I had the joy of an interview the other day. A proper one, not an informal ‘chat’ with coffee-stained ties and forced small talk; this was the Big Mac of interviews. I now understand why babies get impatiently frustrated in the womb and kick out at their mother. In my interview’s waiting womb the tension, the pressure and the suspense… It built up to the point of hilarity. Some candidates were impersonating strobe lights with incessant blinking, others pacing like a one-legged Ministry of Silly Walks tribute act, whilst the Graduate Recruitment staff member cockily sat back and smirked at the adoring, drooling internship hopefuls. The room’s sweat and toilet breaks warranted its own weather forecast.

During the interviews no one says what they expect to. Anything prepared is churned out in a spiel which sits somewhere between a confession of armed robbery and your weekly Asda shopping list. All of a sudden eye contact is as difficult as learning fluent Finnish in forty minutes. Your top button tightens and your dry windpipe would make a great woodwind instrument.

Then, the final handshake, finishing touches, cheeky smile and triumphant walk in the wrong direction after the interview. What on earth as I worrying about? I am the king of the interview world. A REJECTION?! ‘You were friendly, personable and answered some questions with a good level of detail, well done… The removal of your trousers, singing of the Dutch national anthem and alternative recipes for beans on toast were, however, less than impressive’. Cheers.

Yes, yes… Alright, there is more Malbec! Instalment I, V, or VI (Roman numerals will confuse, is the logic…)

…Nowadays having no stilton in the refrigerator is enough to perplex a man, but here Malbec was faced with one of his race’s great questions, stood engulfed in space and emptiness as so many of the world’s great thinkers wish they could have been. Malbec knew he should ask questions about the void around him but he had frozen. He knew nothing of theology and even less of the NFL, but something told him he was definitely not about to find his watch. And surely Mrs Malbec’s muffins would be burned by now.

Malbec wondered what he was there for, or if he was to wait for something to happen. He hoped to God it was not Godot, or even worse Beckett, or worse still a table at the Mayfair as he had not cancelled his orthodontist for next week. He walked on hopefully. He could not tell which direction he was heading towards, or if direction even existed in this enigma, perhaps all was now undefined and infinite? Would there be an abyss or just a teasing mirage, preferably one involving a young brunette and some salad tongs?

Gradually a door took shape in the distance. It was jaded and black and reminded Malbec of his primary school. He had always attended school wearing a blindfold, and whilst the thought of removing it crossed his mind, he knew everyone would think he was very good at karate and decided to persevere. As he grew closer he noticed packets of food littering his way. A frozen salmon terrine was dancing the Flamenco with some pineapple chunks, whilst there was a minor feud between red onion chutney and a rather vicious looking veal chop, but fortunately for Malbec an army of canapés stepped in and so the warring parties all went for afternoon tea…

PHWOAR… It’s coming to an exciting close, but there is more next week!

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