About where I worked last summer. A story in which both good and some less-good things occur.
Everything goes very smoothly – suspiciously so. I get on my train to London, and it arrives on time. This is a brilliant feat. One day, I had been thinking, I would like to learn to catch trains on time – perhaps today is that day. Perhaps there will be no more fantasising about Bernard’s Watch. I alight from the train and stroll down cobbled streets and breweries, past the Thames, and take a short wrong turn with an enticing troupe of tourists near the Globe. After some back-stepping and floundering with my map for a couple of seconds, I find I am still on time. I stroll like I have never strolled before. I do not sweat profusely and wheeze my way running up the steps but instead arrive leisurely, emitting new-found smugness everywhere.
At reception I am given a badge which makes repeated attempts to fall off me. I cunningly turn the paper around inside it and wear the clasp back-to-front. Perhaps today, I have become master of the name badge too – another previously failed forte.
“Hello’”, we say when I arrive. I get in the lift and make successful and successive small talk. We stop on the first floor. I try to get out, more people try to get in. “We are going to the fourth floor,” says the man.
“Aha,” I say, demonstrating knowledge and understanding beyond my years. We stop at the second floor. I try to make its acquaintance.
We walk past meeting rooms with skylines frosted into giant walls of glass. “The Matterhorn,” says one. I have been there, I think. I have skied up and down it. I want to go skiing, but we settle in “New York” with a window full of rectangles instead of angled triangles, which pleases me less and makes me think of visas. That said, I am thrilled by the panoramic visions of frosted glass and have just caught sight of a pool table. Regardless of whether it is in use, it’s a good start. I am offered a can of Diet Coke. It comes from a special fridge, and I am very pleased.
The second interview is somewhat different.
Somehow, I am late and rushing out the door. The sky rains on me; up and down my coat, on my newly-washed head, and on the toes of my shoes. This is not how I envisioned my very-important-interview-day going. I imagined a leisurely stroll to the station followed by a short but pleasant ride on something resembling the Orient Express.
“We are going to London Victoria,” says the train once I am on it, hiding me from the rain. I argue with it but it transpires that I am on the wrong train. I languish inside my carriage, watching the rain go by as hills and murky villages of home counties fly past. Soon, I am not wet, the rain is dissipating, and I have begun an awkward fight with the underground and a furore of coats going on and off, as England is still in the stage where it cannot decide if it is Summer or Winter.
I arrive without a map, having only dithered briefly. “Hello,” we say. He wears red braces. It is not just employers that google their interviewees, so I have come expecting red braces and such frivolities.
I am offered Diet Coke again. I am pleased again. Havens of mini-fridges filled with Diet Coke could serve as the sole reason I want to work in advertising. There are a couple of other reasons too, but this is about 90% of it.
We stomp down a corridor. I am in heels made of something posh masquerading as vinyl plastic and wonder if they make me walk slower. Stomp stomp, I go. Following suavely from behind, we round a corner and my right foot disappears from under me as the shoe decides it do not like the carpet apparently made from wet ice. “Swoosh! Goodbye,” it goes. In the background I stall, stagger and flail my arms subtly without notice as we stride along. I regain my cool and calm exterior.
We settle down. I manage not to fall over doing so. “What’s your dissertation on?” I am asked.
“I have two,” I say, trying to tread the fine line of facial expression somewhere between hard-done-by-student and eager-bookworm, which is pretty much where I lie, regardless of what my face says. “One is about Diesel’s ‘Smart is boring, Stupid is creative’ campaign which totes new media as a replacement for genuinely good ideas. There’s just lots of chicks flashing CCTV cameras.” I avoid putting on my feminist face. “The other’s about the Windows 7 Parties, and how the global brand created a local campaign, tapping into a different type of social network, and how it enhances the digital divide.” I smirk inwardly at the topics, regardless of how many theories can be applied.
“And how are you researching this?” I’m asked.
‘Analysis of secondary data?’ I think. I decide this is an absurd answer; I can’t say that. Instead I go for something more intellectual. “I’m er, reading lots of theories and picking the bits I like,” I say.
They decide my answers are sterling and I go to work at iris.
I very much liked this neon sign that sat on the wall.
