Pre-Job Interview Nightmare

Shit!  It can’t be morning already.  Reach out and violently silence alarm.  Realize it’s bloody cold and rapidly retract aforementioned arm back under the duvet…

Wake up in blind panic.  Snatch clock from bedside table and realize I have an hour before my latest foray into hunting for work…another dreaded interview!

Dive out of bed…and wish I hadn’t as it’s still bloody cold.  Crave a really long soak in a bubble filled bath but have to make do with a ‘sheep-dip’ shower instead (body – water, water – body, nice to meet you!).  Clean teeth and wonder if denture wearers haven’t got it easier…well, they could be cleaning whilst I did something fun…like sleep!

Look in mirror and grimace.  Do they make a foundation that transforms from knackered old hag into fresh faced goddess with the sweep of a cosmetic sponge?!?  Until I find some have to do my best with the make-up I do have…hmmm, not too bad if I don’t stand in direct light and squint.

Get dressed praying to any god that will listen that I won’t put a nail through the only pair of un-laddered tights I own and wondering why I thought it was a good idea to wear glittery nail polish that seems to scratch everything in a ten mile radius – me included!

Pull on suit.  Yippee I must have lost some weight, as it doesn’t seem quite as snug as the last time I went through this torture.  Step into incredibly unpractical shoes and for the umpteenth time in the last two months wonder why a) I own mostly boots that don’t go with knee-length suit skirts and b) I am a slave to fashion and have to have three inch heels with everything.

See the clock out of the corner of my eye and gulp.  Twenty minutes.  Luckily interview is two minute walk away.  Look at wrist to confirm time and discover watch is missing.  Turn house upside down, finally finding it next to microwave…don’t ask!

Grab mobile and keys and head out of door.  Feel telltale stabbing in right eye that says I have a headache coming.  Wander up the road wondering why I am doing this.  Little voice says money.  Who said that???

Arrive at place of prospective employment.  Reach out to press doorbell and – horror – nail polish is chipped.  Decide that fate is against me and ring bell anyhow.  Smiling male answers door.  We shake hands and I am lead inside.

Oh well, the little voice says, this is it…  

[Author’s Note]: Sometimes, it’s not death, heartbreak, or existential doom that does you in — it’s the cracked nail polish, the tights clinging to dear life, and the voice in your head whispering “why are you like this?” at 8:47AM on interview day.
This one’s from the vault (circa 2001) — a rare departure from my usual angst-fuelled oeuvre. No shattered hearts, no poetic grief… just chaotic energy, barely contained panic, and the deeply British urge to apologise to the doormat for stepping on it.
A breather from the bleak — but don’t worry. The sarcasm’s still weaponised, and the emotional damage is just under the surface.