Galway

Mid morning on the second day of the conference, I slunk off to my hotel room. I'd nothing to do there but lie down in front of the telly, but I'd nothing to do downstairs except suck in my belly as I stood at the stand and tried to look busy. That got tiring. So I piled the pillows up behind me and swung my legs onto the bed. The heel of my shoe snagged the blankets as I mashed the buttons on the remote control, looking for something mindless. Cash in the Attic was on. I'd never seen it before. I sat, transfixed, and watched while a man with a mouthful of marbles made awful telly puns and his co-presenter, a woman with bottle-blonde hair, needled the guests. I'm not sure if "guests" is the right word for them. They seemed to me to be victims of both circumstance and television. A mother and daughter, well-to-do, participating under the flimsy premise that they needed to raise some money for a weekend away. Their vast house was a museum to a life lived in hyphenated luxury, full of pointless knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. She'd been widowed, she said, and they needed a break. A treat. The presenter latched on to the tragedy of her husband's cancer and reminded both the widow and the viewers at three minute intervals how important it was that they raise this money and reward themselves with a weekend by the sea. The widow, now thus defined, put on a brave face. Her overweight and childlike adult daughter lumped around in the background, carrying their dog like a dolly.

Andrew and I don't have an attic, though we are planning a weekend away. We do have some antique napkin rings and a cake knife, given to us by Andrew's grandfather on the occasion of our engagement. We've no napkins, though. We wipe up with kitchen roll, and I suspect when I'm not looking that Andrew might still use his sleeve. It's far from silver cake knives I was raised. We'll use it to cut our wedding cake, I suppose. I hope I never find myself explaining its provenance to a perma-tanned television presenter, then clapping like a seal when it fetches £18 at an auction.

A Very Merry Unbirthday To Me

My colleagues threw me a surprise birthday party this morning. I was very surprised: it's not my birthday. I ate the cake graciously, though.

Look Good In My Steel Machine

My feet danced a lazy two step, accelerator and clutch, as I inched my way along Griffith Avenue this morning. 1km in 17 minutes. I should measure in centimetres. I should get the fucking bus. It was a fitting crawl towards what I knew would be a slow day. I spent my morning rephrasing the redesigned forms so that they no longer referred directly to the department's lettered and numbered forms as their procedures and processes are currently under review, with no provision made for the provisional. It made as much sense to me as it does to you. I ate a joyless lunch and then I went back to passive-aggressive pencil pushing. And here you find me, poking holes in my afternoon until the light falls and I can climb back into the car.

I tuned out for those 17 minutes on Griffith Avenue this morning. I listened to the Redneck Manifesto's Cut your Heart off from your Head and threaded my arms through the wheel, like sticks shoved through spokes. Ten to two position be damned! It's fine for the mid afternoon, but this was early fucking morning. Knees akimbo and happy out, I sang along to the wordless music. I like sitting with my legs spread in the car, parting them to push the pedals. It's liberating. In company, I keep them crossed at knee and ankle, afraid to look inelegant (or fat). This morning I sat there, all thigh in a dowdy buttoned tea dress. And I felt sexy. Black tights hid the dimples that dent my flanks and a smile creased my cheeks. A job is a job is a job. They pay me. I waved to the lollipop lady and rock n' rolled on in my Mitsubishi Carisma.

And How Are You Settling In To Your New Job?

It's not that I spend a lot of time in the bathrooms at work. But it's nice to get away from the desk now and then. To sit somewhere quiet, to pick my nose in peace.

We have two bathrooms, one with two chipboard stalls and a liver-spotted mirror and the other with a picture of a wheelchair on the door. I use the latter. It's roomy and sparsely furnished; a sink, a toilet and a low mirror, perfect for admiring how your knickers sit just so under your bellyfat as you button up your jeans. It has a toilet roll dispenser that dispenses institution-grade toilet roll, stiff enough to scratch your arse and soft enough to put your finger through. There's no toilet brush or air-freshener, but on the shoulder-high sill sits a bottle of perfume labelled "Age & Opportunity". It smells like something a gamey oul' wan might go for.

I'd been there two months before I realised that "Age & Opportunity" is the office upstairs. To pass them in the hallways, you'd think their shit smelled of currant cake. Turns out it's Ralph Lauren's Glamourous. It contains a rich blend of pearl flowers, plumeria, lily, ginger flowers, tuberose, Siam wood, Cashmere musk, clementine and an extra U in the spelling to confuse Americans. "It's a perfume to get you noticed by women, men, dogs and children!" enthused one online reviewer. "It's a scent stronger than shite and a sight more expensive than Glade!" enthuses this one.

I'm Sure That We'll All Miss Her So

"Gráinne, you're leaving us!" I love the receptionist at work, she always notices when I get my hair cut. Though she has been calling me by the wrong name for three and a half years now. "I am" says I, emptying a tin of beans into a dish with a splat and staking my claim on the microwave. I've one eye on the toaster and one ear on Christina, who is congratulating me on landing a three year contract during a recession. She's delighted for me. If I wasn't so scared of new people and hard work, I'd be delighted for me too. I try to mirror her enthusiasm with some mmm noises, and wonder that I'm not as thrilled about it as she and everybody else seems to be. I think I'm just anxious. The beans go *bing* and I excuse myself to sit and eat alone, glad not to have to talk about the plans I haven't made for the next fortnight or the job I have to make my own once those two weeks are up.

Teistiméireacht

"I have known Rosie for some months now, through my capacity as her gentleman lover. I have found her at all times to be a warm and pleasant character to be around. Her grasp of the Irish language is as firm as my grasp on her very fine buttocks. I know this not through any personal expertise, but because the words of this tongue I had once considered to be awkward and cumbersome are silken and sexy when tripping off hers. I am blessed to be the beneficiary of this, and many other lingual affections. Rosie remains a kind and humorous being, even at her tetchiest of moments. Any hint of bellicosity can easily be kept at bay with regular feeding and rest-time.
In conclusion, Rosie will bring a shining smile and a considerable, considerate intellect to any workplace. She is sure to prove herself a very strong ass-et."

I got the job. I like to think it was due to his recommendation. Probably not though, as it's written on a scribbled note that I carry in my purse. I cried a little bit when they called with the offer on Monday morning, but then I cried a little bit when I stood on a daddy-long-legs in the shower on Tuesday so I may just be premenstrual.

Just Like That Wan Offof Big Brother

The Talk of the Bike Shop stopped by this morning for a coffee. With his bike. There aren't many coffee shops cater for that kind of thing. Asked to move his bicycle so that they might paint the gate, he assumed offence on behalf of cyclists everywhere in much the same way as I do for Gaeilgeoirí when prats refer patronisingly to them as "your people". "Sorry, we're going somewhere else" I muttered to the waitress, my hand outstretched to retrieve my twenty and my cheeks reddening with morto.

And so to Moda. As I waited for the double espresso (for his jitters) and the hot chocolate (for my nerves) I watched a young mother wrestle her newly bipedal son into his unwieldy buggy. She knocked a table. Dropped her coat. The waiter picked it up for her, and I scooped her straw hat from the floor. She made for the door like Moses parting the waters while the other patrons scraped their chairs in bellycreasingly close to the tables, knees tucked into their teeth. The waiter followed in her wake, reached around her to open the door. What a hassle. I remembered Billy Whizz waiting outside, minding his own bepedalled babby and seething at the injustice of it all, and I smiled a little wider in the hope that the barista would hurry the fuck up.

We took our takeaways to the low wall outside my office and sat amongst the builders, me in my freckles, him in his clickety clackety bikety shoes and them in their visi-vests, eating sambos from their hard hats. "Did you shave your legs?" I asked him, imagining him with painted toenails and a lather of Immac. "I'd have shaved my eyebrows if it'd make me faster."

Friday Afternoon

I'm waiting for a phonecall. It's no big deal. They'll tell me I got it. I'll pretend to be delighted. I might be delighted, I don't know. I'll be grateful. Then I'll puke into the small wastepaper bin under my desk.

A Slip And A Slide

"That'll be €9.10, please."

I pocket them and dodge the traffic, skidding across the slush on Aungier St. I'd spent so long thinking, sitting on that grimy grey couch thinking about the cigarettes that I won't have time to smoke one. So I peel off the cellophane and sniff them. Old socks.

Bás nádúrtha, a deir siad, and there is some cold comfort to be taken from that. I am a lady perpetually in search of succour. Of course, the end result is the same; he's gone. I hope that there might be reassurance for his mother in the manner of his loss. I think then of another mother, and wonder if it is any less natural to end your own life, searching for something that has remained resolutely just out of your reach.

I switch off, pocket the cigarettes and step inside.

It's snowing again when I leave work to walk home, fat flakes like the ones I've been picking from my psioratic scalp. It's been a picky day, and the thin skin behind my left ear is red raw. I remember sitting on the couch with the Leitrim Lady not so long ago. "Stop picking it!" she barked, and I paused, hand halfway to my hair. The Jaffa Cake took his finger from his nose, and she slapped her own hand away from the scab on her scar. Three guilty giggles.

I don't wonder fancifully if I am pretty as a postcard today, I just want to be home and dry. Still fingering the fags in my pocket, I nod to Oscar as I pass him on Merrion Square. A man walking towards me mistakes my nod for a greeting, and begins unbuttoning his coat. No, I think, please not today. He fumbles in his pockets, then asks through broken teeth if I might have a cigarette for him. I hand him the packet, relieved. Then continue on my way, a little motherfucking Teresa.

Gnéas Trí Thine

My fretting has borne fruit - a contract arrived in the post this morning. With a careful reading and a careless signature, I have secured my future here for another year.

Well. I have secured my job here for another year. Tá mí na meala thart. They dithered about keeping me on. I dunno if I want to stay. I grumbled all the way along the Grand Canal yesterday. Dreading the afternoon's performance, for which I was predictably under if not quite un prepared. Tick fucking tock, two o' clock. Sigh.

I stepped out of the grimy limelight at three, whooshed into the wings by a ripple of applause. "Please" I muttered "don't clap, there's no need". Please, I cringed, shut up with the false modesty. There's no need for that either. Martin let loose with a burst whine from the piano accordion and we breathed out in unison. Later, one of the Germans asks me to dance. I'm not quite sure if he means with him or for his amusement. Either way, I'm flattered, and though I don't dance with him, I twostep the short trip home. Sweet.

My eaten cake was long forgotten by the time Red Wine Hangover, Resentment and I arrived in the Axis this morning. I felt awkward as the only adult there without a troupe to marshal, so went about my business as perfunctorily as possible. Despite the bang of teenager in the air, the palpable excitement had piqued my interest. I delayed the taxi and took a seat by the door. I reddened when the eMCee announced my presence like I'm some kind of honoured guest but it was dark, and the students didn't give a fuck. They were there for the show... which kicked off with Sex On Fire as Gaeilge, belted out by five teenagers with a self-confidence I've only seen in Clearasil ads, followed by an a capella I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (as Gaeilge, natch) which brought more of tear to my eye than Benjamin the little bollix Button.

Through The Wringer

There are times when I would dearly love to pour my heart out onto these pages. To squeeze every last drop from it, like water from a sponge, so that I might watch it bounce back. It gets heavy, you see, sodden with every upset, mine and yours. It swells with every tear it sucks up. I am a sucker in the suckiest sense, as greedy for weltschmerz as I am for schadenfreude. I never know whether to laugh or cry. Skadeglädje är den enda sanna glädjen, but what does that make weltschmerz? Honey to this bee.

So lend me your troubles. I'd appreciate the distraction. I'm worried, and facing a worrisome week. This Wednesday I find out if I still have a job come February. Well, not a job, but my job. I don't want to be a victim of the current economic climate. I'm a gaeilgeoir, for fuck's sake. I can't emigrate.

On Thursday my favouritest doggle, The Blonde, is to have surgery to see if she has a tumour on her bowel. And that worries me so much that I can't even think about it.

Beo (Ach Ar Éigin) Ón Oireachtas

A quiet dinner, a sociable drink, an early night. Blue steak and white wine (I know, I know) with a generous serving of sparky budgies on the side. The drink was a very fucking sociable one; she batted her lashes and made me loquacious, so I batted my own and I made them laugh.

I did this knowing that I had no happy painkillers to see me through whatever repercussions this morning might bring. What odds, I thought, it's not like a hangover's ever killed anybody. It'll be better before you're twice married. Hoor it out. Offer up your suffering.

The hangover kicked in at 6.30am, and my grave error was upgraded to a possibly fatal mistake. Probably fatal. I wished it were, at least. Four glasses of water and a sorry whimper later, I fell back asleep, only to wake again at 9.30 in pretty much exactly the same fucking state. And what a state.

So I dress, in the loosest sense of the word, to go in search of a cure. I tiptoe into the hotel lift with a grimace so pained and a headache so disabling that the lady in it suspects I might actually be disabled, and presses my button for me. There's a Spar just across from the hotel entrance and never has their slogan seemed more apt; All you need (is paracetamol) when you need it (about 8 hours ago, but you can make it up to me). I trip in and wander aimlessly up and down the aisles, for no good reason. I know that they keep it behind the counter, but my pride won't allow me to totter up, vulnerable and bleary-eyed, and tell the nice lady what I want. It's like buying lube with potatoes and milk in Tesco; I'm trying to hide the fact that I am braless and hungover by buying other "respectable" things too, like, eh, Sunny Delight and the Irish Times.

Mission accomplished, I hurry back to my room (Pride, inconvenient bitch that she is, not allowing me to neck the paracetamol as I stroll across the lobby, and Dexterity colluding with her and not allowing me to open the Sunny D, because Dexterity is just a bit of cunt anyway). Those ten minutes between swallowing the tablets and their tentative massaging of my temples seem like the longest of my life.

Thus fortified, I head for breakfast and sit singing along to Elton John's Rocketman, looking out at the sun shining on the river Lee. Cork looks lovely in the winter sunshine. The rashers glint under their heatlamp, the eggs wobble like runny little diddies in their greasy bath. I burst two in my effort to claim one, only afterwards noticing the slice which surely would have made for a better tool to lift them with than the sausage tongs. Shrug. Laugh. Fuck it. My rubber arms have gotten me tangled up in blue again, but I'm happy. My hangover and I, we're cool. Je ne regrette rien, and she knows it.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

Our new office space is something of a luxury in the Public Service (which, I am told, is very different to the Civil Service). Colleagues in other departments ask politely which building I'm located in and then affect mock snobbery, trying to disguise the fact that they are desperately jealous of my surroundings, which they imagine include potted plants, flatscreen monitors, a lift and a butler. There is all but. There is air conditioning and carpet, open plan office space and accountability. And there is state-of-the-art security, presumably in case there should be a rash of stationary thefts along the Lower Wrathmines Road. So we need to wave little fobs for the doors to open, which is about as state-of-the-art as your average public service employee can be expected to cope with. One of my coworkers has already run his over with his Mercedes, I myself was amazed to see another of my colleagues waving her handbag in front of what I am reliably informed is called "the reader" (but which, for clarity's sake, I shall call "the little box thing on the wall beside the door that you wave your fob in front of"). She left my Luddite brain dazzled by the devilish magjick for the merest of moments before laughing in my face and showing me the fob inside. Worryingly, I was still impressed.

They've never switched the little box thing on the wall beside the door that you wave your fob in front of on down at reception though. I can only assume that this is in deference to my humour in the mornings - I am grumpatron until half past teabreak and niggly little annoyances like having to root out a fob from the arsehole of my handbag because I can't manage the fob-in-the-bag magjick that the others can are best avoided until I've had some tea. But this morning, for the fourth morning in a row this week, I slumped defeated against it, a one-woman pileup. They've switched it on, after a year and a half.

The temptation, of course, is to see this in much the same way as I do my tupperware cupboard. As a crude and cruel metaphor for my life.

Nine To Five

I spent this afternoon at a work schmooze, and now I need a lie down. I feel so out of place at those things, it's exhausting pretending to the other grown-ups that I'm a grown-up too. I wore heels and ate too many lollipops, I made smalltalk and swapped business cards. But... I felt like less of a fraud than I did at the same event this time last year.

I find that mildly depressing.

Reader's Choice #4

My Favourite TV3 Weatherman

for Andrew, who had better bring me a Toblerone home from Egypt

Weather reports on Irish television have become laughably redundant, what with global warming and the coming apocalypse. When I was a kid it was all sunny spells and scattered showers, now apologetic RTÉ presenters (I'm looking at you, Gerald Fleming, and that other fucker with the mad Louth twang) give anxious warnings about rain, and announce sunshine with such tentative, doubtful optimism that you wonder if they fear a lynching. I think that if I were to accidentally pay a TV licence fee, the weather report would be an awful way to waste my money. Perhaps not awfuller than Fáilte Towers, but RTÉ weather neither informs nor entertains me and the European forecasts that they occasionally carry on with are just insulting; like watching cheffy wonders on Saturday Kitchen while you hoover up stale cornflakes. Those two minutes would be better spent with a second Angelus. That at least raises a smile.

So respeck!! to Martin King, who jazzied up the weather reports in the early days of TV3 by turning it into some Winning Streak cum Parish News style form of entertainment. The weather slot opened its sticky embrace up to Joe Public and invited viewers to bump uglies with its content. Birthday wishes! Send us in a photo! It's like the art slot on The Den, only for nanas. Nanas from places like Longford, and Ballina.

TG4 have the right idea; just go with some tits. Scorchio.

But I digress - this post is supposed to be all about Mr. King. I did develop some small affection for the bould Martin back when I worked as a fraud detective* for an Irish financial institution whose name rhymes with "make the tea". I'd rouse myself from my bed at 7am each Saturday when Martin's dulcet tones shrilled at me from the radio alarm clock. His Breakfast Show on Today FM was the perfect soundtrack to those mornings; wake up, sniff the air (vodka, cigarettes) and realise with a crushing sense of defeat that it was Saturday and I had to go to work. His pithiful patter seemed to sit well with my awkward transition from drunk to hungover, as I sat looking balefully at my shoes, trying to find the will to breathe, and to tie my laces. I'd muse over "What's That Sound?" and marvel at the chirpy idiocy of the contestants ("is it Rice Krispies, Larry?" "Well Pat, it's Martin King here and I'm afraid that's not the answer we're looking for!" "Oh..." says Pat, trailing off confusedly and uncomfortably). Our hero Martin lets that awkward silence hang.

These days I can't bear to listen to talk radio - inane presenter prattle and insane, irrelevant callers. I no longer work on Saturdays, I have more pleasant ways to spent my time and more pleasant sounds to rouse me from my slumber. Like the heart-attack inducing beep of an alarm, or the insistent whine of my bladder.

*Not as exciting as it sounds.

But I Came In Anyway

Excellent reasons to call in sick to work:

• SARS
• MRSA
• AIDS
• Lots of other four letter acronyms
• Chicken Pox
• Smallpox
• Monkey Pox (it exists)
• Any other type of pox

Not quite so excellent reasons to call in sick to work:

• Hangover
• Beard rash

Dangerous Minds

Like most if not all arts graduates, I had an absolute shit attack once I left college. I wasn't qualified to do anything in particular and I had no idea what I'd like to do, so I blundered head-first into teaching. Well, elbow first. I tried a stint as a corporate whore and it didn't really take, so in the spirit of altruism and service to the community I accepted a temporary post in my old alma mater. A nice school with excellent staff, where I would be paid a gazillion euro an hour to babysit teenagers. What could go wrong?

Mid afternoon on day one I had my first class with 6th year foundation level English. 9 boys who already looked like big strong men, and who were fully convinced that they were big strong men. Most had repeated a year during some stage of their academic careers, I'm sure some of them had learning difficulties and I'm very fucking sure that most of them had behavioural problems. We spent a difficult 40 minutes together, but I won.

Day two found them in fine fettle, almost personable in their efforts to impress the new teacher. We were still at the honeymoon getting-to-know-you stage, so I was happy to indulge them in amiable chat. I mooted the idea that we might do some work on day three and asked them what they'd covered in class the previous year, intending on doing some revision. But oh no. English class had been cancelled last year.

I should have known better than to ask, I suppose. They spent 40 minutes telling tales of the three unfortunates who had acted as substitute teachers the previous year. The first of them refused to teach them after flicking paper balls at her had enraged her to breaking point, whereupon one of them threw a metal pencil case at her and hit her in the face. A replacement was brought in, a stern disciplinarian. She had two of them suspended for sexual harassment after they repeatedly complained about being unable to study due to (their) erect nipples - the classroom was freezing because they'd smashed the window with the duster. How this might constitute sexual harassment was beyond them, as they hadn't so much as mentioned her nipples. I stifled a giggle under an immaculately stern poker face, and quietly nodded when they asked me if I'd like to know what happened to the third teacher. I should have said no, but I really did want to know. Turns out they'd started flicking paper balls at him too. Lighted ones. I believe them, because they showed me a video clip. Not to intimidate, but to impress.

I dreaded my classes with them. They took a serious shine to me though and soon proclaimed me their favourite teacher, getting more than a little upset that I wasn't planning on speaking for them at the parent-teacher meetings. We spent most days watching Strictly Ballroom (it's on the curriculum) where they pushed the tables back and waltzed one another around the room, while the guy with ADD coloured the blackboard in from corner to corner with chalk (cleaning it off before the bell went, out of consideration for me). We had tears one day when one of them regaled me with a tale of an injured pigeon he'd filled with bangers and blown to feathers, thinking I would be impressed by his ingenuity when it came to putting the creature out of its misery. I was not, and this upset him. Two of them asked me to be their date for the debutante ball and threatened to batter the shite out of each other in a row over which one had asked me first. I politely declined both. But we got along. I told my friends at home about them and I got voicemail messages with Coolio's Gangster's Paradise playing in the background. Because my friends are very, very funny.

Then one day I arrived in to find them sitting at their desks, with poetry textbooks. I had left them in the care of another young substitute teacher the previous day, as I had an interview for a lecturing job. They had decided on an early lunch, she had refused to let them leave and had threatened to call the principal. So they backed her into a corner and tried to grope her breasts.

I could never be a teacher.

It's Complicated (Or Not)

GingerBeard's not talking to me, and hasn't been for some time now. I heard his easy "no worries!" this morning as I passed through the office. I miss his easy company and witty camaraderie.

Unravelling DreamWeaver

The acronym CSS does not necessarily stand for sexiness fatigue, it seems. I fear my transformation to amazing web designer may not happen overnight as planned.

The Government Stooge

I have a new hero, and she blogs over here. She writes about life as a civil servant with the flair and wit of a female Flann O' Brien or an English-speaking Máirtín Ó Cadhain; her guide to the typical civil service day is eye-watering (parts one, two and three). What I really love about her though is that she could have been me. Or I could have been her. I'm not sure of the semantics, to be honest. What I mean is that I came horribly close to taking a job as EO with the Civil Service.

Having finally graduated from UCD in 2004 with a degree and an MA in nothing particularly useful, I panicked. I hated my part-time job in the bank with the kind of passion I usually reserve for commenters who correct my grammar, but I hadn't a clue what else to do. I tried teaching for a short while and had what I can honestly say were the worst two months of my entire life (a story for another day) but given that that was the only thing I could obviously apply my qualifications to, I worried that I would end up stuck with it. My previous work experience had seen me work as a fruit picker, shelf stacker and professional ironer of other people's shirts so I was starting with pretty low expectations - the civil service's open competition for executive officers sounded like the short-term answer to all of my prayers. I rattled off an application and a short while later found myself sitting an exam with 50 gazillion other hopefuls of varying shapes and sizes, a sizable chunk of whom looked like they might be dangerous and/or mentally ill. The test was a piece of piss compared to the car crash that was my MA - I just skipped all the bits with numbers in and had a bit of craic with the word puzzle ones. A few months later again I got a letter, I'd done alright in the tests, alright enough to be allowed to repeat the experience.

This was to be a more intimate and intense affair - three short exam papers, an Irish oral exam (optional bonus round) and an interview. Again, the papers were a breeze, bar the one with all of the numbers on it which I more or less ignored. The super Gaeilge bonus round was fun, as evidently the examiners had been expecting some dolt who was just scooping for points and couldn't string a sentence together, so they were thrilled when I proved both able and happy to converse with them. A short break and a cup of tea, then it was time for the interview proper.

I sat in the comfy chairs in the lounge and fidgeted for a bit. Wandered off to the bathroom to use the loo, paused to check that my face was still on straight, nodded to the competition and sashayed confidently back out into the lobby (I was wearing my favourite interview combo of black poloneck, mustard swing skirt, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels). A grey and worried looking man came out to fetch me and ushered me ahead of him into the interview room, where two other grey looking types awaited me.

It was an interview format I hadn't come across before and I've not come across since, in that they asked me if I'd like to consult my notes and reassured me that they would be asking the same questions as they'd asked on the original application form. Em, notes? It seems that all of the other candidates were aware of this bizarre let-me-read-you-what-I-wrote style interview process, and had come along with their scripts to hand. I was the only fucking idiot who hadn't read the small print and had planned on ad-libbing my way into their hearts. Already unimpressed by my non-conformity, they kicked off anyway with a barrage of questions that all started with "It says here that...". I relaxed after a bit and got into my stride, waxing lyrical about my superpowers and beaming smiles at them in a vain effort to lift their grey pallor. And that was when I realised that I could feel the cold plastic of the chair under my thigh. Just the one thigh though, the right one. I shifted in my chair, puzzled. And then realised that my skirt was tucked firmly into my knickers, and had been since my earlier trip to the jacks. The sashaying around the lobby, the confident stroll into the interview, all done with my arse on display.

I spent the remainder of the interview shifting in my seat like one plagued with piles, thankfully dislodging the hem of my skirt just before I had to shake their hands and scuttle out of the room again. The bitch I'd nodded to as I was leaving the jacks earlier was sitting there with her notes, looking smug, thrilled that I'd made such a literal arse of myself. I shot her a filthy look and sloped off home.

A month later, my results arrived. No. 1 on the panel. Fuck her and her trouser suit.