Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Constructive criticism is always welcome
Monday
I met Andy in the Princess Alexandra; a relic of the great days of the public house, for which read no other form of entertainment for the masses. The economic tide had receded and left a poky and rather down at heel little dive off the corner of two quiet side streets. However, it was more or less equidistant between me, Pete, Phil & Andy and it could be more or less guaranteed to be quiet enough to get somewhere to sit. I wasn't fond of propping up the bar. There'd inevitably be someone convinced that you wanted to hear his opinion.
This day I commandeered the snug as I wanted a bit of privacy. For those that don't know what a snug is, it's a small room in a pub that allows maybe half a dozen to sit in comfort. It's a bit of an institution, often highly territorial but of a weekday lunchtime, not so much.
We settled ourselves in and Andy leaned forward with his elbows on the table, showing off his early male pattern baldness . He was something middle-managementy in the local NHS and I hoped he would give me some pointers on what to expect in a formal job interview seeing as I'd never had one.
"Why do you want this job anyway?" he asked. "I thought you liked being your own boss."
I shrugged. "Things are changing. Computers and software are getting easier to use so in the long run my job's going to disappear. The University is a good bet. It's not going to relocate; it's not going to change its business model and it's not going to go bust. And I could learn a lot."
"Well, it
is
a university," Andy said, smirking at me over the rim of his glass.
I gave him a dry look and he laughed. "So, you gonna help me or what?"
"Sure, sure," he said, putting his pint down and leaning back in his chair. "Where do you see yourself in five years' time?"
I stared at him. "You what?"
"Where do you see yourself in five years' time?" he repeated.
"What kind of a question is that?"
"One they'll ask you. What you gonna say?"
"Um, doing an easier job for more money!" I quipped.
"Is what you
won't
say. Not if you want the job. Now answer the question."
I floundered. I don't think about things like that. I don't really plan at all - which was one of the things that used to wind Klara up.
He took pity on me.
"You'll say something like, 'I expect to have gained a solid grounding in blah-de-blah technical something-or-other and be studying for an appropriate qualification from the Open University in my spare time.'"
"Oh."
"What are your strengths?"
"Huh?"
He sighed heavily. "This is going to be a long one. Get me another pint."
***
Tuesday
This close to midsummer the sun rose at 4:30am. In a cloudless sky it would be delivering a kilowatt to every square meter by midday. Which is another way of saying it was going to be a scorcher. The mercury would probably top 35°, which, in a country where things are generally cool and cloudy, is not something we're used to dealing with and we tend to go a bit bonkers. By sunset there would be legions of the lobster skinned wandering about. The evening news might well have a report of some unfortunate who jumped into water to cool off, unaware that the shock could kill them.
Anyway, I had more pressing problems. The interview was mid-morning, and I didn't want to arrive as sweaty mess, so I was waiting on a taxi to convey me to an air-conditioned café not far from the Humbert Building. There I would chill for an hour before trotting the fifty meters or so to my interview.
***
About forty minutes later I sat killing time in the window of Brian's Regal Beans
(terrible name, how do people come up with this sort of thing?)
. I often tried to sit near a window if it was available, even if I had company. It enabled me to freewheel, unmoored from the present.
Students occupied the tables in the café, eking out their cappuccinos while they gossiped and discussed coursework. Gossip inevitably included romantic attachments and I pursed my lips. Klara was firmly in the rear-view mirror, and the nature of my business kinda precluded relationships. In any case no one had caught my eye in a long while. Maybe in a more settled role someone would come along. Maybe.
My gaze drifted out through the glass to where a group of young women strolled past, chattering like starlings, all strappy tops and scandalously brief shorts which seemed to be this summer's fashion. Can't say I wasn't appreciative of the view but none of them took my fancy. No amount of unblemished skin would make up for the experiential - and therefore conversational - gulf between us.
I dug out my notes for the interview to distract me from melancholy.
The appointed hour duly arrived. Frowning at the pain from my formal black shoes I straightened my clothes and prepared to engage the enemy. Opening the door, I winced at the blast of hot air that washed over me. The current heat wave showed no sign of abating.
The interview panel confirmed my worst fears. A razor-sharp woman from HR - which was apparently the rebranding of Personnel. I always saw myself as more of a person than a resource but that's late-stage neoliberal capitalism for you. She was perfect, in an Ice Queen sorta way. Sense of humour excised in favour of a twist of the lips that was supposed to be a smile.
The suited and booted guy from ... um, some admin function, was so bland I had trouble remembering his face, let alone his name. These two started with the initial questions, such as, "Where do you see yourself in five years' time?" I smiled and trotted out my plausible response, as I did for "What do you consider your strengths?"
et al.
Nah, the only true adversary in the room was the bearded wannabe surfer dude. I couldn't see his feet, but I'd have laid odds that he was wearing sandals.
Surfer Dude was a bit snobby about Windows and little by little revealed himself to be a worshipper at the altar of Unix. In layman's terms this is a bit like a racing car mechanic who's forced to work on mundane Renaults and Toyotas to make ends meet. He lobbed in a few questions about DOS and Windows NT, but you could tell his heart wasn't really in it. This therefore was the point of the job advert. He didn't want to lower himself to helping real people navigate their devices. Fortunately, I had exactly the kind of experience they were looking for.
I ignored Miss Sharp and Mr Faceless after that, instead trying to spark a bit of camaraderie with Surfer Dude. After all, if I got the job, I'd probably be working with him.
***
Ninety minutes later they told me I'd be informed of their decision by the end of the week. I thought the interview had gone tolerably well and therefore I deserved a self-congratulatory pint in the Bridge Hotel bar. I stuffed my tie into my jacket pocket, rolled up my shirt sleeves, swung my jacket over my shoulder and set off towards the river in the available shade on the southern side of Churchill Street.
The hotel maintained the wonderfully old-fashioned but very civilised custom of retaining the morning papers for its patrons to peruse, so I grabbed the Grauniad* from the table on the way in. My favourite place was in the bay window that stuck out over the river leading to the bridge that lent the hotel its name. I watched the sunlight glance off the water as it eeled lazily past, dotted with river craft ranging from dinghies to tourist pleasure craft to the professional users of the waterway.
*Famous for its typos
Dropping into the bay seat, I slapped the newspaper and my folder with my interview notes on the table and sighed very deeply. I did actually need the job, but it had still been a stressful business all round and I needed to de-stress.
I liked the Bridge Hotel bar. It had just a little bit more pizzazz, and a bit more shine. It was most certainly a lot cleaner than any of the city pubs nearby. Sure, they had their attractions, cozy warm and dark, thick with the fug of sweat, cigarette smoke and beer late on a Friday night. But on a weekday lunchtime they would smell stale and look shabby in the unforgiving sunlight.
Being a Tuesday lunchtime it was very quiet. Just me, the bartender, and a trio of women, probably office workers, on their break. I caught the bartender's eye, and he tapped the beer pumps one by one until I gave him the thumbs up. He then made the hand signs for 'big' or 'little' until I gave him another thumbs up and we were sweet.
I was deep into an article excoriating the government for its (lack of) industrial strategy and didn't notice the
tap tap
of heels as they came up to my table.
"Excuse me, I hope I'm not interrupting."
Well, she was, but when I looked up, I was prepared to forgive her. Curly dirty blonde hair to her shoulders, clear grey eyes, and a wide mouth with an ironic slant. Well, she wasn't my type for one thing. My type were tall, slim in the bust and the hips, dark haired and dark eyed, effortlessly elegant.
