On the train back from my interview

I'm using the free National Express wireless, my phone, and my bluetooth keyboard, and I'm comfy, having changed out of my suit, and taken off my shoes and put slippers on, with a coffee, a water, a sandwich, a copy of New Scientist that I was given at Newcastle station, and a warm glow which lasted up to the point where this boyish ticket inspector told me I would have to get off at York, and change onto a service running half an hour later, since that is the one I am actually reserved on. He made me feel like a criminal, and he was going up and down the carriage handing out his grim kind of corporate justice. What does it matter, this train is empty anyway? This country is doomed.

I guess I'll do it, but if he comes to supervise me off the train in any way whatsoever, I will remark 'you really are the king of this train aren't you', and if he gives me more of the same kind of smart answers he gave me earlier, I will say something even more sarcastic, not quite sure what yet.

I had a nice day actually, after my interview. I went around the beautiful King's College Chapel:


Then I went around the Fitzwilliam museum, in which I found some big-eyed dolls from Iraq which were a full 5000 years old:


The town itself was of course full of 'punting' students (although many have gone home), French tourists and un-helmeted cyclists.


The interview was stressful, of course. I was only relatively incoherent in my individual interview, although I did have to resort to using the adverb 'broadly' three times, when I realised I wasn't being very specific. Sometimes I was downright lucid. Hopefully they'll have been able to see that I was experienced enough for the post (a rotational adult post). I suppose it depends on what they thought of me, and what they thought of the competition.

I honestly didn't think much of the competition. They were more members of the clone army of prim and proper princesses of Speech Pathology, who seem to continually be getting jobs ahead of me. There were only 5 of us there (there were meant to be 8, they said) and they'd planned an Apprentice-style group task, where we had to design information sheets for carers of people who'd had a stroke. Our work was dreadful, fit only for the bin. I peppered the brainstorming we did with a few jokes, wry observations, slightly outré ideas. Perhaps I should have been more serious, I did try, but everyone else was so very straightforward and dull and it had the opposite effect on me. I suggested we elect a chair, and no-one seemed to think this was a good idea, and it kind of went downhill from there.

I'll find out by the end of the week, they said. They asked me two additional questions. Firstly, what was I doing between 1999 and 2002 (I explained that the NHS jobs system only lets you put 7 jobs in your working history, and that I was doing whatever I was doing), and they asked for a reference from a clinical supervisor I'd had on a placement. I hope my face didn't drop too much when they asked me this, because I had an awful time on my hospital placement, and scraped a pass. I can only hope the reference I'm given is equivocal.

I stayed in a sweet, elderly lady's cottage, which was fusty and dusty, and full of flock wallpaper. I couldn't really complain about it though - it cost only £18, with £6 going to Oxfam. She was very interesting. She told me that she'd known Syd Barrett (she'd asked if I was any relation of his), adding that she had been in the same class as him at school. Apparently he had always been a very interested and clever boy, but I guess that is obvious. She also told me that sometimes, when people in Cambridge become frail, or have a stroke, they get about town pushing a bike for support. Only in Cambridge, surely.

Going back somewhat further, on Tuesday I did indeed go for my G-shaped run (thanks for the sponsorship Glenn!). Here is proof, if proof be need be: