Lush Gutters

Let me tell you a story.

In 2010 I was nervous and clueless. I was living in Bristol, UK as a recent graduate from a university course in Film and Television Production, and was about as prepared for life in the real world as you would imagine a recent graduate from a university course in Film and Television Production would be.

All was not well. My primary concern was that I found myself devoid of all the things that comprise the conventional idea of a comfortable and happy life, namely a romantic partner, a peaceful living situation, confidence, meaningful direction in life, gainful employment and, crucially, money.

I needed a job, preferably in film and TV. Sadly, with the country waist-deep in a recession and lucrative TV jobs existing in some theoretical parallel universe, the time eventually came when I decided anything would do. I signed up with an agency and went through the rigamaroo of making myself sound employable, which wasn’t easy. I’d done some shelf-stacking (I billed myself as a former ‘Stock Replenishment Specialist’) and not a lot else. I didn’t hold out much hope.

However, a few weeks later I received a call; it was a company in the city centre that needed people in sales. They wanted people with a degree.

My degree was in English Literature and Theatre Studies, alongside the Masters in Film. I can analyse poetry. I can just about edit your short film. I do not know how to sales. Clearly they had no serious understanding of my skills, or lack thereof. But when they started talking about company cars and holiday perks and salaries my eyes widened and I started to drool. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad! Maybe I’d be good at it! I sure do need the money … sure, sign me up! How bad can it be?

And so a few days later I found myself in the lobby of one of Bristol’s tallest office buildings, dressed in my only suit – an ill-fitting Marks and Spencer’s outfit I’d had since high school – complete with friction burns courtesy of some boozy and uncharacteristically flamboyant dance-floor knee-sliding at a friend’s wedding a few years earlier. I did not look the part.

Now, I’d love to tell you the name of the company, or what they did, but I don’t think I even knew back then, let alone today. I just knew it was something to do with business. Oh, and sales.

I hopped in the lift, and was deposited at a sleek, lofty foyer area with a spectacular view of the city. Smart-looking professionals milled around looking smart and professional; secretaries hurried hither and thither doing important business things; a water-cooler stood alongside black leather sofas, something I’d so far only seen on TV about smart and professional people doing important business things. Up until that point you could write my employment history on the back of a postage stamp. Six weeks manning the sideshows at a theme park, three weeks as a kitchen assistant, and about a month dishing out soup at a cafe in Lancaster. Oh yeah, and I was once a Stock Replenishment Specialist.

I perched awkwardly on one of the sofas, against which I propped my backpack, which had seemed a perfectly reasonable container for my pad and pen when I left the house but now looked more like I’d mugged a primary school student on the way in. I put on my best ‘I belong here’ expression, and tried not to look constipated.

Before long a secretary emerged from a side room and began handing out name cards to everyone. We’d need these to place in front of us on the desk when we eventually took a seat in the boardroom. Not a minute later the big boss, an authoritative and robust fella with a steely gaze and irresponsible hair, comes out and beckons us to follow him. There was one problem, however.

In the sixty or so seconds between being given the name card and being invited into the boardroom, I’d managed to lose mine. I have no idea how. It just … f**king … vanished! I checked every pocket, studied the sofa with the kind of scrutiny that would’ve impressed a forensic detective, and delved madly through my bag as if I’d been told it contained unimaginable treasures, but no. It was gone.

By this point my delayed arrival to the boardroom was becoming noticeable, and I worried I was trying the patience of the lady holding open the door. I bounded in, trying to compensate for my panic by appearing youthful and exuberant, and took a seat. I may have been visibly sweating.

The boardroom was straight out of The Apprentice: rows of titanium-grey leather swivel chairs surrounding a circular glass table, the vast windows proudly showing off the city sprawled beneath. Everybody sat, placed their name card in front of them, rested their arms on the table, and clasped their fingers together in that ‘I’m ready to learn’ kinda way. Thinking on my feet I dived into my backpack, took out a pad of A4 lined paper, and tore out a page. I grabbed the biro I’d brought along, and started to write out my name as neatly as possible.

Now, anyone who’s used a biro will know that those things aren’t built to produce the kind of text you’d spot from more than a couple of feet away. My name stared back at me, feeble and pathetic. I attempt to beef it up by scribbling out the letters in clumsy, bold block capitals, like a pre-schooler colouring in a picture of mummy and daddy. This is not going well.

So there I am, embarrassed and terrified, next to all these bright, young, entrepreneurial souls, dressed like I’ve just stepped out of sixth period R.E., overwhelmed and apparently barely literate.

The interview has yet to actually begin.

The big boss, who for the purposes of the story we’ll call Mr. Smythe-Higgins, stands up in front of the expansive vista and proceeds to introduce himself. Smythe-Higgins appeared the classic Branson-esque success story; middle-aged, gregarious, and very much in love with the smell of his own blustery flatulence. He goes on about his life, his travels, how he set up the business, and blah blah blah. It’s at this point that he starts asking us to ask him questions, which was problematic, as no amount of rummaging around in my bag would’ve produced a single sh*t I could’ve given.

Still, I really did want to make a good impression. I dive into my memory bank and re-examine the five minutes of research I did earlier that morning. I settle on a good question, prepare myself to pull the trigger, but just then some smooth-looking wanksock in a suit worth more than my worldly possessions beats me to the punch. I’d said nothing so far, and eager to establish some sort of presence I chime in:

“Dammit, you beat me to it, I was gonna ask that,” I say with a wry chuckle.

“Well you should’ve been faster then”, came Smythe-Higgins’ terse reply.

I am not having a fun time.

I shuffle awkwardly throughout the rest of the group interview, trying and failing to appear competent. I know already that I wont be getting a job here today. I doubt they would have trusted me to take out the bins.

Eventually Mr. Smythe-Higgins announces that there would be a two minute break before we’d need to return and commence the next part of the interview. Everybody picks up their bags and strides confidently out into the foyer. Cold and alone, I meekly follow behind. I have yet to find out what the actual job is.

As people gathered around the water cooler I was struck by a fearful paralysis. I did not belong here. Every bone in my body wanted to be anywhere else. My polite English upbringing had taught me to see these things through, but inside I was miserable.

And then I saw her.

She looked just like all the others, smart and professional, and must’ve been in her late-thirties or something, but the most striking thing about her wasn’t the ambitious red pant suit, but the fact that she was standing in front of the lift.

She … she was making a break for it! I didn’t know you could do that!

I had one of those fight or flight moments where your eyes dart around the room, assessing the threat, analysing options in a mental frenzy. I scanned the room, my gaze shifting rapidly from one smug-looking yuppie to the next, before realising that salvation lay about ten yards to my right, and it’s doors were about to close.

And so I fled. I fled and didn’t look back

As the doors clunked shut I breathed a huge, earnest sigh of relief. It was over.

The woman in the lift was reassuring, explaining how it was the worst interview experience she too had had, although I must admit I didn’t see her sweating and scrawling out her own name in biro at the boardroom table, but hey ho, I took her word for it.

As I walked out into the street I reach into my pocket to make sure I still had my keys. That would be just perfect, having to go back up and retrieve some lost belonging. Nope, we’re good, there they are.

Hang on. There’s something else in here too.

I pull out my name-card. It was in my jacket pocket the whole time.

* * *

Anyway that’s my story. I’m telling it because I had my first interview on Monday – for a PGCE course to teach English literature at secondary school level – and the story I just told spent more than a short while bouncing around my nervous brain in the hours beforehand. It’s a common trap. Our failures can stick with us, and often bully our successes into submission, forming the more dominant and aggressive of our memories. They’re hard to tame, harder to ignore, and have a reprehensible tendency to sow fear and doubt.

I’ve found that the best way to conquer such memories is to pick the bones and drown them out, learning what lessons there are to be learned before using them to pile on more and more experiences so that recollections of past failures get lost in the shuffle, outnumbered by positives, eventually becoming irrelevant, even funny.

I learned a lot from that crappy interview and, as mortifying as it was, it became a valuable experience as much as it was an amusing story.

It reminds me to keep on my toes. I let it drift around my head as I prepared for Monday’s interview. I’ve done more than five minutes research, my suit fits properly, and if I’m given anything to hold I know to write down on a convenient piece of paper in which pocket I place it.

I needn’t have worried.

I’m pretty sure I nailed it.

Although my fly was wide open for … lemme think … the first two hours or so.