When it comes to job interviews, you can tell a lot about the company from the information and advice they give you. Or not. It's been a while since I smelled a rat but something about this woman who phoned me a couple of days ago made me wonder. I quickly realised she was from an agency, though she din't tell me that, nor did she give any information about the job I'd originally enquired about. Not a good sign.

"Do you have transport?" She asked.... No.

"Have you got a bike?".... No.

"So you're using buses?".... No. Are they kidding? The National Minimum Wage and they want me to blow my budget on a bus pass? She paused before asking "How are you going to get here?"

I walk. From my home to the industrial estates in the north of Swindon takes an hour, more or less. Clearly walking was a foreign concept to her so I assured her it wasn't a problem. Then she gave me the address, and just to be helpful, told me I could view a map on the internet. Of course the arrow on the map pointed at the wrong part of the industrial estate. So like dozens of other hopeful jobseekers over the last few days, I wandered helplessly up and down the road knocking on doors and asking where these people were, and of course, no-one knew. I was stopped by a rotund gentleman on a scooter who asked me if I knew where the office was. What could I say? I made a humourous quip about being just as lost as he was which for some reason failed to reduce him to hysterics. Oh well.

A big articulated lorry drew up and the driver wound down the window to lean out. Please don't tell me he's going to lech.... Thankfully, he didn't, and politely asked me if I knew where such and such a company was. Never heard of them. I refrained from a humourous quip this time. There is such a thing as living dangerously.

Finally I found someone who knew where these people were, a pokey little office in a dark, quiet corner of a building in a dark quiet corner of someone elses yard. The woman looked suprised that I'd turned up. I was then handed a wad of forms to fill. Do I understand that I can die in the workplace?... Signed... Do I understand I can be sacked from the workplace... Signed.... Do I understand I can be paid by the workplace?... Signed.... Do I understand I need permission to work in the UK?.... Signed.... Do I understand English?.... Groan.

I think I need to resubmit my request for independent state recognition to the UN.

Through the Foreign Quarter

Interview concluded, it was time to go home. My route took me though the part of Swindon where many immigrant families tend to live. There's an interesting difference in the area, besides the obvious cultural dress, strange accents, and skin tone. On every main street are a number of small grocery stores, piles of fruit and vegetables on wooden shelves erected outside the shop front. Young foreigners stand idly outside too, smoking or chatting to each other. It's a very different lifestyle to our conventional western supermarkets and revolving door mentality.

One gentleman of foreign extraction was having a problem with his car. His mate was staring at the engine bay under the raised bonnet. Then, having successfully fired his car into reluctant life, he drove the car with the bonnet raised in front of him (so he couldn't see where he was going) whilst his mate ran alongside, keeping the engine barely running by some mysterious witchcraft or other. The driver turned onto a main road between parked cars and kept going. With a bit of luck, and some help from his fitter friend, who knows? Maybe he'll reach his destination without bumping into something?

Foreign Resident

Sadly there's a foreign resident living in the area we can all do without. After walking under the railway bridge and turning the corner I almost stepped on a rat. The matted grey fur was perfect camouflage against the dull asphalt surface and the only reason I saw it was because the wiley little monster realised I was about to tread on him and scampered into the bushes nearby. They say you're never more than six feet away from a rat in England. Sometimes you get closer than that.

Giggles of the Week

A little further on I passed a couple of young asian women. Naturally they were talking in quickfire giggles, albeit in a language beyond my comprehension, and their inability to find time to breathe in makes me wonder if oxygen starvation is the cause of 'dumb blonde' syndrome.

One of the girls, wearing a flowing white dress rarely seen outside a fairy story, crossed the road and passed me in a state of repressed mirth. I'll assume for the moment she was being flirtacious and not discussing my official fatness. It must be said, you do come across some asian girls who are trouser-dropping gorgeous. Think unsexy thoughts Caldrail. This is machete country...