Fear of failure (1)

Fear of failure

Ok, so I’m asking myself a lot these days why can’t I have conviction? I do things quietly, discreetly, in case they don’t work out and at least then I won’t have to suffer the indignity of people knowing I failed. I walked down to the village yesterday on my day off to post a package for Sis. On my way down, I met Orla from school. Well, now she’s in DCU. She’s lovely, but throughout the whole conversation I was dreading that bit where she asks me:

“So, what are you up to these days?”

I. Work. In. A. Call Centre. It’s a struggle to try and maintain that permanent dumb grin on my face and say that. I listen to people on a phone all day, type it into a database, find them a number and send them on their way without so much as a gentle pat on the backside. I’m not proud of my work.

“I’m very happy here this past two and a half years; I think it’s all about helping people with their lives and I feel working in training would be a natural progression for me”

I was sat in a bare, icy-blue room overlooking a man-made lake and immaculately landscaped “grounds”. I was wearing that polo neck I wore to Sambuca’s play, more sober jeans and that damn long black coat I should be replacing around now. But that wasn’t the worst of it; I was unshaven. It only struck me as I brushed my teeth this morning. I usually shave…. whenever but I should have shaved yesterday. At least then I wouldn’t have visible, almost fluffy stubble and there wouldn’t be a rash. But no, it was too late. Penelope was looking over my CV, and despite my enthusiasm and wide-eyed charm I couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid I looked. I hadn’t told anyone I was going for a temporary training position in work, just in case I failed. But you see, if I don’t tell anyone then there’s nothing pushing me to succeed since I’ve only myself to answer to. Penelope didn’t think I was from Meath, she thought she detected “a little West of Ireland”.

She was Irish, and in the nice way. Freckled, red-haired but with these thin, sexy lips and long white fingers. She wore a see-through white top, under which was a kind of sparse slip which covered her modesty. Thin, tall and small rectangular eyes framed in rectangular specs, a long shapely nose getting down to those thin lips. I wanted to move in closer to see them, close enough for her to breathe on me, and…

Yes, um. Yes, I’m here two years and I’d love to have the opportunity to pass on some of my knowledge. I know so much about the directory. I know the March 2000 phone code changes, the old codes, the business name changes (Midland Bank to HSBC, BT Cellnet to O2, One2One to T-Mobile), the benefits agencies, the vast network of state services, both national and local, the chains, the towns, the surnames, the Riley/Reilly dilemma, the Moran/”More-an” Pronunciation differential, the ignorance, the strengths, the postcodes, the police, the army, the Channel Islands, the Isle of Man….I know the directory.

“So how would you deal with the trainees on a one to one basis?”

My brain misfired and made the automatic conversion of “one to one” to “T-Mobile”. Luckily, that didn’t make it to my voice box. I know the directory. But do I know people?

“I’d certainly be able to empathise with their needs, as I remember so clearly how daunting it all was to start with. I’d work with them….I’d certainly be able to talk them through things and tell them to stay calm as becoming aggravated is unnecessary and not needed. I’d…eh…I did some call-monitoring last year, which involved listening in on calls and rating CSRs on various categories and writing a small report about them so…..”

Penelope scribbled this down. She liked that.

It’s dependant on me being good enough to get called for a second interview and getting through a ten minute presentation on any topic, with the emphasis on presentation rather than topic, seeing how well I’d be in front of people. I said I was used to this because I did a play years ago, “hosted” a school show and presented a load of radio shows in college. Maybe she…..I don’t know what she thought of that.

Got up and left at the end. I was being tested, an exam that I could fail. I am terrified of exams; absolutely hate any hint of a test. I’m ok with things like blood tests, because they’re a little less competitive and success and failure there are very different concepts. But still, I hate tests. And this was a test. Could I do it?