I had the interview

OK, so I took all your advice, left Hector at home, and went to the interview. It wasn't in a disused quarry - that would have been spooky. No, it was a fully functional working quarry. All very fascinating. Not only were they blasting rocks - and apparently some of my job would be to deal with importing the explosives - but also, there's this bit of the quarry which they have to keep quiet about, because there might be some very valuable artefacts waiting to be dug up there. They hinted that it might even be the bones of Richard VI, who died in battle on that very site. So they couldn't show me into that bit of the quarry, but there was plenty else of interest.

But back to the beginning. I arrived, and was the focus of rather too much attention from a couple of enthusiastic Dobermanns. Not my favourite breed, and I'm a bit of a newcomer to the world of dog ownership, so I don't want to be judgmental, but I'd say that dogs that size need to be more firmly handled. They really weren't very well controlled at all. Luckily, my coat pockets these days are full of poo bags and treats, so I was able to stop them jumping up and slobbering over my nice interview clothes with a little morsel of kibble. Kibble might be a girl's best friend, in fact.

After I got past the dogs, a couple of nice men came and said they'd show me round. The first asked if he could look after my phone while I was there, which was terribly kind of him. It would be embarrassing to be interrupted in an interview, if you forgot to switch the phone off. He didn't seem very forthcoming, but the other man, the one with the metal teeth, was very friendly, and kept smiling at me, to put me at my ease.

They showed me the stagnant lake at the bottom of the quarry, and then the areas where the blasting takes place, and also this really fun bit where there's a huge crusher, and lots of old cars. It's a scrap metal business, but they called it "destroying the evidence" every time one of the cars was hoisted up by that huge magnet and dropped into the crusher. A good sign, definitely. I like working with people with a good sense of humour.

Then they took me in to see the boss, and he was also very kind. Asked all about my husband and family, and whether they'd miss me if I disappeared. Seemed a slightly odd way of assessing a candidate's self-esteem, but I'm wise to these psychological tests that they slip into interviews these days. No flies on me. Oh yes, interviews are quite the challenge these days. It used to be all verbal question and answer stuff, but not any more. Now it's all problem-solving exercises. So when they got the handcuffs out and snapped them round one of my wrists, attaching it to the chair, I just smiled and said "I suppose you're going to leave me here now, aren't you?" Spot on, of course. They walked off, but as they left, one of them sketched out the team-building exercise. "Someone'll be in to help you soon. Enjoy yourself, ha ha ha..." - as I say, I do like a sense of humour in a colleague, and so I joined in the laughter, to show that I, too, can have a laugh in the workplace.

The two other interviewees arrived, to help with the team challenge. I don't want to be smug here, but honestly, I did wonder if they were quite in the same league as me. Firstly, they weren't at all suitably dressed. I know I'm a little old-fashioned, but I do believe in covering up for an interview. If you have to wear a lace-up corset under your clothes to hold in those little flabby bits, fair enough. But for heaven's sake, don't forget to put your blouse on top before you leave the house! And perhaps black leather shorts and thigh boots are fashionable in Eastern Europe, but here in Britain, in February, I did think they weren't very suitable interview wear. They could have popped into John Lewis on the way, surely.

The team challenge was tricky, as the two other girls only spoke broken English, and at first I had no idea why they wanted to know where the nearest chemist was. I tried to explain that English words can have different meanings in Britain and America (and I mentioned my blog at this point - thought it was good to get that one in). When they kept on and on, asking about drugstores and drugs, I explained that in British English, we call them chemists, or pharmacies, and that I didn't know where the nearest one was, though I remembered driving past a Boots not far back. Then I finally worked it out. One of them must have had a bad headache, because she was very persistent in her questioning, and got so heated that she started slapping my face, and at that point, I can tell you, I was seriously worried about the outcome of the team challenge. Luckily, I had a packet of ibuprofen in my bag, which I offered her for the headache, though she didn't express much gratitude. Huh. So much for being good in a group situation.

Anyway, it was soon time to go home (the "handcuffed to the chair" thing - not as hard as it seems, at least not for someone who's operated a blog on Blogger for the past 5 years). I couldn't find anyone to show me out, which I thought was a bit odd, and it would be quite nice to get my phone back. I'm guessing that how I deal with that all feeds into the psychometric profiling. All in all, I came away with a positive impression of the organisation. I'll let you know when I hear from them.

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What shall I do?

I've been applying for a few jobs. I sent my cv to an agency or two. Apart from that, I've been putting "part time" into the search box of the local Gumtree, and if something vaguely interesting has come up, then I've winged off a cv, just to see what happens.

Well, I got called for interview. The job is an administrative one. The advert didn't say much (they don't), but when the guy phoned, he explained they were a family business, with a couple of areas of interest, and expanding quickly, which is why they need more administrative support. He sounded nice, normal, competent. I can't really say too much (we all know the dangers of blogging - it's never as anonymous and hidden as you think), but the main business is well-established enough that I've looked it up on a website, and driven past it. And I could eat there. People have been eating there for decades. That sounds pretty well-established, don't you think?

So, this evening I was going to go and look out some interview clothes, but just checked my email, and found one from Gumtree titled "Important Safety Alert". It said:

	Our Customer Services team have noticed something suspicious about someone you've been talking to on Gumtree.
	The user who posted the ad 'Part time Administrator' has been reported for fraud, so if you are still in contact with the user, we'd recommend you don't go any further with your transaction.
	If you have sent an item, some money or any confidential information to this user, you could be at risk of fraud.

So now I don't know what to do. Bloggy Friends, have your vote. Should I

1. Go to the interview. Get the job. Then ask what's going on.
2. Phone the guy in advance. Explain about the Gumtree email. Give him a right of reply. If you're not convinced, don't go to the interview.
3. Go to the interview. Tuck a flick-knife down your boot before you go.
4. Phone the police, and ask them what to do.
5. You must be mad to be even contemplating anything other than going to the police. These people have your cv. They know how many O levels you have. Just think what they could do with information like that.
6. Walk away. The last thing you need is extra stress in your life, and any which way you cut this, it sounds like extra stress. There will be other jobs.
7. Take Hector along with you. He'll be able to sniff out anything suspicious. They don't call him "Hector the Inspector" for nothing. Look at the way he demolished that packet of Special K. From Special K to Special Branch - this could be his big break. And if things get nasty, he could pee on the floor, distracting the villains for a few important seconds while you make your escape.
8. Ooooh, intrigue! You HAVE to go to the interview. You have to get the job. You have to investigate the situation from the inside. It would make such a great blog post. Maybe a novel. Don't disappoint us, Iota. 

What do you think?

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A new word

This morning, my younger son told me about a new word that's been invented. It ties in rather nicely with the post I wrote yesterday. The word is floordrobe. Do I need to explain its meaning to you? No - I think you can work it out.
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Ramblings about teens

Everyone warns you about having teenagers, but I have to say, so far, I'm enjoying it.

Good. Got that out of the way. A disclaimer, in case you're reading this at some point in the future, 15-yo. Hello to you, now you've got children of your own and you're thinking it might be fun to see what your old mum whittered on about when she was writing that blog. *waves*

Seriously. The teenage years bring a new dimension to family life, for sure. There is loss (you hardly see them, and this loss is felt by younger siblings as well as parents), but there is gain. You can watch unsuitable comedy together, and discover a shared love of naughty humour. You can expect more help about the house. You see a person emerging in his own right. There are some rather nice hoodies to borrow if you get bored of your own clothes. You have a live-at-home babysitter for a Saturday night. They self-function, so you no longer have to remind them where to be at what time, what equipment to take, what to wear. There's no more chivvying in the morning, have they remembered this? have they remembered that? have they finished their homework? So if you hate that morning chivvying, take heart; it won't go on forever. They even tell you in advance if they need a particular piece of kit to be washed and ready by a particular date.

Although come to think of it, laundry... ah, laundry... that's actually my big sticking point. I know you people with babies and toddlers think you do a lot of laundry, and I don't want to do that irritating "oh, just you wait till they're teenagers" thing that used to annoy me so much when I had wee ones, but... at least the items are small and cute. A whole drumful of sleepsuits, vests with poppers, tiny socks... Now, it's a pair of jeans, a hoodie, a couple of t-shirts, some track suit bottoms, and the drum is already overloaded. (I miss that American way of putting "already" at the end of the sentence. The drum is overloaded already. There that's better.)

Then there's the other issue, which is the placing of the laundry. Dirty socks, pants and other smaller items, are strewn around the bedroom floor - well it's my bedroom so what does it matter? Large clean items, worn once, are put in the laundry basket - no it's not because I was being lazy and didn't want to put them away, it's because I thought they were dirty, see there's a mark there, um, there, um, somewhere, um, I'm sure I saw one.

But I wouldn't be the Iota you know and love if there weren't some laundry woes involved.

Brag alert: I came across this email the other day, when I was looking for something unrelated, and I forwarded it to 15-yo. It was written soon after he'd started High School, and joined the soccer team. His coach said "I want to let you know that 14-yo has been one of the best young men I have ever had the privilege to coach.  He is very polite and has quite a sense of humor.  He has also been a great impact on the team. With his quiet sneaky style of play he surprises people including us coaches on a ever more frequent basis.  I dare say he is probably my favorite all around player/student/personality on our team." Boy, I miss America. Not only that "already" at the end of a sentence thing, but also, people say gushingly nice things about your children on a regular basis. I add that in to tone down the bragginess of quoting this to you. You have to remember that in Scotland, the equivalent sentiment would be expressed to me with a sniff, and a "yeah, he's doing ok". I also have to add that I had been reluctant to let 14-yo (as he was) join the soccer team, for various reasons which were almost entirely those of cultural misunderstanding and disconnect (*waves and says sorry about that, Son, but it worked out ok in the end, didn't it?*), so I'm thinking that maybe the coach was trying to butter me up a little.

Anyway, I feel I've now prepared the ground well enough, in case he's reading, to be able to share one of those "hopeless teens" stories about my son.

The other evening, I was in the study on the computer. The kids were finishing dinner on their own. 15-yo came in and asked if they could have custard for dessert. Ambrosia custard is one of his favourite things in the whole world. (He has a point.) I said yes. A couple of minutes later, he came back and asked where the tin-opener was. I replied that I didn't know, probably dirty in the dishwasher. He responded, "How do I open the tin, then?" It was a moment for a personal problem-solving challenge, I felt, so I replied "I am confident that if you really want custard, and if the other two also want custard and start nagging you, then you will work out a way." And then I very deliberately didn't go and check up on the situation.

And the end of the story, dear Bloggy Readers, is that later on, I found the tin of custard unopened... and in the fridge.
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Oh, Hector

I've been asking Husband for ages if he could help me fix the Lindam gate (for "help me fix", read "fix") that we have between the kitchen and the utility room, so that I can leave the house without Hector free-roaming in the kitchen. Husband fixed the gate yesterday. So this morning, you would think that I would leave Hector in the utility room, with the gate shut. You would think.

But old habits die hard, and I didn't. When I came home from Sainsbury's, this was the scene that greeted me.

I still haven't worked out how he got the packet down from the table, since I'd carefully tucked the chairs in and moved everything away from the sides. There have been two occasions when I've been puzzled by a pair of my gloves appearing in his crate. Both times, I was sure I'd left the gloves on the table, but had concluded that I must have dropped them, or left them somewhere in reach. I couldn't believe that Hector could have got up onto a chair, wriggled round to get up onto the table, tidily selected the most interesting item without disturbing the rest of the selection on offer, and got back down again. But with this morning's event providing a new piece of the detective jigsaw, I conclude that that is exactly what he did. (Unless he can jump straight onto the table from the floor, which I suppose is another possibility.)

And just in case you want to leap to his defence, I have photographic evidence of his guilt.

I think that's conclusive proof. Caught red-pawed, wouldn't you agree?

For the eagle-eyed among you, yes, someone in the family had edited the front of the cereal packet, to read "Special Kat". Do you think that's why Hector couldn't resist the temptation?

Thank heavens for Dysons. That's the moral of the story. But before I go, I must just share one rather revolting detail with you. When I found him, Hector was acting in a slightly deranged way. He was rearing up on his back legs, Pudsey-style, stroking and batting at the sides of his jaw with both front paws. He was licking his lips and throwing his head around, and it became obvious to me that there was something stuck in his mouth. On investigation, I found a great cloying wad of Special Kat, mashed together and compressed onto the roof of his mouth. I suppose evolution didn't design the spaniel jowl for the efficient mastication of breakfast cereal. He didn't seem to be making progress in dealing with the situation himself, so I had no choice but to hold his mouth open, and scrape the Special Kat wad from the roof of his mouth with my index finger. Look away now, if you don't want to know the result. (The Sharpie and the pound coin are for scale.)

I've totally put you off your flapjack, haven't I?

Oh, Hector. You're in the doghouse again.

Life is sometimes not like the movies

I've just been watching a clip on Potty Diaries, which shows David Beckham sprinting, swimming, jumping fences, kicking footballs as he charges through his neighbourhood in pursuit of Victoria and the kids in their car. You know, apart from the car (silver VW instead of black Range Rover), that could've been a glimpse into our lives. If I ever drive away with something in the car that Husband needs, that is EXACTLY what it looks like here. Oh, and except Husband doesn't wear H&M underwear.

But life isn't always like the movies.

In the run up to Christmas, I did a fair amount of browsing and shopping on Amazon. So did Husband. I spotted an email that a dvd had been despatched: Season Two of Modern Family. What? You haven't discovered Modern Family yet. Ah... you're in for a treat (though Season One is better than Season Two, in my opinion).

"Oooh, goodie!" I thought. "What a brilliant present. Good on you, Husband. I'll enjoy that. We'll enjoy that together."

Christmas came and went, and no Modern Family dvd was unwrapped. Hm. Unfortunately, I'd made a joke to someone earlier on, about how I'd pretended I hadn't seen the email confirming despatch of the dvd, but that it had better turn up on Christmas Day, otherwise it would be like that bit in Love, Actually. You know. The bit where Alan Rickman buys a heart pendant necklace, which his wife Emma Thompson assumes is for her, but then it doesn't turn up on Christmas Day, and she knows it must have been for someone else. So I'd joked about that, and then... the dvd didn't turn upon Christmas Day.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I was quite safe. I mean, heart pendant necklace is one thing. Modern Family dvd is another. You have a point. It doesn't smack of steamy affair with nymph-like seductress, does it? However, it was a mystery.

I challenged Husband. "What happened to the Modern Family dvd you ordered for me? I saw the email from Amazon."

"What dvd? I didn't order a Modern Family dvd?"

Let's cut a long story short here, and I'll tell you what had happened. I had ordered the dvd myself. I remembered, with prompting from the Amazon "order history", that I'd been putting together an order of several presents, in a hurry. I'd mused and pondered over whether to buy the Modern Family dvd for Husband. I went back and forth, add-to-basket-delete-from-basket-add-to-basket-delete-from-basket, on the basis that it was too obviously a present for him that I wanted myself. I thought I'd finally decided not to buy it, but in fact, I had done.

That didn't happen to Emma Thompson, did it? Script writers don't bother with plot denouments as unglamorous as memory slippage. It would sound a bit unlikely. "Oh, I ordered it, and then thought I hadn't ordered it, and that you must have ordered it." And boring. Not dramatic enough for a film.

I like that episode in Love, Actually. It stops the film from being too totally mawkish and soppy about love. And I'm also glad that my life was boring and undramatic and unfilm-like on this particular occasion, because forgetting what you've ordered online in a busy week before Christmas, though a little embarrassing, is better than the alternatives.

There is a twist in the tail, though. When I asked Husband where the dvd was, he denied all knowledge of it. We worked out, given the despatch date in the email and our travels over the Christmas period, that it had never arrived. So I contacted Amazon, and they sent another. (Though, sshhhh, just between you and me, I can't help wondering if it did in fact arrive, and if I will find it, in years to come, hidden away in a safe place, along with one or two other surprise Christmas presents.)

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Situation vacant

Wanted: Swimming Sherpa

Hours: 1-2, about 2-3 times a week

Job Description: Make my swimming experience easier. Golfers have caddies. Birthing women have doulas. Why shouldn't I have a swimming sherpa?

Duties: 

• Pick out and bring all necessary swimming equipment, remembering hairbrush, shampoo, deodorant, coin for locker, plastic bag for wet swimsuit, clean underwear, membership card, etc.
• Remind me to use loo before getting changed into swimsuit.
• Find big locker which has key with safety pin attached, or if unavailable, nick safety pin from key to small locker. (Or bring TWO coins for two small lockers, both with safety pins on key rings.)
• Work out how to fit my coat, shoes, clothes and other items into one locker, without getting rain/mud debris on clean/dry items (this is Scotland).
• Check out how attentive lifeguard is, and advise on whether showering before entering pool essential on each occasion. 
• Hold towel while I swim. 
• Hold glasses while I swim. 
• Advise me if anyone is trying to catch my attention, ask them if I know them, and explain that I am very short-sighted and not ignoring them deliberately.
• Keep count of my number of lengths. 
• Calculate mileage swum, with creative use of language as appropriate.
• Choose shower, based on criteria such as whether door shuts properly, whether plughole full of someone else's hair, whether shower gel dispenser is full, whether water is hot, strength of water jet, etc.
• Ensure my clothes don't fall on wet floor as I dress.
• Stand just outside cubicle, arms outstretched for use as additional hooks (or lobby health club to fix more than one hook in each cubicle.)
• Rinse and spin swimsuit.
• Locate functioning hair-dryer.
• Carry wet and dry kit home in appropriate bags, and hang out or place in laundry basket or put away.

Qualifications: No qualification required, but previous experience desirable. If you are a parent who has ever taken an under 5 swimming, you will be ideally qualified. Over-qualified, in fact. I won't expect you also to breast-feed a baby, or entertain one of my siblings with a book, while you attend to my needs. I won't cry if you bring me a Teletubbies towel instead of a Peppa Pig one, or refuse to leave the building without a treat.

I'm not one of the 1 in 8 British adults

According to the Daily Mail (which I don't read, I saw the quote elsewhere), 1 in 8 British adults own a onesie.

Nooooooo.....!

I remember well the day I was shopping, deep in the heart of America's Midwest, in Target, with my sister-in-law who was visiting from London. We saw an adult fleecy onesie for sale, and we both had to suppress a nauseous reaction. If we weren't physically gagging, we were very nearly doing so. I seem to remember being vaguely comforted by the idea that this was America, and we couldn't imagine these abominations would ever catch on in Britain. Alas. How wrong we were.

Why, oh why, would any self-respecting adult buy a onesie? Is that it? Have those who bought onesies done so as a statement of lost self-respect? Is it a way of getting referred for therapy on the NHS? Do you go to your GP, and say "Not only do I struggle with feelings of depression, but I've also bought a onesie"? Or were those millions of onesies all bought by people who didn't know what else to get friends and relations for Christmas?

A onesie. It's a step down from a slanket, and that's saying something.

Do you wear a onesie like pyjamas? In which case, aren't the soles of your feet all dirty when you go to bed? Or do you wear it like a dressing gown - over your pyjamas? In which case, isn't it just horribly bulky, like Michelin Man? Does it make you feel like you're in a fleecy version of Star Trek? Don't you get very cold when you go to the loo? Do you find yourself hopping about, crossing your legs, sucking in your breath, while you fumble with that long, long zip? Or poppers? Please don't tell me you have poppers.

Please, if you're a 1 in 8, enlighten me. 'Fess up. Are YOU one of them?