Shaking firm hands with poker-faced thank-you-for-your-time, I close the door behind me.
Standing waiting for the lift down, I depressingly relive the interview.
I see myself lurching, a raddled old maid in rouge and blotchy mascara, wearing a charity-shop power-suit, manoeuvring square shoulder pads into a diminishing round hole. I trail mendacity and inappropriate extended metaphors across the interview room carpet. Bluff and fluff falling away. The interviewers look at me, disappointed in their expectations, they recoil, their faces cave in and close.
Instantly, I know it’s over, even before I mention my criminal record and false identities on Facebook.
Bella Basura 2016