(Planet Me)
Monday, August 06, 2007

Interviews are strange things. You get all dressed up, a groom for a wedding where there is only one bride, and she can have her pick of every man there. You can’t see who you’re up against. You have no idea who her other suitors are. You talk, you flirt, you try your best to be witty and charming and not put your foot in it. What’s the right thing to say? This date for employment. Who knows? Listen attentively, ears keened for pieces of trivia and revelations you can employ later to show you’re paying attention. Second guess what they are looking for, and hope you’ve made the right impression, without ever knowing exactly what it is they are looking for.

In the middle of it, someone’s talking, and my brain momentarily freaks out. I feel schizo, ever so psycho, kicking at an old tin can, I feel real like a man, like a woman, like a man, I make dead space, feel like a head case, take it like a teenage tough, I feel real, steering those wheels, shaking my stuff, ooooh oooh, can’t get enough! Where did that come from? When did my brain suddenly decide that, in the middle of an interview, it would bombard my consciousness with a number 23 single from 1999? Eh? I saw Suede 33 times and they were brilliant every time. Well. Almost every time.

My brain doesn’t seem to know right from wrong. So tell me about romance and poetry. Tell me about KPI’s and SLA’s and performance quality implementations and six monthly review meetings and post contract award management… and we’re Trash! We’re the lovers on the streets, we’re the litter on the breeze…


I’m living in Peep Show. I’m looking inside my head for interesting things that demonstrate my commitment to doing a good job and .. even though it’s true, it feels like lies and bullshit. It feels like I’ve said this too many times, and I don’t believe it anymore. Like an amateur actor in a second rate play. They nod and I think It’s In The Bag! When it obviously isn’t. Don’t crack now. Keep it up. I preen and parade. I flaunt my wares and hope that I’m good enough to love, and not just fuck. I’m a suitor, speed-dating for my career.

I think I did OK. I didn’t make any major faux pas. But who knows? Maybe they saw something I didn’t. Maybe I did or said something that wasn’t quite 100% perfect. But that’s the problem. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. I only need to be first place once. But in every race, I’m up against competitors I can’t see, I’m driving blind. I only need to be a fraction of a millimetre behind to be in second place.

And as we know from Top Gun – "there are no prizes for second place". So I pout and preen and hope that this time I come first. Just this once, it’s all I need.

As they also said in Top Gun:

"The Plaque for the alternates is down in the ladies room."

And I should know!
I saw Suede twice and they were... er... brilliant.
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