Observations

Update 3 (12/02/10): Now being called for second interview for the second job I'm chasing. Seems that employers can put us job-seekers through hoops in the current market. Ah well, nothing I can do except go for it.

Update 2: Separate interview this morning. Stress levels through the roof, but I think it was a good one, so any crossed appendages would be gratefully received.

Update: I have been successful for the first interview, but now await the date of a second one. Sigh.

So to interview yesterday - first of two in the next couple of days - and it went reasonably well I think. The main thrust seemed to be about why I was attracted to the job, which is something of a move away from the areas I have been working in till now, and I think I managed to put forward some convincing and cogent arguments.

Prior to going in, I was - as is usual for me - thinking that I would just say 'fuck it' and go home, but I took a deep breath, checked my tie in the mirror for about the hundredth time, and strode in. After a brief tour (very interesting facility they have, which - should I prove successful - I'm sure I'll write more about) I was deposited in the room for the scenario test, and despite my imagination concocting all kinds of things from a panel of professionals firing off questions to a full re-enactment of a road traffic accident, a la Casualty, it turned out to be two facilities-type questions to be answered on MS Word in 30 minutes. Again, I think I fared well enough, as I should with more than 20 years' experience in the field, and proceeded to the panel interview. They were not the scariest panel I have ever faced, and I found myself relaxing into the task as I went on, and could see that I was getting some positive responses. No doubt that last sentence will be the jinx which means that I don't get the bloody thing, but we will wait and see. There were, I was told, six candidates to be seen, and a possibility of a second interview to follow. I was also informed that they would feed back their decision quickly. And so I wait.



On the way there, I had an unwanted demonstration of the worst of this city as I sat on a bus at Parliament Square. A man got on and presented a £10 note to the bus driver, which has been a faux pas for at least the last ten years, and was told that only pre-paid tickets or passes could be used within the central zone. Not to be discouraged, the man said he only wanted to travel one or two stops and then he would get off and collect some change from a shop (as there is a Tesco Metro not far from the bus stop, his argument didn't really hold water, but there you go) but the driver was having none of it. By now, the patience of (no doubt) a lady civil servant near the front of the bus had been exhausted and she said, in a raised voice:

"What are you doing? Get a move on!"

The man ignored her and continued his futile negotiation with the driver and so the woman went on: "You're holding everybody up. Get off the bus!" she said. The man turned to us fortunate, seated passengers and waving his tenner, said:

"Has anyone got change?"

Everybody except the woman simply shook their heads and stared at the floor, while she ranted:

"NO! Now get off the bus!"

He realised that he could not go on and stepped out of the warmth of the doorway into the snow and freezing wind. As we moved off, the woman was saying to her companion:

"He was just wasting everybody's time. Ridiculous!" As if it was vitally important for her to get to her meaningless place of employment in Whitehall so that she could whinge about everyone over her coffee. All funded by the taxpayer. I ask you.

Onward and upward, as they say. Preparation for second interview now, which takes place tomorrow morning.

Renewed faith?

Don't get me wrong, but I was pleasantly surprised to see one of our top politicians practicing what he preaches yesterday. I was on the bus heading towards the Angel, and we approached a set of traffic lights just as they were changing to green. Two cyclists were slightly caught out by this and started a little slowly, but one - riding a sleek racer - soon picked up speed and kept pace with the bus for a few yards. The other, who was perched on a far more utilitarian model, struggled slightly and laboured up the incline as the bus passed him. Something about him caught my attention; sticking out of his German army style cycling helmet could be seen unruly strands of platinum blond hair, and his head was moving from side to side as he pedalled.

I turned in my seat to look closely and was almost inclined to say something to my fellow passengers when I saw that it was your favourite and mine - Boris Johnson - muttering away to himself. Of course, along with that twat Cameron, old BJ has made a big deal out of the fact that he rides a bike, though he could hardly be called a champion of green causes, so I did wonder why he bothered. Cynical as I am, I just assumed that he didn't really ride around unless there was a posse of paps on his tail, thus maximising the photo opportunity. Like Dave, I believed that if and when he did cycle, he was supported by a large retinue of assistants, carrying his important papers and protecting him from assassination attempts.

I was mistaken. I hold my hand up. But as I said, don't get me wrong. I have no time for the man and his politics, his privileged upbringing and his lovable buffoonery.

It did strike me however, that Gordon Brown would never be seen dead on a bicycle (I hope I'm not being too horrid when I say that, for the sake of other Londoners' safety, I suppose this is a good thing) and it would indeed be an incongruous sight if he ever did get on one. As you all probably know, I do work in the Whitehall area, so often see old GB in and out of Downing Street, led by tough looking motorbike cops and a couple of Daimlers, and followed by blacked out people carriers and yet more motorbikes. So, the PM can't move without a major security operation, but the Mayor of London is OK to ride around like a naked baby through the capital's mean streets.



(sorry about the size of the pic - I'm new to yfrog and haven't worked out its mysteries yet)

It's a funny old world, I reckon.

What the?

As I was getting on the bus to go home this evening, I was waiting politely for the woman in front of me to board before shuffling through the bloody snow to stroke my Oyster on the reader. I realise that this (I mean the waiting politely part, as getting on buses after work is probably something I share with many people, whereas stroking Oysters may not be quite so shared an experience) is something of an alien concept for many, but - what can I say? I yam what I yam. First of all, another woman half-barged past me from behind just at the moment that I saw it was clear to move forward, which meant that I - unintentionally - blocked her path.



"Right, OK..." she said, in a very tutting sort of way, before stepping back to ostentatiously peer at the display panel, clearly changing her mind about the desperately urgent need to get on the Number 3 before anyone else did. I resisted the urge to smack her in the mouth and meekly followed the first woman on board. I could tell by her backpack that she worked in the same place as me, though I had never seen her before. And then came the dreaded error bleep. Plain for all to see, quite blunt in its language, the Oyster reader displayed the 'Not Enough Money' message. For a brief moment, my eyes met those of the driver (if I too had been sporting a moustache, who knows what might have happened?) and I hesitated before executing my own Oyster stroke. The cheapskate woman in front of me blithely proceeded down the bus after a brief double-take at the machine, and the driver knew that he had no option but to act.

"Excuse me..."

I Oystered myself out of the situation, but could not move forward, so stood watching her majestic progress towards the exit doors as she ignored the question. I had been in enough public transport stand-offs to know that - basically - anything could happen, so my breath was, as they say, bated.

"Excuse me..."

"What?" the woman replied - rather rudely, and (incidentally) Germanically I thought - glancing owlishly around as she stalked back to the driver. I slipped past her, dreading the possible outcome, and ensconced myself on the rear-facing back seats.

On Duty

I am on duty this evening. An extraordinary set of circumstances has conspired so that I have to sit in a part of my office from 5.00 this evening until 9.00 tomorrow morning. It is now half past midnight, just 30 minutes away from British Summer Time, and - needless to say - I can feel a cold coming on.

London's callous viciousness again showed its ugly face when I was on my way here earlier. I was in the box seat on the 91, pootling along the Cally. A gang of young kids were standing (as they often do) outside Caledonian Kebab. No wonder this country is in such a state if that's what passes for entertainment for the young, but anyway, I noticed an older man among them - small but balding - and he was noticeable because he looked a bit pissed, staggering slightly into the road. I could see him smiling, and though I did register that it was odd to see him among these kids, he didn't appear threatening in any way. Then, the smile still playing about his lips, he raised his hand up so that it was next to his ear, and I noticed that he was holding a small bottle of Glen's (or some such) vodka in that hand. Without changing the smile, he suddenly launched the bottle, with some force, at the bus and I heard it smash against the side. I couldn't tell if he had hit a window or the metal structure, but the driver stopped the bus immediately and I, and the few passengers who were with me on the uppder deck all stood up and moved to see what had happened. Strangely, a young black girl on the back seat thought the whole thing was somehow amusing.

Little baldy didn't react to the angry words and gestures of the bus driver, except to laugh and caper around a little, before slowly walking away.

Public masturbation

A recent Twitter tweet reflected my masochistic joy at taking an early morning bus ride in the sort of storm conditions we've recently experienced. I don't wish to dilute the majestic poetry of my tweet by explaining it, but there will be some value, I feel, in distilling my preference for bus over tube for the daily commute, especially at this time of year.

Mostly, it's about control. On the tube, you enter an environment in some ways akin to a hospital, though probably with higher levels of cleanliness. We surrender our physical freedom to a higher power. We lie back and expose our anaesthetised bodies to the care of the authorities. Within minutes, we can be rendered helpless by the might of the machine in which we are immersed. On a bus, it's not the same, because - if the traffic's heavy - we can press the bell and get off. The journey takes a little longer, but it's worth it. Trust me.

So, for my journey to work, I leave the house around 7.00. The majority of fellow travellers are (for want of a better word, and bearing no pejorative overtones, I assure you) immigrants of one sort or another. Eastern Europeans, Africans. Cleaners - middle aged or older if black, late 30s if Caucasian - snoozing in the back seat corner, security guards in uniform with trainer shod feet, builders carrying spirit levels and large Stanley toolboxes. Mobile phone conversations in a Babel of hushed tones. And me.

The wet; the barely revealing lightness of the day; the orangey flashes of passing cars and the incessant beeping of the door exit alarms; the susurration of tyres through the kerbside puddles. No children. And the punctuation of occasional heated arguments outside or in. There is a cloistered feel about the whole experience, as of a secret shared, a huddle beneath an umbrella with the patter of raindrops overhead.

All truly wonderful, I'm sure you'll agree, particularly in the early morning when you are faced with a day of stress and bullshit. However (with apologies to those among my readership who are uncomfortable with my misanthropic tendencies) my most recent journey was disturbed by the vile habits of the man with a seriously thinning, yet seriously greasy, barnet fair who occupied the coveted - front upper left - seat on the 91. I heard a methodical clicking sound as I climbed the stairs to the upper deck.

Initially disgruntled, as I was forced to squeeze myself into a seat next to someone, I soon settled, checking my Blackberry and absorbing the condensation filled atmosphere. I knew that within a few minutes, seats would become free, and I bided my time with patience and fortitude. The clicking continued. The worst thing was that somebody (a woman also) was actually sitting next to him while he did it. And he did it for ages - at least 3 stops. When he got off, somebody (who had witnessed what he was doing) casually brushed down the seat before sitting in it. Dee-sgusting!