Zebra Crossing

Preparation, preparation, preparation!

Jim had spent the entire journey trying to think of every possible
angle of question that his interviewers at Hilda's Builders might ask.
He'd been to a few interviews recently and been thrown a few unexpected
questions:

"When were you most embarrassed at work?"

"You're in a lift and you have 3 floors to tell someone how to put
together a website. What do you tell them?"

He felt sure these had all contributed to his lack of success
previously and was determined that it wouldn't happen again.

The train snaked its way along the coast past frost-covered fields and
industrial estates but Jim was oblivious to this, willingly ignoring
the futility of trying to think of unexpected questions.

The train pulled into his station, Jim alighted and slammed the door
behind him. He found his feet on the cold, slightly damp platform and
looked for the station exit, condensed breath exaggerating the
left-right turning of his head.

He walked towards the level crossing at the end of the platform and
checked his watch, twenty-five minutes to go, time to get a
drink.
He went into the nearest corner shop. On opening the door he was struck
by an overwhelming waft of heat and the smell of retirement homes.
"Hmm, young town!" he thought ironically. He made his way over to the
fridge, and pulled out a small bottle of water.

Outside he put his purchase to his lips, took a swig and then made his
way using a map printed from the Internet.

His surroundings surprised him, they were relaxed and vaguely rural,
rather than the usual seaside town or industrial sprawl you'd normally
find, it was hard to believe that a kilometre away to his left was the
English Channel. His office shoes had trouble gripping on the frosty
pavement, and negotiating around the few OAPs inching along the same
stretch with their shopping buggies behind became an art form.

He stopped to cross the road and checked his watch again, quarter of an
hour to go and just a left and a right from his destination. He
crossed, made his way down the remainder of the road and turned into
the High Street.

Wow! What a change from the rural idyll - it was a proper high street
with all the main high street shops. Although briefly distracted by
this he began his search for the address with the repeated
mantra:

"Hilda's Builders
90, The High Street
Hilda's Builders
90, The High Street!"

He checked the first numbers of buildings above the shop doors that he
could find - all odd. Jim realised that he needed to cross the street.
He looked for a chance to cross but the road was patently too busy and
there was a crossing just up the street which crossed over
to&;#8230;his eyes followed&;#8230; "Hilda's Builders - Hooray
found it!" he cheered, under his frosty breath.

A woman walked past, pushing a smiling waving child who beamed at Jim.
Jim looked at the child, smiled and waved saying "Hellooo!" He hadn't
been looking at his footing and his left foot slipped on what he
assumed to be a spot of ice, he regained his balance and composure and
gingerly took the next couple of steps to the crossing.

He pressed the button and waited. The green man duly appeared and Jim
started to cross, giving a cursory glance to his right. He recoiled as
a silver car being driven by a grey-haired bespectacled man continued
its steady progress through the red light and nearly into Jim.

"You blind twat!" exclaimed Jim at the top of his voice, swinging the
heel of his left foot at the nearside wing in anger. His foot made
contact but the driver continued unaffected, either as deaf as he was
blind, or scared to death by the young madman who had just kicked his
car.

Jim got to the other side and used five of the remaining ten minutes to
regain his composure away from the front of Hilda's Builders. He
drained the last of his water and checked his left foot which twinged
slightly. It was on this inspection that he discovered the true reason
for losing his footing earlier as he found traces of a fairly fresh dog
turd which the cold winter weather had not yet solidified. There was
only so much he could do but he found the mouth of his now empty bottle
was quite useful for removing the remaining unpleasantness from his
shoe sole before depositing the despoiled plastic bottle in a
bin.

He straightened his tie, moved his shoulders forward and took a breath,
he felt great. On top of his favourite suit he was a long black woollen
coat which accentuated his tall build and gave him an authoritative
air. He strode towards the door of the Hilda's Builders headquarters,
which were above an electrical goods shop and rang the buzzer.

"Hello?" Answered a voice
"Hi - It's James MacDonald, I'm here for the interview."
"Come straight up!"
The door buzzed and opened, James stepped through it to what he hoped
was his destiny.

At the top of the stairs stood an attractive well-dressed middle-aged
woman who extended a firm handshake and greeting. "Hello James welcome
to Hilda's Builders, I'm Hermione, would you like a tea or coffee
before we get started?"

The interview was going well, Hermione Hilda, the owner, was thoroughly
likeable and Jim seemed to develop a great rapport with her. He could
answer all of her questions, even an unexpected one about if you could
compare your working style with that of a footballer, who would it be?
He had answered "Roy Keane" thinking hardworking and talented but then
afterwards he realised she might think moody, violent and not someone
you want to upset, but that wasn't a bad first answer.

About three quarters of an hour into the interview, Hermione asked if
he would like another drink:
"I must admit I don't normally talk this much during an interview - I'm
parched". She looked at the clock on the wall, "My Father should be
round now. He's due to drop my car off here. I had it serviced but it
wasn't due to be ready until about now." Hermione left the office,
allowing Jim the chance to scan around the small room. A Simpson's
calendar appeared to be the only bought wall hanging, in typical small
business fashion, most stationery seemed to be from other related
companies gathered from countless trade fairs and from visiting sales
reps. He was relieved to see no 'you don't have to be mad
here&;#8230;" type posters. A large window looked out onto the
crossing outside.

Hermione stuck her head round the door, "it's black, no sugar, isn't
it!"
"Yes please"
She returned to the desk, "my father will bring them through in a
minute". She looked out to the crossing remarking casually, "there was
a hell of a commotion about five minutes before you arrived, all sorts
of shouting and swearing, unusual for round here. I got up to see what
was happening but whoever it was was already gone. Probably one of the
local kids!"
"Hmm" replied Jim awkwardly.

The door opened and a figure entered, brandishing two steaming mugs
which advertised Jewsons and Marley respectively. Jim's embarrassment
turned to horror as he recognised this figure as the bespectacled
grey-haired man who had nearly run him over on the crossing
outside.

"This is my father, Patrick. Dad, this is James, he's here for the
interview".
It was clear that Hermione's father did not recognise Jim. "Pleased to
meet you Graham!"
"No Dad, not Graham. James!"
"Pleased to meet you anyway!"
Jim was relieved to see the old man leave the room, seemingly oblivious
to their earlier 'meeting'.

"I do hope you don't mind our informality here, but we are very much a
family business and now and again my family help out. Whether it's my
daughter coming in to help out with a mailshot, or my father delivering
my car round from the garage&;#8230; although I'm not sure if I
should really let him as his senses aren't all they used to be." She
pulled a frown. "Anyway, I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all" replied a mightily relieved Jim.
"Well let's continue" proposed Hermione.

The rest of the interview continued in a similar vein and left Jim with
a satisfied feeling although he had interviewed enough times to realise
that it wasn't until the joyous phone call or the disappointing thin
letter with a second class stamp that you could know of success or
failure.

"Do you need a lift back to the station?" offered Hermione
unexpectedly.
"Er, yes please, that would be fantastic&;#8230; if you're
sure".
"Certainly!" she smiled, my car is parked at the back.

They made their way through the back entrance to the crisp air of the
car park.
"That's my car but I'll need to move away from the wall before you can
get in", Hermione pointed to the beautiful silver vehicle which Jim
recognised.

She reversed the car round towards Jim as its exhaust pumped out white
fumes which hung in the still air. As it swung round the car's
passenger side was revealed, a brilliant silver side punctuated by a
single brown poo stripe which tapered to nothing at the back. "No
wonder there wasn't much left when I discovered it," thought Jim. For
he had deposited most of the dog mess down the side of the car with one
sweep of his foot.

Jim hurried inside, keen for them to get going and for Hermione not to
discover his inadvertent vandalism which would undoubtedly be blamed on
local kids.

Hermione began "Well you were the last of my interviewees and I'll be
making our mind up this afternoon. I know I shouldn't say this but I
feel&;#8230; how should I say&;#8230; 'positive' about your
interview and you should expect to hear from me soon."

They were soon at the station, Jim opened the fecal go-faster stripe
bedecked door, jumped out, thanked Hermione and slammed it shut. He ran
through the gates and over the footbridge to catch the approaching
train which would take him back along the coast and then north.

Two days later at his local pub, Jim was celebrating with friends
having received the confirmatory phone call of his new job at Hilda's
Builders. His friend Dan had the last word:
"So let me get this straight! You swore at the boss's dad whilst
smearing shit down the side of her car&;#8230;And she still gave you
the job!" Shaking his head and raising his glass, "that's one hell of
an interview technique Jamie Boy! Cheers!"