Having lost my job, due to business closure, I was surrounded by the gloomy faces of my colleagues. I felt relieved. In fact, just the night before, I had been rewriting my resume to try to move into a different field. Now I had to take action.
I didn’t want a weekend job anymore. I felt like a Captain of Industry, as I swash-buckled my way into meetings and created a whole new role for myself. Then, negotiations fell through, and I was momentarily at a loss.
Only, momentarily: I received a call.
It was already 5pm, how soon could I get there? “There” being the middle of nowhere. I suited up and went. Unplanned trips to the countryside are more expensive than you’d think. There went the last of my pocket money.
The recruiter is loquacious and smiling. He finally admits that he can’t fill the position. Everyone he sends gets fired or disappears (I kid you not). I’m his last hope, and I’m rather under qualified.
I feel my dreams of working from home evaporating, but then, being able to pay the rent has its’ charms. I take a deep breath and smile.
Next morning, I am off, like Red Riding Hood to her Grandmothers’, with every intention of being early and making the best of it, though something inside me screams that it doesn’t want to do this. I wait for the bus. A dear old man (by ‘dear’ I mean brown cardigan and boozy) stops to inform us: the heavens have opened and a river lies between me and my destination.
I’ve left all my contact numbers at home. I walk back.
The recruiter (who has since called me so many times that he jokingly and a little too vividly calls himself my stalker) suggests I call a cab. I’m watching people’s personal items float past me, I don’t think cabs are going to come. And I’d spent all my money on the trip to the interview.
I walk, in suit and heels, and slip through the police lines (yes, Met Police can hold back floods). “Slip” being the operative word, there was mud and slime everywhere. Even walking, I had to go around the worst of it, which meant an hours walk.
However, on the other side, the sun is shining. I am suddenly in Stepford or an Enid Blyton book. Everyone had picket fences around their heritage listed cottages: it looked like something off a collectors plate you mail order from the TV guide. I’m worried. I’ve seen League of Gentlemen, I know what people do to you if you’re not local and are not interested in their frog collection.
When I arrive at work, an hour late, everything is fine. The people are kind, friendly, make each other lots of tea (and none of them are local), though, there is an odd smell coming from the storage cupboard.
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