Listing Again

Job interview. Room, oversized and occupied by a leather-bound desk, two men (both dressed in immaculate black pin-striped suits) and three chairs. Paintings – what look like museum pieces – litter the walls, hung in a higgledy-piggledy fashion. Clumsy. No one says a word.

I smile, nervously fiddle with my tie. They motion, both of them, with hands, fingers splayed towards the chair nearest to me. I notice the carpet then, a swirling pattern that, if placed on a paving slab by a pub could be mistaken for a pool of congealing vomit. No one says a word.

I sit, thankful to take the weight off my feet and to give the spinning world a chance to calm down and synchronise with my head. I breath, deeply. They smile, show teeth yellow and irregular. I return a dazzle at them, wondering if I have lettuce stuck in my teeth. Does my breath smell of coffee? Cigarettes? Last night's alcohol? No one says a word.

And they come, pouring forth like floodwaters, like molten lava over a village: the questions.

1. Why did you apply?


2. Where do you see yourself in 10 years?


3. What aspects of your last job did you dislike and why?


4. Three words to describe yourself


5. What's the biggest team you've led to date?

I feel like I'm seeing things sideways. I'm listing. Panic sets in, stomach acid burns my throat and I struggle to speak. Epiglottis flapping, like I'm choking. I breath, calm. No one says a word.

I answer the questions. I answer them all, diligently.

It's now a case of waiting and seeing what comes of it.