A high-flying current affairs programme for a well known broadcaster.
“Please can you attend an interview at blah-de-blah…” reads the reply email.
HELL YES I CAN. I am on that shizzle, fo sho.
I had stumbled and stuttered slightly through the phone interview.
Despite the “where do you see yourself in five years time” and “what are your biggest regrets” type questions, used to grill the remaining juices out of my frazzled brain, I’d passed. WAHEY! They wanted to meet me. Score.
Shoes polished. Hair tamed (sort of… well have you seen my hair?!), CV and inhaler packed. News channel switched on in the morning. Local radio listened to on the commuter train to London. Newspapers read on the tube. Sorted. News intake so full politicians were practically spilling out of my ears and abseiling down my blouse.
I cursed myself for buying a cup of tea ten minutes before I was the suitable ‘five minutes early’. The tea was way to hot to drink. Do I take it in with me? Throw it away? Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I was cacking it/sleepy/trying to stop nerve jitters, so naturally I had scrambled inside the nearby Starbucks. TEA- BRING ME TEA! SOMEONE, ANYONE??!
Tea. Mmmmm. Calm. *sips* OW DAMN IT. Burnt tongue. Slightly soggy skirt. Blasssst. Hello lisp.
Turns out that bringing tea in was fine.
OOOH PRETTY BUILDING.
Right, focus, HannARGH. Do NOT screw this up.
Ushered into a boardroom and into a seat. Facing two uber industry professionals who proceeded to quiz me about politics, a little law and news.
No, I didn’t know who the editor of The Spectator was.
I DID know you’re allowed to film from the pavements if you’re not causing an obstruction. (BING, point to moi)
Council planning reforms? I have literally not heard of this story at all.
Despite that it was all going relatively well until I got the name of the foreign secretary wrong. OH MAN. I watch the news everyday. Of course I know who the blasted Foreign Secretary is. COME’ON! My mouth just had a moment of blurting out before my brain could go “WOAH, steady there mouth.”
Yes, David Miliband in no longer foreign secretary. I am an idiot. Unfortunantly my interviewer was quicker than me to go “No he isn’t”.
Oh the shame. He’s even in the wrong party. Ground, swallow me, now, please, If there is a G-
“Any more questions? No well Ok, I think we’re done.”
Oh no. NO NO NO, ask me more questions! I am awesome, look, I can turn my tongue sort-of upside down! Now that is SKILL.
To be fair to them they did seem nice, they flashed me toothy grins and seemed perfectly amiable. I knew they had cut my interview short. My twenty minutes was meant to be half an hour. *weeps* I found a bench outside the interview building of doom and wallowed.
Wallowing doesn’t make the pain of not getting the job any easier.
Nor does ice-cream.
(Well OK, maybe for about three minutes ice-cream wins out)
Soul crushing is not an exaggeration.
The disheartened HannARGH out x