I struggle my way through to find the venue of my interview and, eventually, get myself in a state no fresher than the vegetables lying around in the market past noon. As I reach, I literally stagger at the entrance of the building and clumsily waddle my way to the reception. I was thirsty and sweaty but also delighted to be on time and at the right place, for a change. I needed refreshment before I could get myself at the center of attention, and be judged.
Therefore, I decide to make use of the facilities of my “would-be” office; I rise, I walk towards the washroom with an air of vanquishment and ostentation. I can see, from the corner of my eyes, my fellow, “would-be” colleagues watching me reach for the door with an energy of rare kind, and there he is—standing there in the most helplessly natural yet unacceptable form of “release”. I was in the wrong place. Biologically, this was not the place for me; I was in the washroom for the “gentlemen”.
So, what follows my life experience is my interview.
Creative Head (horrified): Amy?
Myself: …ERR! Hi. Yes, that is I.
Creative Head (with a pause, apologetically): So, it seems we can (or maybe cannot) proceed from where we left.
Myself (to myself): Ouch! I think, I just rushed into “breaking the ice”.
The “he” was the “Creative Head”.