In these enlightened times interviews have to be endured, don't they? In my youth it was a short chat about the job, the salary and if you were made of the 'right stuff' then a quick hand shake sealed the deal and 'see you on Monday' followed. Now it's like an all-day-breakfast and I've had to set up a ghastly profile on something called Linkbin. Lately I've surfed the tsunami of job sites, refined my searches because being offered jobs in Milton Keynes is not a 'short commute' and eventually, my phone went 'Ping!' A missed call alerted me to a telephone interview the following morning at 10.15am. Lucky I wasn't on shift so I called a nice lady from Human Remains and 15 long minutes later had passed Stage 1 of the process with ease. This catapulted me and five other women to a huge car dealership at the junction of the M1, M69 and Fosse Park on the hottest day since records began. Perfect timing for an interview; Friday afternoon when all the schools and mosques pitch out and the inside of the car was like molten lava. When I arrived, I had been in a roasting tin for an hour.
I'd had the Peugeot valeted but I needn't have worried. I found a space and parked under a shady tree before a helpful lady in corporate uniform arrived and suggested I move to the customer car park.
"Quick before it's too late!" she pleaded.
"Traffic wardens?" History tells us they were invented in Leicester. Where else?
"Them too ... but it's the birds." Those pigeons are so rude and now my pristine red paint was streaked with fried egg guano from bumper to bonnet. With hunched resignation, I moved the 106 into a line of Mini excellence, all immaculate and streak free, and raced to Reception before my shoes caught fire. Six candidates were greeted and seated, given a cold drink and tried not to catch the eye of an upwardly-mobile couple who had strayed into our waiting area hoping to discuss finance on their new 3 series motor. My fellow interviewees were a mixed bag in the clothing department but I needn't have worried here either. It seems 6" heels with skinny jeans and a Primark top are just the ticket these days. Shame I'm as old-fashioned as Ben Miller's character in Death in Paradise. I'd forgotten to shave my armpits and, not wanting to expose my pastry coloured skin to fresh air, had unexpectedly buoyed up Next's share price by buying a suit for the occasion. I was hanging onto my jacket like a life raft, not wanting them to put a tick against a box marked 'poor hygiene'. Nuts!
Precisely on time, we were shown upstairs through a pokey office with no windows, similar to the medical records Bunker, and into a glass-sided office with a view of the showroom downstairs. It had Arctic air-con on full blast. Seated around a table, Stage II commenced with a very expensive corporate video but I wasn't exactly concentrating due to the lure of the showroom and the intoxicating aroma of at least a million pounds of German uber engineering. I hope I wasn't drooling. Certainly there was an interview going on around me and we were being watched, so imagine my horror when the head Corporate Sales dude chirped up.
"Now I know you ladies don't like doing this but let's go round the table ... give us your name and tell us a bit about yourselves. Married? Children?" All the illegal stuff that agencies warn you about in a helpful email before you go for an interview. He ploughed on. "Tell us what you're up to when you're not at work eh? Let's start with ..." He pointed to the girl in the skinny jeans who promptly gushed out her entire life history adding,
"I'm having a few health issues with my youngest at the moment. Kids eh?" She wanted support from the group but the girl opposite dropped her best poker face for a second and muttered.
"Well you won't get this job, will you?"
Stage III was the group exercise. Fifteen long minutes to assess a completely insane scenario about a coach crash in the Andes; you know the one don't you? A list of 40 items and you have to decide between you which 10 items to take to safety. It is a test of negotiation skills but my chums will tell you that I've qualified from a better course which means I am not negotiable, ever. I scored 7/10 but I'll still stick my beak up for the plastic cups as they're light, practical, essential for divvying out water and in the jungle when you're carrying a life raft, £10,000 in cash and your passports, you can use them to protect against massive spiders. Then came a simple addition, subtraction and percentages maths test without the use of a calculator. At last my Body Shop discount card experience came up trumps as I can work out percentages in a flash, although I don't know if you remember Wonky the white faced witch with no discernible talent except for petulance and sending Tweets from the toilet? She works for Hayes Recruitment now and last week rejected me for an interview despite trying to 'friend' me on Linkbin for a couple of years. Oh the irony! Five of us finished together. Skinny jeans bailed out, unable to cope without her mobile and clearly upset that we couldn't help her complete the test; with hindsight she probably got the job.
On the way downstairs to Stage IV, one of the ladies in their Bunker grabbed my hand in both of hers and shook it saying "Thank you for coming." This is a lifetime first and very odd. After another short interview I understood that all over the above was a preamble to The Formal Interview. They explained there would be no face-to-face customer contact, work would be all done on the phone from 0830-1800, five days a week with no leeway. If you add the hour-each-way commute and no staff parking into the mix, it's a 47.5 hour working week for less than I get now. The HR lady did say they could up the salary a bit but I suggested that would put me at the top of their range, just like the gleaming Tropical Turquoise 5 series with full leather interior which purred into life outside the office window. It was nearly 6.00 pm.
I ran for the Peugeot and even with a trip to Aldi for provisions, it took an hour to get home for my first Burleigh's and pink grapefruit tonic of the weekend, and as I talked it through with Alphonse, my beak went down into the glass at the close of an endless, tedious and probably unnecessary process.
"Do I really think I could sit there day in day out just out of reach of those beautiful cars and concentrate on a corporate finance deal?" With milk and mobile phones, it was easy. Alphonse agreed.
"No Raven, you couldn't." Spoken just as an email arrived to inform me that I hadn't got to Stage V. Cheers!!
Tip of the Beak: "Don't buy a black car ..." Chum Eliza warned me through the window of her beige Ford. "It'll show every mark!" So did the red 106 but I loved it. With a heavy heart, I raised a glass last weekend bidding farewell to 17 years of fun and eye-watering bills for three replacement head gaskets. With Alphonse's help, my new motor has alloy wheels and glistening black bodywork, and I parked him under the trees to stay cool throughout another concrete-blistering day. When I set off for work this morning the ghastly birds had decorated the back end as only roosting wood pigeons can. Now where's my shotgun!
