Wasted Day

So, it's snowing thick and fast; the kids' school is closed; but numpty here makes an attempt to get to the interview. I slid down the road, nearly failing to stop at the junction, and fish-tailed up the hill. There wasn't even that much snow - maybe three inches, but it was making the roads lethal. By the time I'd ended up sideways across the road twice and had passed several abandoned vehicles, I decided no job was worth dying for.


I pulled over and stopped in a layby, deciding to sit it out. After all, there was rain promised later, to melt all the nasty, slushy snow away. I know other parts of the world don't grind to a halt when a few flakes of snow appear, but maybe we just have the wrong sort of snow. This stuff churned up into lumps, but turned into a grey something with a smooth, slippery, bowling-alley type texture as soon as any pressure was put on it (e.g. by a car tyre).

After a few phone calls rearranging the interview and sitting by the side of the road for well over an hour, I decided it had melted enough to try to get to Mum's. I couldn't get home because there was a stranded lorry on the hill blocking all traffic, and the back-road was still not passable.

I slithered down hill, past several pranged cars, and through a slalom of abandoned lorries. There was a bus following me. I thought if that starts to slide I will have no hope. Fortunately it didn't. Down at Mum's they'd only had a dusting, and no doubt wondered what all the fuss was about.

So, in the afternoon, I headed off to the nice school and went through the ritual humiliation that is being interviewed. I waffled and talked a load of rubbish, as I always seem to manage to do when someone asks me a question like
"So where are your boundaries?"
What am I supposed to say? There's no sensible answer to that.
"Naturally, sir, they are at level 3. I wouldn't have it any other way!"

So, another wasted day. I haven't officially heard, but seriously, I would have been better off staying in bed, rather than risking writing my car off, only to have my confidence bashed once again. The whole process leaves me feeling depressed and inadequate.

I don't do interviews. And when I get rich and famous, I won't do interviews then, either. I shall get my publicist to read out a press statement. I think I'll suggest that to the agency next time they want me to do an interview.