Job Seeker

I'm early, of course, so I sit outside McGill metro on a hard stone wall. After several minutes in the sun I realise that I'm beginning to sweat, a definite no-no at interviews, so move to the shade, where I'm cold.

I'm sitting in the informal smoking area of all the staff from the nearby arcade. Girls come out in small groups, sit next to me, and blow smoke in my direction. Normally I wouldn't care, but I realise that I'm going to smell of smoke afterwards, which is another minus point.

'Oh, il fait frit!' Exclaims one of the girls between a lungful of smoke. She eyes me, sideways-ly.

Eventually I move on and wander towards a building that contains a large-ish employment agency. I have an appointment at 10am concerning a terrible job that I don't want. I suppose I don't have much of a positive outlook.

I try to sneak past the fat desk clerk, who seems to be hunched over, perhaps eating doughnuts secretly, but he spots me and mumbles some questions.

I tell him the name of the company, and he grunts a reply.

I stare at him, as I didn't understand a word.

He manages to clear his mouth and finally says, 'Fourteenth floor'.

I find the office with time to spare, but enter anyway and announce myself. I'm kept waiting, so read the paper, which is full of dull election news. The paper tells me that the west of Canada wants independence now too. Interesting.

A few minutes late, my agent arrives and escorts me to a small room of the kind commonly found in police interrogation units. Except the chairs are softer. Just.

We follow the usual routine that Canadians take when talking to English people – we discuss where I'm from, struggle to pinpoint it geographically, finally locate it with the aid of Liverpool, discuss the places they have been in England and the friends they have there, and then finally how wonderful London is, but isn't it expensive, eh?

Then, onto the job.

Along with 120 other poor, lost souls I will receive a constant stream of telephone calls from a large pharmaceutical company's overpaid scientific employees who can't find their email icons. It's 40 hours a week, no chance of promotion, shift work, and $12 an hour.

Wow, what a catch, I think, sarcastically.

We then have a long conversation about road rage and how terrible drivers are in Canada.

'In England they drive really fast, but well.' She says.

'And the roads there are narrow.' I say, then add, 'And no-one indicates here.'

'Oh I know, we're terrible. It's like that in America too, I'm told.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes, I think so.'

We then decide that I shouldn't actually apply for the job. I'd be frustrated, bored, and leave quite soon after taking it, so it seems. I think we're right about that.

'You should get a job in a café.' She tells me, 'At least you'd learn more French.'

She's right. Tomorrow, I'll trawl the pubs with CVs in hand.

Though, that often goes terribly wrong....