Despite being a very busy person (as we have previously established), and a professional faffer, I am on the lookout for a suitable proper job. A job that might mean that I no longer have the luxury of time in which to blog, or to write novels doomed to failure. Yes, folks, a job that pays actual money.
I have tried several jobs in recent times. I applied to be a writer for a dog website. They didn’t want me. I considered becoming a school librarian, but lost my nerve in the end. And the week before last, I was actually called to an interview – a real and bona-fide interview at an actual establishment, where I sat in front of a selection committee, and they fired ridiculous questions at me.
The job? It would have been perfect. There was no way that, had they offered it to me, I would have been able to turn it down. It was a professional job, in an esteemed institution. I’d have been a fool to let it slip away.
Yet still I had doubts. Doubts about what the job was, doubts about my abilities, doubts about whether I would have liked it or not…
It has been a long time since I last had an interview for a job in a school. Back in the day, I was offered every job I went for. Maybe it was my youth and charm that sealed my fate – or was it just that I was a cheap NQT? Either way, I guess I am now more expensive, and, ironically, in a way, less experienced, as I have not been actually teaching for quite a while.
I emerged from the interview buoyant – it was over and I had done my best. The job was good – it could work around the Four Little Seymours! And I would potentially be bringing home a little bit of pecuniary bacon.
But alas, I fear I may have let myself down. On reflection, during interview, I think I gabbled. I said too many words, and the words I chose were immature. I may have lingered too long over the timetabling options (whilst silently computing how the hours would fit in around the Four Little Seymours’ schedule). The examples of my recent successes related to five year-olds, and not the target audience of sixth formers. I was not a strong candidate.
Yes, dear readers, I think my brain has officially turned to mush.
And I did not get the job.
Never fear! We are used to being frugal. Who needs cash when you have an uncanny ability to find free stuff? Who needs to be rich, when you have a Big Seymour to source luxury items at the dump? And raid the Co Op every evening for “reducedies”. (He has started taking this too far and I fear is now addicted to the place and its orange labels. A bargain is a bargain only if you’ll actually use it.)
Little Seymour Number Two had Bikeability last week. (That is the poncy new name for good old Cycling Proficiency). I was convinced that her bike would fail to make the grade, coming, as it does, from the ony place we ever get bikes – the scrap yard. But strangely, despite her back wheel sticking and her brakes being a little soft, she passed with flying colours! That was a turn up for the books, and re-assured me that, for the time being at least, I don’t have to go to Halfords and spend several hundred quid on new bikes that my kids will then leave out in the rain.
All is not lost on the job front, however. I have successfully enrolled onto the list of a local supply agency. I miraculously found all my certificates (buried deep within the un-touched, dusty and hostile North Wing of The Funny Little Bungalow) and a couple of willing referees and I have done some real paid work! Admittedly, it’s a slow burner. My availability at this time of year is limited, what with leavers’ ceremonies, forest schools, French cafes, gardening clubs, lifeguarding sessions, Key Stage One readers, trips out and lots of poorly Little Seymours, but it’s a start. Hopefully I can build on the two afternoons I have so far managed, and carve out a career to suit me… You never know.
In the mean time, however, I am just going to come up with a cunning plan to make some money…
Does anyone want to join me in starting up a band? I may be a mush-brained, rejected ex-professional, but I can belt out the Backstreet Boys like there’s no tomorrow.
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