Wish I Was There

I caught sight of myself in the full length mirror in the hall as I was leaving and was struck by a crisis of confidence.  The tall, clean-shaven figure dressed in a brown Merino polo neck, black jeans and black leather jacket staring back at me wasn’t going to be taken seriously at this interview.  I looked exactly who I was: a middle-aged dilettante with aspirations above his dole cheque.  I’d be twice as old and better dressed than anyone else, but that wasn’t going to impress a group of line managers weaned on corporate-speak and sales targets with all traces of discretion erased from their brain. I almost turned back to the bedroom.  The hall was dark and empty, apart from my bikes propped up against the wall.  A couple of discarded washers from where I’d replaced my back tyre earlier still littered the floor.  I instinctively checked the tyre, convinced my cack-handed struggle had punctured the innertube.  Fuck it, I was all dressed up, I’d been on my own staring at the same four walls all day – I picked up my car keys and left.

The experience was no less depressing than I’d feared.  There were eight of us being interviewed for jobs in Dundee, Forfar and Perth as well as Arbroath.  The posts were all the same: part time sales advisors for Thomson Travel. My rivals were all females.  A group of Thomson’s managers had been bussed in from the other branches to monitor us as we took part in a “group exercise” before the one-to-one interviews.  The three females in my group were very garrulous without actually saying anything of note.  When I offered a point of clarification, I was met with looks of disdain.  My experiences shepherding adventure tourists around Egypt or US High School students around Europe could not compete with Emma's success selling optional extras as a holiday rep for Club 18-30. All this was noted on their clipboards by the hovering managers.

Then we were each assigned to a different manager for our interviews.  This system struck me as remarkably flawed: even if they were going to ask us the same questions from the same checklist, it would ultimately amount to whether our respective interviewers argued our cases strongly enough when they sat around to compare notes afterwards.  It also struck me as entirely arbitrary that my two rivals for the Arbroath job were to be interviewed by the manager and deputy from the Arbroath branch, while I was to be interviewed by the deputy manager from the Dundee branch.  None of it made any logical sense and yet all of it was obviously straight from the Thomsons corporate HR manual.

The actual interview consisted of Anne reading me a series of questions from the printed sheet of paper in front of her to which I was expected to answer with phrases like “I consider myself a good team player” and “my main goal would be to ensure customer satisfaction.”  I also included a few abstract references to “personal and professional achievements” and “career goals” for good measure.  At the end of it, I had to play the part of Thomsons sales advisor to Anne’s customer.  My previously much-touted virtue of being “a good listener” was put to the test here, but I think I passed with flying colours, successfully selling Anne a two-week holiday to Egypt complete with insurance and the optional extra of a late checkout.

When I left the interview, I was already going through the first stage of a cycle I had become increasingly familiar with.  In this first stage, I was content I at least hadn’t disgraced myself at the interview. (In some instances, I’ve even felt as if I’ve learned something from the experience, though I honestly couldn’t say that in this particular case). Over the next few days, I would go through the rest of the cycle:

• I don’t actually want the job anyway.  It’s menial, target-driven and poorly-paid.  Plus I’ll have to deal with members of the public.
• Actually, if I was offered it, I’d probably take it.  I’d earn more (in this case just about) than on the dole, and it might do my self-esteem some good to get out and interact with other people.
• The more I think about it, I’m a certainty.  Even if I was twice the age of the other candidates(and some of the managers), how could they fail to have been impressed by my worldly-wise charm and abundant life experience?

The final stage is the crushing disappointment and emptiness I feel when the rejection email finally pings into my inbox.