I promise that I will stop writing posts about interviews. Soon. Because I will have a life again. Any day now. Honest.
I have the Dublin interview tomorrow. And I couldn’t feel more differently about this one than I did about the Manchester one.
I’m looking forward to it. I’ve literally had conversations with the job spec every day this week. Like full-blown, out-loud chats with a PDF document. I find myself exclaiming,”Operational Management, you say? Well…” and “Profile of the Successful Applicant? Of course!”
I put together my powerpoint for the presentation while I was in Manchester, when I should have been preparing for that interview. I’ve practised my presentation a few times and it’s getting slick now.
I’ve driven to the place where the interview is happening to make sure I know where it is. I’ve asked myself practice questions in my head. I’ve cautiously flirted with imaginary interviewers while battering them with my experience, qualifications and ideas.
I’m feeling good. If I don’t get the Manchester job, it’ll probably be my fault. If I don’t get this job, it won’t be my fault. It’ll be because there was someone better than me, not because I was any worse than I could be.
I wasn’t able to afford any interview clothes. I have two suits. One of them fits 22 stone me. Another fits 17 stone me. Neither of them fit 27-and-a-half stone me. Both suits have torn trouser bums anyway. I have the same semi-kind-of-formal stretchy faded-chino -slacks that I’ve been wearing non-stop for the last year. And a shirt I bought in 2010, with sleeves that are too long and have to be rolled up. It was far too big for me in 2010, but now it’s the only one of my twenty long-sleeved shirts that fits me. And I have a tie that I’ve had for at least fifteen years. It’ll be fine.
As always, I worry about size before an interview. I would hesitate before hiring someone as overweight as me. And I worry that I’ll be sweaty in the interview. That I’ll smell bad. That I’ll pant too much. That I’ll break the chair. That I’ll have to walk in a gap between the interviewers tables and the wall and it’ll be too narrow and I’ll knock one of the interviewers’ bottles of water all over their lap. That the chair will have arms and I won’t fit in it. Or that the chair will have arms and I’ll just fit in it, but at the end of the interview, when I stand up, the chair will come with me and I’ll have to be helped out of it. Chairs are the enemy.
But barring a chair emergency, it should be fine. It really should.