Write In for Writing's Sake: Referee

from http://writeinforwritingssake.tumblr.com/

Her palms were sweaty, enriched with salty bodily fluids and her fingers were tapping her knees slowly but frenetically. She had worn the wrong shoes for this interview, she knew it – and her bra was shifting awkwardly on her breasts. She glanced at the clock on the wall taking a few seconds to realise which one of the clocks told her the local time. What the fuck was a small office the North of Glasgow supposed to do with a set of clocks set to all these times for places that most of the people wouldn’t have even heard of, never mind need to know the time for? She smiled and forgot why she was there for a second. Then she remembered. The rush of worry came back and her eyes darted to the guy sitting opposite. He looked calm and collected, almost too confident, and actually a little hot. She liked his stubble, and his eyes. He was looking at the wall slightly to her left, and she resisted the temptation to glance at what he is looking at. In her mind a quick flash of him straddling her above her chest as he thrusts deeply into her excited her and she felt better.

Why is that mad bitch looking at me? She’s… she’s a bit fucking minging. Fucking slutty hair cut, stupidly high heels on, that silly blonde hair bullshit that little girls I see in the queue going into the Unders clubs on a Saturday night, maybe I’ve shook my head at her in the fucking taxi queue. Christ, give it a break I really like the idea of this job, and she’s not competition. I know its North Glasgow but give me a break, Christ. The other girl is more my cup of tea actually, little boy-ish brunette hair cut, timid, fiddling with her cardigan. Wonder if she likes it from behind. Fuck me, that thought’s a dirty one. Wonder if the boys are going for a drink after? My stubble is a bit too long, I knew I should have trimmed it. What’s taking that little fat prick so long in there?

Remember, they are in competition for you, she thought, they want a person like you, they need a graduate with your skills. That’s what she had been told by the careers service. And as she looked at her competition, she realised that they might’ve been right – she wasn’t a snob, but she knew high class scumbags if she saw a pair. She had been brought up in the North of Scotland, near Braemar in the country, but even there she’d realised she was different from the rest of her class. After University in Glasgow she’d been schooled heavily in dealing with these scumbags on nights out, in pubs and bars and even on the street. The sleazy guy kept looking at her though; he obviously is more interested in something a little more interesting that a piece of prime used vagina that’s on display from the other female… the girl sitting to her right. She was probably nice enough though, she’d made her a cup of tea as she came in and said “Thanks hen” in that nice way Glaswegians do. Her complacency was merited it seemed.

“I have had extensive dealings with the public in my other work, for example in my job in Dixons I used to sell cameras to customers each week, changing my priorities to the way the customer needs the camera, what they asked for, and the changes the conversation took meant I am flexible in changing my approach to their needs”

“Excellent, Mr Buchanan that seems great.”


“So, do you have any questions for us?”

“Uh, not really… um. So, when can I expect to hear back?”

“Oh, later this week I think, we only have yourself and the three candidates outside, so it won’t be too long.” She smiled reassuringly.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Well, thank you for coming in Mr Buchanan, it’s been a pleasure.”

“No, thank you. Hope to hear from you soon.” He said tentatively.

Oh for fuck he thought, that went badly. I can’t believe I said some of those things, bloody hell. He mentally kicked himself several times and mentally threw himself out of a building. He’d sized up the competition – a student type, a silly blonde dimwit and a stubble wearing Ted Baker attired sure-fire prick. Ha, he laughed inside, his own in head commentary making him snort a little as he opened the door to the waiting room in the reception. The three were still sitting there. He wondered who the interviewer would pick – maybe the student type, she seemed pretty smart. Maybe the sure-fire prick, he was pretty traditionally attractive. The slut had no chance, not unless her references are gold-standard. Fuck them all anyway.

One down, three to go. She looked at her watch and sipped her mug, letting them sweat it out a little more. To be honest she’d already chosen who she was going to give the position to – the student, Lorna Sweeny, was the most qualified and the one expecting the least pay. She enjoyed Colin Buchanan’s bullish attempts to push his position into various places using his limited experiences. Pretty creative. She picked up Tom Collingate’s CV, and glanced at his mediocre Higher and Standard Grade results. Putting it to one side, she picked up the Barbie Doll’s CV – Chantelle Gillon. A walking stereotype. About to call in Lorna Sweeny she noticed the second name again. Gillon. Surely not she thought, suddenly worried. He’d said he’d be putting forward his little cousin, but she assumed it would be a guy, and no male Gillon had came through the applications so she thought she was in the clear, but now, this sitting in front of her, that favour that had been put in a few weeks ago had came to this. Can you send in Miss Sweeny please?” she asked, thumbing the telephone cord. Fucking shite, she thought, as Lorna walked into the room. This lassie was so close, so perfect, but her references just weren’t as good. Miss Gillon had excellent referees, ones that vouched for her and spoke very highly of her. “Hi Lorna, take a seat, sorry to keep you waiting for so long.” Referees that showed she had true skill and capability and aptitude. “Do you want a tea or a coffee?” Miss Sweeny just didn’t have the same quality of references. And hers didn’t come round the office swinging a hammer.

Tom Collingate had gotten bored. “Here, my name’s Tom. Fancy a pint later?”

Chantelle Gillon’s dad would’ve killed her, but fuck him, she wanted this guy. “Yeah, sure.”