What a difference a week makes…

On Monday I had an interview at Oxford University Press, to work as a part-time bookseller. In my ten years of working in various companies, I’ve never been more terrified in an interview. The first interview was with this really lovely woman. We chatted for over an hour and had such a laugh. The second interview was the complete opposite to the first. There were two of them – the Head of Recruitment and the Head of  Retail & Support Services, fine. Formal questioning – fine. Good cop, bad cop routine – fine. What I couldn’t handle (which seems to be the norm in interviews now) was these situation questions; ‘Give me an example of when you showed great team working skills/ dealt with a difficult customer/ brought someone around to your way of thinking,’ etc… Can anyone actually recall specific memories of these situations? Or does everyone make it up? Luckily, there were situations I could call on, but it took some head-scratching to drag them up. So an interview that I thought I could handle, turned out to be a sweaty pit moment. Suffice it to say, I got the job (yippeeeee) and I start next week.

As mamamooch.wordpress.com promised last week, I would give an insight into potential lecturer/ student relationships. And I wouldn’t dream of letting you down. There is no potential! I had to meet with a lecturer this week. A blue-eyed, Dubliner with a voice that would charm the winos from the park bench. I should point out that I’d been drinking the night before, and I’d woken up with the shakes and severe bum-breath, so when I walked into his office, I was understandably jittery. All was going well; I was mumbling, losing focus and going cross-eyed, dropping my pen, lisping (fat-tongue syndrome).. all very attractive devices, but I think they worked. Within minutes, said lecturer was looking lustfully at me and laughing at my jokes. The idea that these looks and laughs were actually nervousness and worry for his safety is one that I shall not accept. Unlike the passionate dirty sex romp I thought it would be, this romance is a delicate little flower that needs nurturing. I’ll keep you updated.

My biggest thing this week (apart from getting the job at the OUP) is deciding whether to assert my independence and live alone next year or be sociable, build friendships and share a house with real people. Having decided at the beginning of the year to live in this super-new gaff, that was ridiculously expensive, I thought I was sorted. But the need to have people around me has proved to be a greater need than  being the sole user of the bog. Plus, it would mean that I can stay in town over the summer, plant some roots and keep the OUP happy, by being here, rather than having to bugger off home for three months.

mamamooch.wordpress.com was supposed to give an update on Chris Evans this week. The Radio 2 DJ has been decidedly boring this week, so instead I will encourage you to listen to Steve Wright weekdays from 2, instead. Where else will you hear Neil Diamond, The Rolling Stones and Kiss played one after the other? Plus with celeb interviews, Russell Grant’s horoscopes, the Old Woman, ask Elvis and Barry from Watford, afternoons need not be a monotonous, arse scratching black-hole of time anymore.

Not my lecturer – but you get the idea.

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My delightful chambre at uni.

The Premier Suite

I’d like to say it’s better than it looks – but I can’t.

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The life – this is it.

Happy days are here again.

Having worked (not quite solidly) for the last twelve years I decided that I wasn’t poor enough. So I took the brave and some might say, stupid step in becoming a student. That’s right!

I mooch off the tax paying public, I eat instant noodles, I can’t afford to buy meat so have become a forced hippy and eat dried soya mince. I don’t smell, though. I would just like to quash that nasty rumour. I believe it can only officially be applied to mathematicians and scientists – they wear a lot of polyester.

So I started my BA in September 2009, studying English (don’t let my horrendous grammar fool you) and Politics. Seconds into my first Politics lecture, I realised that it was absolute shite and promptly removed that from my programme. From that moment on I was a single honours undergrad, surrounded by teeny 18 year olds. The girls had hair that would resembled mine if I’d been out on the lash, had collapsed into a rabid dog’s pen and been used as its chew toy. The boys were like Prince Harry, with posher accents. I knew it would be difficult, when I arrived at enrolment with brushed hair, boot-cut jeans and a decidedly inoffessive t-shirt. “Fuck it!” thought I. Rise above it all. And I have.

Suffice it to say, I’m friendless.

Actually, that’s a lie. I have a great group of friends who are forever asking me to go out and get smashed – let’s get the ol’ girl trollied! I did it once, drunk more than the rest of them put together (after all, I’m older – I can handle my drink), and woke up three days later with a headache of the devil’s devising. I’d also ‘apparently’ shouted across a car park to a smooching pair for the girl to “PUT YOUR CLUNGE AWAY!!” Not the sort of behaviour expected in Oxford, Oxfordshire, England. Hey ho… since then, I’ve kept my head down, got on with my work and slowly turned into a grumpy, moany, cynical twenty-something (going on sixty-something).

The man front is depressingly lacking. But I cheer myself by saying, “I’m dedicated to my career. I want to do well and avoid distractions. I’m not going to fall into the misogynistic trap of sprogging-up and being restricted in my career potential.” And I will stand by this bollocks until a fella shows some interest.

Tune in next time when I’ll be discussing Chris Evans, working at Boots, The OUP and the potential for lecturer/ student relations.

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