To Lancaster for a job interview.
After ploughing through the questions about your experience and so on, then the "situational judgement test", then the bizarre online computer games involving blowing up balloons with the p and q keys, or stabbing at the right keys when a certain shape is flashed in front of you with an even or odd number within a jagged or smooth shape, then a self-recorded interview, which I did while we were on holiday in Brittany in July, I was surprised to receive an email inviting me to an interview for a job at Lancaster station.
You had to prepare a ten-minute presentation giving your one-, three- and six-month plan for what "you will have achieved in your role, how you will communicate with your team and what difficulties you might expect to encounter." What am I supposed to say? "My aims are not to lose my keys, to conceal the extent of my drinking, and to pass my probation so that I can get my rail pass."
I have never worked so hard on a job interview in my life. Kitty said she could get ChatGPT to help me, something which I'd never have thought of doing myself, and sent me some very helpful material, which I extensively revised to make it more my own voice.
The girls' mum said to shoehorn the company's values into the talk. The most difficult one was "passionate". There's a few things I feel passionate about, none of which are suitable to be discussed in a job interview, so I ended up saying I am passionate about ensuring a consistently high level of customer service, and opening the station to community groups.
The interview was held in the back room of the pub on the platform. I thought the interviewer was more nervous than me. I don't think I did very well. You're asked questions like "describe a situation in which you've had to make an unpopular decision." And my mind goes blank, then I start making something up, and I can hear myself lying as a little voice is shouting "you're making all this shit up!" in my head, whilst failing to provide me with an example I could use. I'll find out in a fortnight. I'm not hopeful. I always fail at the final hurdle.
When I was still working for Transport that Fails, I often used to work with a young girl -- well, a twenty-two-year-old -- who didn't want to work on her own in the buffet. She was very attractive, and got a lot of male attention that often wasn't welcome. It was a minor honour to be sent out on the train with her, since she felt uncomfortable working alone. There was something wrong in her upbringing -- she hated her dad -- but I enjoyed working with her and fielding her insouciant personal questions. She said she dreaded the idea of growing up: "I don't want to see twenty-five."
On Friday I got a call from someone at the station to say that she'd thrown herself in front of a train and killed herself. I wish she hadn't done it in that manner, since it's a horrible experience for the uninvolved train driver. Another funeral. You expect them to come at my age, but not for a twenty-two-year-old.
A few nights ago I went downstairs to join in with the bingo. An elderly female resident won two cards in a row. I said "you don't need any more luck Tess." "I tells you what I does need," she replied. "Sex!"
