Saturday, September 03, 2005


In November 2003 I was approached and woo'ed by a recruitment agency. Better job, more money, company car, out on the road managing managers. I was so excited and, of course flattered. Beware the ego, it can trip you up badly. Or is that fecking butterfly in the rain forest at it again?

My first interview was a breeze and I knew I had the job in the bag. Time came for the second interview with the Ops Executive (whom I later named Jabba the Hut - a dead ringer).

I had to travel 200 miles by train for this, an early train which I have used many many times.
This particular day I went to buy a paper and came out of the kiosk to see the ass of my transport pulling out of the station. Oh the feeling as my stomach sank, my mouth fell open with disbelief convinced the train had left early, it wasn't my train, or I was hallucinating due to having to get out of my pit at 5am and look intelligent and groomed to perfection. Remember, I live in the Highlands of Scotland...trains don't run every 15 minutes, in fact the efficiency of Scotrail, or rather lack of it could be blogged into oblivion and beyond. I'll save that rant for another time.

I retreated to the coffee shop for a comfort cappuccino and to try and stop hyperventilating so my mind could come up with a plausible story for being late. Easy, blame it on Scotrail, no contest. I delved into the rip in the space time continuum otherwise known as a handbag and gobbler of personal items when you need them urgently....I've actually heard my phone ring from across the void and give up, only to re-appear mysteriously 6 hours later. This time I needed my reading glasses (I cannot see a word without them), they were visiting the 5th dimension, no such luck, I'd left them at home. How was I going to complete a phsycometric test without a crash course in Braille and said test to be converted to this medium at short notice, without Jabba being just a tad suspicious about my suitability for the job. Hyperventilation was becoming second nature to me along with that wide eyed stare that goes with it, hmmmm very becoming. Small animals and children will run for cover when I appear from now on. My husband, who was sitting there trying to make soothing noises remembered an "off the shelf" pair of glasses knocking around the car...problem solved, I'll just look like a myopic owl today and pretend I am normal.

My eyes returned to their normal state, my breathing slowed. I made a phone call and cursed Scotrail to the ends of the earth and arranged the interview for an hour later with no problem.

Then a voice in my head shouted "It's an omen, don't go". I turned to my husband and said "It's an omen - I'm not going". He said "Don't be so bloody stupid, get on the fucking train".

The moral of this tale? If you are defnitely not, or are not in the process of being diagnosed with schizophrenia - LISTEN TO THE VOICE!



Blogger Kevin said...

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11:57 AM  

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