Week 13/14: Handbags at ten paces...

The time has come to fold my last lifesaver t-shirt... my last surf hoodie... and my last “koala on a surfboard” towel... I’m leaving Between the Flags today! So, this blog comes to you direct from the store in the Rocks, - typed by a Celtic blonde looking slightly out of place in surf-wear given her milky white complexion, listening to Blondie's "Denis" (maaay have replaced the head office’s ipod). Anyway, I’ve gone and found a job that will allow me to afford to rent a room in the “pimped-up” properties my housemates and I have been looking at moving into (our house has been sold you see).

So over the last fortnight I’ve found myself answering the calls from a recruitment company I’d contacted a couple of months ago (yes, it’s taken them this long to get back to me...). After a quick briefing on how to charm potential Aussie employers, I pushed aside my neatly folded (you can take a girl out of retail...), Bondi beach tee and replaced it with a frilly blouse, an uber-corporate pencil skirt and killer heels (TOP TIP: Ladies, always wear heels at an interview- especially if the potential employer is male- if you’re taller than him you’ll immediately level the intimidation playing field). Off I tottered into the centre of Sydney, joining the city slickers and corporate commuters on their way to their high powered jobs.
After a 2 hour first interview I was called back for a further grilling, this time from the managing director of the company, together with the sales director who I’d met the day before. I confidently strode into the interview room; cool, calm and collected. And then it started. The weirdest interview of my life. Now I was expecting an interrogation about my experience, my sales training and my qualifications. What I was unprepared for however, was a grilling about why I wanted the salary and commission they were offering. “For the sense of achievement”, I replied, thinking this would portray a goal driven, ambitious young woman. “Too conceptual” snapped the brash American MD. “I wanna know what you’re gonna spend the money on”. So I answered. Giving the only answer that seemed natural at the time. “Shoes.” I said. “Lots of shoes”. But this wasn’t enough. “What about purses” (the yank meant handbags). “Well, it’s more shoes I’d be interested in really”. “Show me your purse” demanded the MD. I tentatively reached down and picked up my rather battered (but still beautiful) 3 year old Topshop shoulder bag. “Why are you carrying such a bad purse? Is it because you can’t sell enough?” he taunted. That was it. I lunged across the table like a lioness, pelting the brash American across the head with my handbag. Or at least that’s what I did in my head. Luckily (for the MD) I can control my temper. I smiled politely and replied, “I’m afraid the airline I flew here with doesn’t provide the baggage allowance for an entire collection of HANDBAGS.” And then faster than you could say “jimmy choo”, the interview came to a close. Two hours later my phone rings. It’s the recruitment company. They only went and offered me the bloody job. Observation: Brash businessmen inhabit both sides of the world. British or Australian, (or American), they’re all as weirdly cryptic to read as each other.

WHINGE of the week (since I’m in my mid twenties and all): Having some friends who were recently visiting Australia for a few weeks I have a certain bone of contention to deal with; this is a message to those people who go on an extended holiday and call it “travelling”: You were not building mud huts in Rwanda. You were not caring for Vietnamese orphans or de-worming endangered pandas in China. And I certainly don’t see evidence of dreadlocks or henna tattoos on your person. You visited a couple of zoos and a few beaches. Perspective, please.