And now we play the waiting game...

I woke up this morning after having tossed and turned all night. I'd had dreams, strange dreams about family reunions and the application of spaghetti bolognese as a fashion statement. Yes, strange dreams indeed. For the first time in nights I'd found it difficult to drop off to sleep, and by the time I dragged myself out of bed at eight o clock I'd already been lying awake for three hours. 

I had a job interview to get to, starting at half past eleven, and I wanted to be at my very best. Those three hours would probably have been better spent researching the company or in the bathroom scrubbing every inch of myself till I shone as bright as the sun that no doubt some applicants inevitably believe shines out of their arses. As for myself, I have no such illusions. It's all face and bluster and hope for the best. I know I'm about to be hit with a barrage of so called "competency based questions." I inevitably fall at this hurdle, not because I'm incompetent but because I find it difficult to think of asnwers that fit the question that are in actual context.

I started the day like a bear chewing a wasp. One of those mornings that you look back on and you're suprised you still have a husband at the end of it. Did I really say that to him? Did I really shout at him demanding tea and then again when he didn't bring it to me immediately? Shamefully...yes. And that's why I love him, because he can deal with that and realise it's only until I've actually woken up! I spent the next hour willing him to bugger off to work, another point of guilt on my part, but as soon as he was out, that was it, I was in the shower scrubbing and washing and shaving and then out again to straighten the hair and apply the face.

By the time eleven o clock had rolled around I was only just applying a gloopy layer of mascara and still had to dress myself. Thankfully, the clothing issue was something I'd had the foresight to sort out last night, and everything was hung up behind the door waiting to be worn. Finally, taking one last glimpse in the mirror to tut at my unruly fringe (which has taken to parting in the middle) and gasp in exasperation that I was already running late and thus had no time to sort it, I left the house at ten past eleven, ten minutes later than planned.

I strutted as fast as my boots (which skid on every surface, even on hot rubbery tarmac) would let me, ignoring the onslaught of "EXCUSE ME!!!!" that faced me as I walked past the school playground at breaktime, secretly paranoid that the darling little children were perhaps trying to tell me my knickers were visible even through my thick black winter coat. Glancing briefly at my reflection in the windows of the parked cars and terraced houses as I tap-tap-tapped my way passed, I could feel my blood pressure rising as I hoped my appearence would be of a high enough standard.

No ammount of power walking can make up for a late start though. I turned the corner onto Priory Road to watch the bus zoom straight by me. I checked the timetable at the stop to see when the next bus was due. The time was now just after quarter past eleven. The bus was late and I'd still missed it. The next bus was not due until 11:28. Great...

Thankfully, a five pound note graced my purse. I stood for a good five minutes or so waiting for a taxi to go by. All of them had passengers. I was really beginning to curse myself. Did I really need to have spent over two hours getting ready and making sure everything was just so this morning? I could have turned up hair and makeup done professionally and a suit that cost more than a months wages, but it wouldn't count for anything if I turned up fifteen minutes late. Finally someone pulled up for me. 

"I'm late for an interview at xxx, it starts in ten minutes!" I screamed at the driver as I practically dived into the back.

"No problem love," he winked at me from beneath his grandad cap. His foot hit the accelerator and we were off.

We sped down Priory Road, being stopped occasionally by the odd 'sunday morning driver' and chatting away about the problems facing job seekers today. About how you were lucky to get to interview stage, and luckier still to hear from anyone who rejected you.

"I've been working for 40 years now," he told me, the sage voice of experience, "always send a stamped addressed envelope with my applications, but you never hear anything back."

We came to red traffic lights by Goodison Park and he began cursing under his breath. I'm cursing under mine too, three more minutes and I'll be late. Finally we're off again, and we breath a joint sigh of relief as we turn the corner into Sperrow Lane. It was a breath too soon. Yet more traffic lights blocked our way, the traffic stretching right up the length of the road.

"You're probably best off getting off here love. You can make it!"

I passed him the fare and he threw the change back to me.

"Good luck, love!"

I power walked down the street again. Outside one of the terraced houses I pass a 'Police Scientific Support' car. Forensics? Plastic sheeting is covering the steps. I wonder what misfortune has befallen the residents.

Finally, coming onto County Road, I see my target before me and I speed up. I open the door and am greeted by an indifferent looking woman sat behind the counter. She takes my ID and tells me to take a seat. I check my phone. 11:31.

I sit for a good ten minutes twiddling my thumbs and making small talk with the woman. She doesn't usually work here, she says, she's on relief, and usually works all over the city and beyond, from Huyton to Birkenhead. She doesn't drive, she gets everywhere by bus, sometimes three depending on where she is. I think back to my telephone interview when they asked me if I could be flexible in where I worked, if I would be able to do relief work if they needed me to. Yes, I answered happily. I'd done something similar in a past job for a major mobile phone retailer. It hadn't been so bad then, they'd sent me up to Bootle for a couple of weeks. Indeed, it'd been the same bus route as I should have taken today. But Birkenhead? That's a bit of a treck...

Finally a woman opens the door marked "Staff Only" and a young woman with a face that I barely get the chance to read struts out and out of the shop. I secretly hope it is a face that says "oh poo I did really badly". She is wearing a proper suit as opposed to my 'smart' trousers and white blouse with a smart black coat. She strides confidently, with her head held high. In the back of my mind I doubt very much that it went badly for her.

I'm taken into the back office where I'm presented with a maths test and told to complete it in 20 minutes. Mental arithmetic isn't my strong point, though I listed it as one of my many wonderful skills on my application, CV and telephone interview. I wouldn't be lying, I do have better maths than some when it comes to the practical application thereof, but when the pressure is on and they're asking me to do a test in 20 minutes I tend to crumble. It's multiple choice, but I stare blankly at the paper and my hand begins to shake. The maths test was the part of the interview I'd expected to walk, and here I am falling at the first hurdle. My mind is blank and all I can think of is the voices on the shop floor. A customer has come in, but he doesn't have the correct information with him today. What is 12 x 6? Confession time....I never learned my times tables.

After what seems only a few scant minutes my interviewer comes back and smiles. She takes the paper, and I mumble something nervously about hoping my luck improved since my run in with the traffic this morning. The next minute or so she checks the answers on the shop floor and I sit with butterflies in my stomach. When she returns she's silent, with a stern look on her face. I bite my tongue. Shit. How will I ever live it down if I've failed a maths test that was easier than my GCSE exam? My grades will count for nothing...I always thought what qualifications I had were pretty useless. I start reaching down for my handbag.

"Ok, so you got 70%"

"Really?"

"Yep"

"Wow...ok..."

"Don't look so down, the pass mark is 50% and some people miss that by a mile"

Wow...70%...I feel kinda gutted, but...hey, hooray, I passed!

She introduces me to the store manager who is sitting in on the interview, and she gets out her paper. A copy of my CV sits before me and she asks me to recount my employment history. I worry about the huge gaps, stretching for about 2 years in total, between now and my last job, and that and the job before, but when I explain the reasons for these gaps she seems satisfied, and doesn't seem phased by the admission that some of that time was spent recovering from depression. I always think it's good to show some weaknesses in an interview. If you can admit to not being perfect and having some areas that could be improved then it shows you aren't full of bullshit and that you are being honest. 

The rest of the questions were the dreaded competency based questions. Under normal circumstances I would have frozen as my interrogator asked me to name examples of how I've done x in the past, or how I deal with situation y. Usually I turn around and name some experience that has barely anything to do with the question being asked because, like a rabbit in the headlights, my brain freezes and I can't think clearly. And how do I deal with situation y...well normally that ends with me saying "Uhh...by working very hard..."

For some reason, today I was blessedly articulate. Perhaps my bad luck in making the bus this morning was being balanced out, but I could actually think of real, meaningful examples and when asked "How would you deal with deadlines" I did at first say "by putting my head down to work and getting it done...." but then went on to talk about breaking the workload down into smaller, more manageable tasks. Her face practically beamed when I spoke about prioritising my workload and putting the customer first, things I've never talked about in interviews before. It was as if, after all these years of failing interviews by turning into mush, the lightbulb finally switched on. We spoke of the benefits of great customer service and the virtues of office get togethers. By the end of it all everyone seemed so relaxed and happy that we could have been old friends sat around a table in the pub sharing witty anecdotes and getting nostalgic about times gone by.

Of course, this may well be the worst thing possible, but it all felt very positive.

So it came to end and I got to ask my questions and we thanked each other. I asked when I would hear the result of the interview and she said next week, but it would be from HR. That's fair enough I think, but then she tells me...of course they have to recieve and then look through all the interview notes and see what's what and then they decide.

It's at this point my heart sinks a little. I begin to wonder...all morning I've done everything I can to present myself 'just so'. I stressed when I was running late and forked out for a taxi when it became apparent that I was going to be so. I tried my best to give the best first impression possible, and the three of us seemed to have such a good rapport during the interview. I could really imagine working with these people...yet now, after all that, the brief flash of 'could be camraderie'...someone I haven't even spoken to , who lives in what is technically a different country, will make the final decision.

I'm under no illusions that this is any different to anything that goes on in any other major chain of high street stores or nationwide company. However when you're fretting over which lipstick to wear because the deep red might give off the wrong impression, but the lighter coral doesn't really go with the rest of your outfit, and your other fall back shade that would otherwise be perfect has just run out...you begin to wonder why put so much effort into presenting yourself in such a manner if the person who will give you the thumbs up or down will never actually see you...

I can only assume, of course, that the interviewer will pass on such observations. Not necissarily based around your shade of lipstick, but of your overall demeanour and appearence. I certainly hope so.

I came out on a high, despite worrying over these things, and noticed yet more competition waiting on the shop floor. I smiled warmly and wished my interview all the best as I left, striding confidently towards the door.

My own little act of psychological warfare.