If there’s one thing moving to the UK has taught me, it’s that I’m not nearly as amazing as I used to think I was. I’ve been slapped in the face by reality so many times over the past five years I’m surprised my cheeks don’t have the outline of a hand tattooed on them. A lot of the slapping revolved around getting a job, or not, as the case was for quite a while. As I head into my 5th week of unsuccessful job hunting in Edinburgh, my sharply deflating bubble of confidence tells me that maybe symbolic physical violence is not the best learning tool for me.
I mean, up until a few days ago I was thinking what the hell’s wrong with all you recruiters? Haven’t you heard of me? Nat. From Australia. The amazing employee any boss would be glad to have. Not ringing any bells? Well that’s bloody strange.
When I moved to London in 2008 I arrived thinking it would be easy to get a job. I’d join a recruiting agency, they’d talk to me, see I was intelligent, had some good references, good experience and boom – lovely job, nice location, good pay, thanks very much for coming. Queue 12 months of rejection, frustration and humiliation, but on the plus side, more interview practice than the average person probably gets in a lifetime.
I made so many mistakes. I thought I was above certain kinds of jobs, I didn’t realise 400 other people wanted the jobs I was applying for, I turned down temp work thinking I had to be available for all the hundreds of interviews I was sure to be called up for, then soon found myself nightly at the only logical place constant failure sends some people – the bottom of a wine bottle.
So you’d think this time those lessons would have been of some use. Uhhh… nuh. I forgot. Three years in a good, stable job, followed by (almost) another year of self imposed unemployment, self indulgent ‘following my dreams’ artsy fartsy this and that and I bloody forgot.
Well at least it only took me a handful of weeks this time to get over myself. And my liver will be happy to know I’m still on a break from alcohol – for the time being. I’m engaging in the complicated, repetitive and often fruitless recruitment agency waltz with barely any swear words or phone slams. I’ve even come to terms with the fact that the same job I did in London pays a whole third less here in Edinburgh. I’m pretty sure that won’t even cover bills and food, but hey, let’s worry about that later. I could do with losing
ten a few kilos anyway.
So I’ve had 2 prospects. But they were both cancelled after a) someone who used to work there suddenly came back and b) they decided to give it to a friend of one of the company directors instead of the three people they’d interviewed (very minor swearing, I promise). I have number three next week. Allegedly. Let’s hope it’s a case of third time lucky and not all things come in threes.
Cross your fingers for me. Cross your toes. Cross your bloody eyes if you can handle the pain. Because for some stupid reason, I really miss interacting with hundreds of pain in the arse weirdo’s every day – AKA working in an office. Just don’t bother slapping me in the the face and pointing that sentence out to me in a few months when I’m moaning about my new job. I never learn.