|The retelling of an interview situation skewed by reading too much Hunter S. Thompson in the bath
||[Mar. 6th, 2006|02:17 pm]
|||||chilly in the office||]|
|||||The Future Soundrack for America||]|
“So. Tell me what you do?”
I was stumped. How do I even begin to answer? How much detail did this guy want anyway? I could tell he wouldn’t be impressed with cake baking and turning a hand at ironing a shirt every once in a while so I decided to cut to the chase:
“I have a portfolio.”
So, right there in the building of a farmhouse in the middle of Nowheresville, Coventry, I showed him what I was made of.
Half an hour earlier, I was in the back of a black cab, careering down the A45 on a Wednesday morning. It was 9.11am; nineteen minutes ‘til I had to see a guy that was described by the recruitment wacks as Jack Nicholson eyebrows and a face that’s seen the best and worst this industry offers. Coming face to face with him in the sun-ripened flesh, I could see what she meant. He was abrupt in every way; style of speech was just one part.
“It’s not your fault but it’s a bit limited,” he said.
Limited. Condemned by the self-made prison that had been supporting my lifestyle over the last two years.
Recruitment advertising hell. Another catch 22 situation; I can’t get out because my portfolio’s limited and I can’t expand my scope of work ‘til I get out.
“We’ll let you know next week.”