I have a job interview today dear Scribblers. I am so tired.
This job role is something I believe I could do really well. I don’t want to jinx it by saying that I’d quite like it very much, please, thank you, but just don’t tell anyone that I told you. Since the extraordinary boon of becoming a Script Development Supervisor for a whole year, this is the most writerly and apt role I’ve recently come across.
The title is Project Co-Ordinator but the role itself is about managing Business Communications, letter templates, projects, Press and PR and report creation as well as Health and Safety with a little copy-writing. By this I thankfully don’t mean being paid to word signage thus: CAUTION, WET FLOOR.
However, I assume brevity will be much prized: as the Bard said ‘Brevity is the soul of wit.’
I am writing this in advance and I am worried. This is largely because in interviews I have word vomit. It gets worse when I’m nervous and my throat actually gets tighter. It’s at word vomit times that I genuinely hate myself, not times when I’m on the scales. (By the way, I’ve lost 7lbs from just doing housework People, so cream tea be gone!)
Word vomit is probably also the reason I never talk to ‘obviously attractive’ attractive men. Although in the run up to Christmas at the bookshop I bantered away inconsequentially to someone very handsome and then said, “Ignore me…” as he didn’t seem to be responding much and he said “No, please, it’s actually really refreshing!” and then gave me this incredible smile. And here I was thinking that good looking guys get talked to all the time.
I was at another (impromptu) interview last week and not only was I nervous but I was on the spot. The interviewer good naturedly asked me:
“Do you actually stop to breathe when you talk?” *blushes*.
All the standard H.R. stuff will hopefully be done today, so nothing of my notes will get wasted. (What kind of Script Girl would I be if I did not loosely script myself due to crippling terror and perfectionism?)
I have to be careful not to pre-empt a Panic Attack. On Friday I tried to meditate to calm music before I made the call, but I ended up putting my brand new black cat-eye sunglasses on with my black work blazer and miming the Men in Black theme into a hairbrush. (I looked so good. It was also relaxing.)
I phoned my Stateside friend recently and she implored: “You sent me a picture of the glasses, where is the selfie of you IN the glasses?” She actually sounded cheated. It was adorable, but did stoke my vanity a bit.
Wish me luck. I am busily pretending to be grown up. Don’t send horseshoes.
~ Pola ~