Of course I didn't actually think about what I would do if I did actually get called for an interview and last week one of the biggest and respected trade magzines in the UK did make that call.
With only 3 days notice, checking the price of the airfares, I balked at the cost (€200) and made my excuses, asking for a later interview in the hope that Ryanair's price may be a little more reasonable. No was the answer, I was to go over to the interview then or not at all. Left hating the thought of not knowing what may have happened if I missed out on the opportunity, I booked the flights and headed over yesterday.
The magazine as I said was a trade mag, hardly the most glamourous of assignments. The office happened to be in a delightful industrial estate outside Gatwick, again not the most glamourous of locations.
Now I hate interviews, I really can't bear them. I get blanks, I act like a small child or a dumb bimbo. On this particular occasion, the editor interviewing me was actually a rather genial guy, in a London media-type kind of way. I mean, he called his kid after a mythical Greek demigod for God's sake. That kid has a lot to live up to.
So the first part of the interview went pretty well. I adopted my cheeky but intelligent persona and we got on like a house on fire. I was sure I pretty much had it wrapped up at this stage. He was even asking me where I was planning on living and talking about salaries and then after a short writing test, I was introduced to whom I thought would be my new editor. This interviewing lark is a blast!
Then things took a turn for the worst.
He offered me a lift to Gatwick and informed me we would continue on with the interview over a pint at the airport. In Frankie and bloody Bennies. Drinks & crisps bought, it was here amongst the screaming kids and chavvy holiday makers scoffing a last greasy burger before boarding their flight to Benidorm that he decided to give me a maths test.
I can do sums, sure I can... if left alone to do them on my own, in my own good time. However, sitting in the middle of England's finest after a gin and tonic, Benny Hill music blaring in the background and Mr Editor staring at me intently as I desperately tried to work out simple little percentages, well let's just say it didn't go well. The sweat started to pour, I began to go redder and redder and the whole room started to spin. Yes my ditzy persona had arrived and I wasn't so swaggeringly cocksure after all. Is 25/60th's 260%? I think we all know it's not. I know it isn't, I knew the moment I suggested it, that it wasn't. I just didn't have anything else to offer.
Things went rapidly downhill from there. Asked what my most favourite scoop I had seen in the papers recently was, again my mind went blank. All I could remember was Kerry Katona!! Kerry BLOODY Katona. Who?! I had really outdone myself by this time. The poor editor, yes he was giving me a total grilling but I could see he was thinking "sweet mother of God and to think I thought she was alright at the beginning and worth spending nearly four hours of my time on."
He was embarrassed, I was embarrassed, the whole thing had turned into one big farce. He was almost apologetic....my total humiliation was rapidly turning to tears and we were both glad when the time came to say goodbye. In fact I have never seen two people look so relieved at the end of an interview.
When he left and I headed off to get my flight, I began to laugh. I laughed so hard at the thought of what I had been through, how out of depth I was and how I had paid €200 for the pleasure.
I am sure I had provided Mr Editor some kind of amusement, or rather bemusement and I guess it was most definitely a learning curve for me too.
And did I get the job??? Well let's just say I am still waiting for the call.....
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