The interview today didn't impress in either direction; another maverick department, going their own way, storing up bad feelings and problems on the way to a restructure that may well never come (but being shoved into a broomcupboard in Wheatley because they've successively manged to piss off absolutely everybody probably will). I was as bad, hadn't prepared properly, sleep-deprived despite last night's early night, didn't impress at interview, and fucked up the tests, too. The tests were badly designed and the people interviewing me had a bad dynamic, but that's no excuse for the mess I made of everything. Why? Am I deliberately self-sabotaging, or am I genuinely too stressed and frantic to think clearly even about getting away?
No, I tell a lie. It was a better place. It was better than this. The offices were light and airy, and so what if it was a good office, an old fashioned office, where men were managers and women were skivvies, it wasn't here. [Why, why, why did I tell her about urban75? She's now going through it minutely, explaining it all to me and pointing out where she agrees and disagrees ... they're anarchists, you fool, you're supposed to disagree with them!]
Never mind, at least I got a new and vaguely disquieting hair colour out of it all.
And a morse code insult to tap out on the desk [.. .....--. -.-----..- -.-----..- ...-..-.--...-..--..-- .---.----........-.--.--..-- ...-..-.-.-..-.--.--..-- -.-......-...-.-..--..-- -.....--.-.....]
And a rather monochromatic but otherwise pretty site (check out abstract expressionism) which should probably be only accessed by those with a fast connection.
And I didn't get the job. Phew.
Damian on Julie Burchill: "I never make it past the first few lines before she says something like, "Obviously, pigs can fly, and the way to make that happen is by torturing children so we should torture more children."