The Interview By Katherine Horrex

So superficial in the supermarket interview room after arriving late, she asks what name I prefer to go by. "Katherine," I say, because I turn irate when abbreviated by people in suits, their faux matey-ness making me cringe. "Right then, Kath!" she says, a deliberate smile before she shoots through her lines as my back begins to twinge. It's apparent that her stage make-up of choice is transparent irony, though at least she can act, even if it is badly because me I can't at all- I fluff my lines when she gets to her "Why do you want to work here?" bit, tending to fall when forced to improvise- saying something about it not being like ASDA what with their 12 week trial, and by this point I realise I've failed by being badly prepared, but it becomes clearer still while she widens her eyes and replies that they do the same. (If only I'd heard.)

I sigh and inwardly wail, but on the outskirts am all smiles because all I want is the cash. At least this pain lasts only a while- whereas if I get the job it'll be prolonged- stacking bananas with an eye on the clock, handling the meat with tongs. Though I still shouldn't have worn odd socks. Finally, the icing on the own brand cake is in place when I boast of my "good sense of humour-" it's one of my qualities, see. But in her mind she runs a mile and over before explaining how I'll know in two or three weeks time:

"Thanks for coming, Kathy! Goodbye!" And I notice that although aware she is female, it hadn't really registered before; I can only remember her manner. Perhaps she's a better actor than I thought and a valuable lesson has just been taught for the letter arrived the day after- her performance in life has gotten her a BAFTA (or at least a good source of income), whilst mine's got me no more than nought. Still, I am safe in the knowledge that I remain classless And Morrisons is run by remorseless bastards.

Copyright © 2006  Katherine Horrex

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