Smegging Test

Writing job application after application and receiving rejection after rejection, my spirits were lifted when, finally, a large package inviting me for interview came through the post. Yey - maybe it's for the lecturing job or perhaps that curating job I'd been counting on. The last thing I expected was an interview for the research analyst position I applied for, admittedly on a whim. Low and behold it was just that. Slightly peturbed but happy at least that I'd been considered, I started to prepare for the interview.

Ok, 'must have experience of writing reports'. Check. 'Must have excellent communication and interpersonal skills'. Check. Ok, 'experience of data and statistical analysis'. Hmm, well I can analyse processed data but it's been years since I've dealt with statistics. There's a reason I didn't pursue maths beyond compulsory GCSE stage. Better refresh my knowledge of Excel, it's been a long time since I did that Computer Literacy test at school. From what I can remember though, it was pretty easy creating a few tables and graphs. How quickly the mind forgets the details or how quickly the mind fails I don't know but my re-introduction to the brain-crushing number crunching world of Excel wasn't smooth.

I phone my sister's boyfriend who's a total Whizzkid at it. 'Hiya C, I got this job interview coming up and just need some pointers in Excel so I know what to revise beforehand. Can ya help?' 'Oh sure Acorn, it's really very easy. All you need to know about are pivot tables, filters, and counter sum functions, which I'm sure you already know right?' Silence. After the phone call I start the online Excel tutorial and quickly give up. Aye, I'm sure all this number crunching stuff ain't important. The main thing is that I can write decent reports, which I can. I'll be grand.

The day before the interview I freak out. 'I can't do this' I tell myself. 'What if they want a number cruncher. I think I oversold myself on my CV. Oh dear, best phone them and tell them I can't make it. How can I get out of it?' Tomato soon calms me down, I'm nervous that's all, I musn't underestimate my capabilities. A voice somewhere deep inside is screaming 'don't do it!' but I dismiss it as nothing but my perfectionalist who is scared of failure. Getting a job is all about stepping outside of your comfort zone right?

So it came about that today was interview day. I wake up from the nightmarish scenario of running through endless corridors which seem hell-bent on crushing me into piles of grey mush. I dust off the interview suit - a grey boys' wedding get-up, the only damn thing I could find in the whole of Manchester that actually fitted my tiny frame! After an age of gut-wrenching activity in the bathroom I leg it to the station and manage to jump on the train with milliseconds to spare. A few wayward turns but I manage to find the training centre - a non-descript grey concrete building with cells for rooms - standard Council jobby. I sit in the waiting room and wait for my turn. Hours tick by before a speaker finally bellows - 'Louis Bailey, please proceed to training suite 3'. Test time!

Once inside I greet the invigilator and sit next to the screen. 'Please read the list of instructions to your left and let me know when you're ready to start the test' I am told in a calm, soothing voice.
Ok, I think to myself, the test will be fine - I'm not strong on Excel but I am good at Word, Outlook, report writing and general admin. procedures. I read the instructions: 'This test will examine your knowledge of Excel. Please show all your formulas and workings on the spreadsheet allocated'. What? Excel, where's the other stuff. I start to panic. Ok, I need to calm down. It can't be that bad. I'll be alright. 'Are you ready to start?' asks the invigilator politely. 'Ready as I'll ever be' I gulp.

Question 1: Calculate the percentage of children entering social care between the years 2034 and 2037.

'What? This question doesn't even make sense!'
I look at the data - all 20 pages of it. 'Where do I even begin?'

'Ok, I won't panic, I'll look at the next question'

Question 2: Repeat to determine the percentage of children leaving social care in the year 2036.

'Huh? Oh my God, I don't know, I don't know'
I scroll down.

Question 3: Create a graph showing the start and end dates of children in care between 2034 and 2037.

'Oh, graphs, easy. I can do that'
I copy and paste the data into a new spreadsheet and hit the format graph action. It asks me to input the range. 'Hmm, ah yes I remember'. I put in A2 to show the beginning of the data column. 'Ah, but what is the final data cell called?' I ask myself. I scroll down. 'Oh my God, when will it end, pages and pages of numbers'. Finally I get to the last cell - number 4500. 'Erm, ok, must be A2:A4500'.
INVALID CODE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Flashes in bold red letters across the screen.
'Shit shit shit'.
I try to undo but the test tracks all changes made. I can't delete my mistakes.
I start again, and then again.
By now I'm panicking. I don't get it. My head hurts. I want to go home.

'I can't do this' I tell the invigilator. 'Oh don't worry love, it's just nerves. Have some water, you'll soon get into it' the kindly maternal woman replies.
'No, you don't understand, I can't do it. I can't do Excel, I can't understand it. I think I'm wasting your time, I should go'
'Oh no, you don't want to go' she says reassuringly.
'No no, I really need to go, please let me go'
'No, that's not a good idea love. Don't worry, I'll pop next door and see whether they'll have a chat with you'
I try to protest but she's already left the room and before I know it I'm hoarded into the interview room, test incomplete.+++

I really want to leave but the interviewers are already standing with arms outstretched to welcome me, the potential new worker bee.
'We hear you had a bit of problem next door'

They make it sound like I've just pissed myself. Maybe I should have, maybe then I could have escaped this concrete hell hole.

'Oh, yes I'll be honest with you' I say. 'Excel is my weak point. I was expecting to be tested on my other abilities. Erm, do you offer training in Excel?'
I proceed to explain that I'm really not a waste of space, that I am an excellent researcher and have extensive experience writing and editing reports. But they're not interested.

'If your manager told you that he wasn't happy with the numbers you submitted and that he wanted you to change them, what would you do?' panelist number 1 asks.
'Well, I'd check that the numbers were inputted correctly and work backwards from there - check the source etc'

Interviewer number 1 interupts - 'No, but if you had inputted them correctly but your manager still wanted you to change one, for eg from 49 to 51'
'Oh, erm well I'd ask his reasoning for doing so, I mean I wouldn't go changing any numbers unless there was concrete evidence for doing so'

Not the right answer. Not a good worker bee. There's to be no questioning of authority here. Right answer - if you're told to change something you do it, no questions asked.

And here's the gist of it really. No, I'm not a good worker bee and never will be. I ask too many questions. I don't do simple 'yes' or 'no' answers, I don't think in black and white. I like to question, to complicate, to see a myriad of colours besides grey.

And with that I left the grey building, hung up my grey cloak and made a resolution to start listening to my inner artist. This worker bee life ain't for me!

+++ This moment was just like that great scene in Season 1 of Red Dwarf where Rimmer sits his Officer exam. Instead of the hand-print, I simply saved the series of blank spreadsheets with my name.

The hoarders or, The Things They Can't Live Without

My parents' keepsakes:
- a shrivelled up orange kept in his bedside drawer
- a balding dog-come-nightie-bag curled up on her side of the bed
- a man-scented soap-on-a-roap, unused
- a chocolate-covered valentine heart, long past its sell-by
- a portrait of a sad, doe-eyed clown looks down on them at night
whilst the photograph of an unknown child hangs 'round her neck
in a silver locket