Facepalm Week

Over some very suspect games of pool the other day, Claire mentioned that she should start charging me rent for the number of times I have slept at her and Tim’s flat.  This lead me to chart the places I have slept after twelve days of 2012;

1^st – I woke up on the floor of Claire and Tim’s flat (Sheffield)

2^nd – I woke up on my sister’s sofa-bed (Chesterfield)

3^rd – Again, my sister’s sofa-bed (Chesterfield)

4^th – For a change, I woke up on my mum’s sofa (Loughborough)

5^th – Actually woke up at my own place D: (Loughborough)

6^th – Again, I stayed at my own place because I’m a brave boy (Loughborough)

7^th - . . . . Claire and Tim’s living room floor (Sheffield)

8^th – Claire and Tim’s sofa (Sheffield) N.B. And no Gareth, it wasn’t the sofa you marked as your territory.

9^th – And I woke up at my sister’s house (Chesterfield)

10^th – My own bed

11^th – My own bed

12^th – and again, my own bed – clearly I’m getting the hang of this now.

So, in a nutshell, Claire does have a point, considering I’ve slept at Claire and Tim’s flat three times in twelve days (and potentially twice in the next three days) I think it’s fair to say she may have a point.

Urgh, cue the generic job grumble.  Now I hate to somewhat snobby, but they seem to collect all manner of socially inept folk (I hope I’m the exception).  There’s Gary, who is a thin, bespectacled 56-year old man who has the appearance of someone who should be located in a library’s dark recess.  WRONG – every other word out of his mouth is one curse or other.  There’s Phil, who I am fairly certain I would like to destroy, purely for being an over-confident swaggering arse.  Ally, who is perhaps the most unusual looking person I have ever seen; imagine the thing off Avatar (I don’t know the things name, I tolerated Avatar for a while before I realised it was the plot of Pocahontas and was then unimpressed) but with a normal skin tone and a hook nose – my friends, we have Ally.  I must stress that I hope I don’t sound like I consider myself superior, but last night a chap named Zahni asked me if, and I quote word for word, 

“have you ever been somewhere that you have never been before?”

Last year, my main New Year’s resolution was the rather homosexual one of “to find happiness” . . . in a way, I completed that, but not in the way I expected (see my last post for details).  And so, with the usual good intentions, I’ve set my New Year’s targets of (a) passing my driving test (b) find a good job (c) get a decent house, and (d) lose about three stone.  People often tell me that I’m not fat and I’m being ridiculous. WRONG! I carry it off fairly well through a combination of being tall and wearing waistcoats, but I am rather podgy. I suppose the best way to describe my physique is, imagine having a rather docile frog placed in front of you, and one was to gently hook your fingers under its arms and lift it ever-so-slightly.  Here, you would be presented with a creature with spindly arms and legs, and yet a rather bulbous belly; this is essentially me.

Anyway, and on to the tragi-comic tale of my job interview for Durham Constabulary.  Again, this happened a few years ago now (towards the autumn of 2009) when myself and Grace were living in Durham.  I managed to get myself an interview for a decent job with the local constabulary, and was quite chuffed and did a fair amount of research and what-not prior to the interview.  The day came, and I was looking rather fetching (obviously a waistcoat was used) and so I made my way to the police headquarters in rather high spirits.

Upon arrival, I showed the female receptionist the letter I had received, and explained that I was here for an interview.  She looked down the corridor I was meant to go, and she said that I was to "go through the double doors and turn left, and take the second door on the right".  Simple enough, you'd think. However, as she told me to turn left, she pointed right . . . . . . now I suppose I really should have asked for clarity, but hindsight is such a wonderful thing.  

I headed down the corridor and turned left, as she instructed (only rather gingerly) and made my way to the 'second door on the right', and then paused. "Wait a minute . . . if she points right when she means left, does that make this the right room?" screamed the voice in my head as I stroked my chin thoughtfully.  

I made the fatal mistake of trusting a receptionist.  Never trust a receptionist!

I was the first one into the room, the chairs were arranged in two rows crescents facing a board. "Oh, a group interview, I see," as I positioned myself at the centre of the back row.  The room began filling up with people, all of whom far more informally attired than myself.  I had an odd-glance or two cast at me, and retaliated by casting some of my own.

After the room filled, a rather stocky short-haired chap came in and stood at the front, grabbed the top page of a flip-chart, and turned it.  This revealed a very detailed layout of a house.

I was in the wrong room.

Sat where I was, at the centre of the back row, there was no way of me leaving discreetly.  Do I sit there, and become - as the meeting progressed the objectives became clear - part of a drugs bust team, or do I put my hand up, explain that I'm in the wrong room for an interview, promise not to relay the information to number 47, Bek Road End, Newton Hall, Durham, and leave?

Unfortunately, neither of these outcomes happened.  What did happen instead, is that my interviewer came and gently tapped on the door, and asked if there was a Michael Silk in here.  Immediately, all my "squadies" turned around and looked at me, sat there in my waistcoat, white shirt and purple tie.  I excused myself with as much dignity as I could muster.

Needless to say, I didn't get the job.