It's hard to know where to begin with a post about a day like today. So I guess it's enough to say today started how these days often do -- with a job interview. The job is just for a six-week freelance contract, and from what I heard about it today there doesn't seem to be much chance of it going on longer than that. Six weeks work at £100 a day (or £70 when I have made my deductions for tax and invested them) is not to be sniffed at -- but it shows me that I still need to look for another line of work.
Anyway, the interview itself seemed to go well -- the job is a fairly basic press office, but in corporate rather than consumer PR. If I am to stay in PR, I think corporate might be a good way to go for me, but that's neither here nor there. One drawback is that it's an 8am start every day, which means getting up at something like 5.30, but whatever. I will cross that bridge when I come to it -- and follow my own advice from my last post, and go to bed earlier if I'm that bothered. So it went well, but they are seeing people all week which seems a bit excessive for a freelance contract. Even if I am better than all those other arseholes.
Since I was in London and had already shelled out almost £30 on a day's bloody travelcard, I figured I'd do something productive while I was there. I've been moaning to anyone who'll listen that what's worse than being broke and having no work is having nothing to do. There's a world of museums and art galleries to see in London for free, but I can't afford the travel.
What annoyed me about the book About A Boy, actually one of two things that annoyed me -- but the lesser of the two -- is the title. I once read an interview with Nick Hornby and he said he really regretted the title of the book, because it sounds silly when you say "Are you excited about About A Boy?" or "What do you like about About A Boy? But what also annoys me is the character of Will.
Partly he annoys me in and of himself, which is a good thing because it shows I'm engaging with him, and he's meant to be a bit of an idiot and not very likeable. But it annoys me that he does nothing. I mean, I know that's the point, that he doesn't need to work, but if it was me and I didn't need to work for money I'd do any number of things I loved! You could do nearly any job in the world if they didn't have to pay you. Or if he has so much money that he doesn't ever have to work, ever, why isn't he seeing the world? Perhaps he's just lazy.
Anyway, the point is that after my interview I went to the National Portrait Gallery. It's funny that I worked next door to the place for months and never went before now. I think the best way to do the gallery is probably with someone else, and with taking a break halfway through to go and have some lunch and talk about it and stuff. On your own you get a bit burned out on portraits after a while, and I don't have any money so I couldn't have lunch and come back to it and probably wouldn't have done the "coming back" part if I'd left.
I can't recall any particular portraits being my favourites -- somewhere halfway round the first floor I realised it was impractical to try and read the information card for every single picture. And later on, I wasn't interested enough to try and give every picture my full attention -- and would concentrate on people whose eyes particularly caught my interest or something in their expressions. I should perhaps have made notes which I enjoyed most, but really, it doesn't matter -- I enjoyed them, but didn't feel compelled to do much more. Although there were some authors and poets whose names I noted down, not because I liked their pictures but because they seemed interesting.
After the gallery, I was on the train home when my phone rang. It's been ringing on and off for a couple of days, following an interview for some bullshit sales job last week I decided I didn't want. They keep leaving very bored-sounding messages to say they want to "talk" to me about the interview, when they clearly said they wouldn't call anyone who wasn't successful. I decided I didn't want the job because they kept me waiting for 30 mins, just to have a joint interview with some random girl (who had been waiting for an hour at that point) and it wasn't a proper interview at all. Anyway, the call went to voicemail and I checked the message right away. A PR agency I sent my CV to on spec at the end of last week wanted me to come in for an interview. Today.
I got off at the next station and went straight back into London. I spent the next few hours first doing some quick research on them and their work, and then wandering the streets aimlessly after I found where I needed to go.
The interview itself again seemed to go pretty well -- I'm encouraged that the interviewer said her colleague we'd be working alongside wasn't in, and she wanted me to come back another day to meet her. If it had been hopeless, she wouldn't have suggested this -- right?
The interviewer asked me how I'd feel about working in a team of just girls, and I reassured her it wouldn't be a problem. Then I had an idea. When she asked me if I'd be okay with the commute (it was still central London, an easy commute) I said not only was I okay with it, but that "my girlfriend" lived nearby. See, I figured I would seem less threatening to an all-female team if I mentioned already having a girlfriend, and the living nearby was an added bonus. The trouble was the interviewer was very interested in my girlfriend -- how long we'd been together (why on earth did I say "a couple of years"?!), if we had any plans to get married, what she did for a living (thank god I didn't claim she worked in the media) and then when I said my girlfriend would be going abroad to work she started asking me if I thought our relationship would stand up to it, and what would I do if she cheated on me... This relationship lark is harder than it looks, and this is just with an imaginary girlfriend.
Still, fingers crossed on the interviews -- you never know, I might have two job offers by the end of the week. Or you know, I might still be sitting at home and getting fat.
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