I take the bus into town. Thinking as i sit there this will be fine; it’s only an interview. Sitting there chewing on my nails, searching my mind for examples, references, past jobs where I can demonstrate competency. I hate interviews!
Suburbs whiz by and the city begins. The bus gets closer to Nassau Street. I have 15 more minutes until my interview. I can take a short walk, calm myself down. I’d love a pint.
Fumbling with my bag, I press the STOP button and wait for the driver to grumpily bring the doubledecker to an abrupt halt. I don’t know why he looks surprised. This is a bus stop.
Traipsing off I offer an obligatory thanks. It’s met with an obligatory silence. The street is crowded. Road works, tourists, students, beggars. This is Dublin. It’s difficult to fight my way through the hoards to reach the other side. My interview is only half way up Dawson Street, but right now it feels like miles away.
You should have left earlier. This street is manic. You should have gotten up earlier, gone for a run. Jesus, where are all these people coming from. Remember this the next time, will you.
This noise is startling. Dashing across the road, cars honk, cyclists swear. At this rate I’ll be late. This is the first interview in three months. If I make it in one piece, I’m having a pint.