When I rule my own fascist state

I just wrote the best part of a blog post on my beef with the recruitment process, and how – when I’m in charge of my own fascist state – things are going to be very, very different.

“Hello, I would like a job!”

“Oh! Can you do this particular job?”

“Why yes, I can do this particular job!”

“Then please, do this particular job!”

Hugs, cheers, celebrations all round.

Anyway, I wrote a blog post on the reality of job hunting, but then I deleted that blog post, ‘cos even writing about the arduous nature of job hunting depressed me. It’s so long! So drawn out! So stressful!

Can you tell I’m waiting to hear if I got a job that I interviewed for last week? It’s a good job. I would very much like this job. I had a panel interview last Thursday. That was up there with one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life. You think you know nervous pooing? My friends, I redefined nervous pooing. I originally applied for this job in early March. It’s now late June. I’ve done resumes and covering letters and selection criterias and phone interviews. I’m a fucking mess. I keep replaying the panel interview OVER and OVER – “the guy shook my hand enthusiastically and said it was a pleasure to meet me, but the lady thought I didn’t know what ‘augment’ meant, and to be honest, no, I’m not 100% sure, but I blagged it okay, didn’t I? DIDN’T I?” – and I’ve worked myself into something of a state. My nerves are shot. I’m in a permanent state of butterflies, and my fingertips keep tingling every time I think about my phone ringing. I can’t stop hoovering. I’m short-tempered, over-tired and distinctly lacking in patience – just ask my children, who have started skirting around me in case I throw (another) teaspoon at them.  

It shouldn’t be like this! Why have we made this process so fucking long and drawn-out? Something that should be simple and straightforward has been turned into a test of nerves and steely determination. It’s like buying a house!

“Hello, I would like to buy your house. I see you’re selling it for 12 Australian dollars.”

“Why yes! Would you like to buy my house for 12 Australia dollars?”

“Why yes! Here are my 12 Australian dollars.”

“And here is your house. Enjoy!”

It SHOULD be like that, but of course it ISN’T, because we as humans are fucking insane and would rather drag the process out for months and settle on a price that doesn’t even vaguely resemble the original price tag, and knock years off our lives because of all the STRESS and the SURVEYORS and the goddamn GAZZUMPING.

I’m tired of being grown up. I’m sorry for being such a bitch this week. WHY DOESN’T MY PHONE FUCKING RING?

Yeah, I’m struggling. I don’t have a Plan B, see, and if this job falls through then there’s no back-up, other than becoming an Uber driver, but only if I can choose the music in the car. The odds are on my side, but it’s now SEVEN days since the panel interview and no word as yet. Apparently this is what happens in the world of job recruitment. I can’t remember. It’s over a fucking decade since I went for a job, and I was young back then, and probably drunk, and didn’t give much of a shit if I got the job or not, because I was young and drunk, as previously mentioned. But seriously, I’ve heard tales of three-month recruitment processes; or verbal offers never materialising into written ones; of someone having their interview shuffled around so many times that they eventually forgot which job they’d originally applied for. Very few people are, like, yeah, I went for a job! They liked me! They offered me the job! I started the very next day! It almost seems as though this long drawn-out ordeal is part of the official recruitment process.

Well, people of the human resources departments across the world: FUCK THAT. This is inhumane! I can’t concentrate! I’m all at sixes and sevens! I feel a bit sick! Should I apply for other jobs, or should I buy that pretty frock I saw online? Should I cry into my Yorkshire tea or pop the Prosecco? WHY DOESN’T MY FUCKING PHONE RING?

Hang on, no one told them about the sweary blog did they? Did you? SWEET BABY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, DID SOMEONE TELL THEM ABOUT THE SWEARY BLOG?

Hold me.