."  Who's being interviewed here?
"It's only one in four."  Well you say that now but experience teaches us that once you've done a job once, you get it every chuffin' week. It came to a sticky end shortly afterwards when they asked me to do a test.  There were no right or wrong answers apparently.  And when it finally dawned that I was going to lose my two favourite days a week in the typing pool, only to be relegated to filing tracers in Medical Records, I went outside to our quiet area and had a little cry.  MoBo came out with a cuppa and put her arm round my shoulder, summoning up a pearl of wise counsel.
"Don't worry Raven."  I blew my nose on the tissue she proffered. "Give it a fortnight.  That's usually how long it takes for management to realise they've got no-one to do any work.  You'll be fine."

Tip of the Beak:  I'd better apologise to the whole cannon of chiroptera species worldwide, including the vampire variety, desmodontinae, for naming my interviewer after a fruit bat.  If you only knew the truth of the situation, you'd see what I'm up against.

Raven