I suspected that things would not go well the moment I turned up at the wrong garden centre to drop my CV off.
After perusing the local paper, I stumbled across this job and thought, a-ha! I could do that! Lo and behold, I could not. However, before I realised this I promptly set about updating my CV and amending my list of key skills to suit the job. Can I really keep a plant alive for longer than a fortnight? No. Can I really work in an environment where I don't talk to anyone all day? No. Do I really know the difference between Taraxacum officinale and a dandelion? No. Yet I answered yes to all these questions on my CV... I tweaked the truth to make me more of an eligible candidate, but who doesn't? (I'm hoping that it's not just me who's dishonest, given as I've told you this now...).
But anyway, after deciding that my CV was good to go, I promptly set about delivering it to the garden centre. This, dear readers, is the beginning of the end...
Confidently I drove the 12 minute journey to the garden centre and boldly walked in. I requested the manager and handed him my CV with the obligatory winning smile that asks how their organisation has managed this long without me. However, my winning smile failed me for it was not returned. Instead, the man silently handed my CV back to me. Understandably I was confused. I was lost. I was alone... I was in a garden centre.
"I'm afraid we don't have any vacancies at the moment, Miss," he informed me.
"But- but, the newspaper said-"
"The newspaper said Watkin's Garden Centre, not Wilson's Garden Centre." He then paused for dramatic effect. "This is not Watkin's Garden Centre. This is my garden centre and I am Mr Wilson."
Oh.
My.
Goodness.
Me.
Major embarrassment!! Why, oh why could the ground not have swallowed me up? I muttered something incoherent to Mr Wilson and dragged my beetroot self to the exit. I stole a glance behind me and saw a very bemused Mr Wilson watching me go. Unfortunately, I made a fatal error in my glance and had continued to walk. Promptly, I collided with a pyramid display of Taraxacum officinale seeds. As my now sub-human coloured face and I frantically bent to pick them up, I saw that the Taraxacum officinale was in actual fact a common dandelion and realised that I would probably look like a bit of a ninny if I kept that on my CV. But by this point I was passed caring.
By the time I got back to my car, I was mortified. So I phoned my Dad to ask him where Watkin's Garden Centre was, only to be told that he was flying to Vancouver by his secretary. I then phoned my Mum, who asked me what good I thought it would do in phoning Dad when, to the best of her knowledge, he doesn't even realise that we have a garden shed. (Mum's not even sure if Dad is aware we have a garden, he spends that much time in there!). But anyway, Mum gave me directions and off I went in my pursuit of finding this new mecca of mine. When I got there, I handed my CV in before I could put my foot in my mouth and instantly left. Upon getting back home, I had to take a cold shower: it was the only way to stem the burning in my cheeks.
...
A few days later I received a telephone call. Next thing I know, I'm in the interview room, fumbling my way through. Somehow, I don't think that they thought my degree's would be as useful as I said they would. Will your degree's help you to lift the plants Miss McManus? (They make a very good point). No.
After, they took me on a tour of the greenhouses, but this was not good for me. The reason it was not good was because I had carefully selected my outfit the night before and opted for my black court shoes that I wear if I need to be taken seriously. Unfortunately, they failed me as they kept getting stuck in the holes in the floor... I think you'll agree: not good. But, in the spirit of my dramatic training, I kept to my script and feigned interest in a job I never really fancied. And this may, or may not, have been my downfall: I started to reel off all the facts I'd learned about Watkin's Garden Centre, only to be told that I was describing Wilson's Garden Centre.
So, I took that as a sign from the God's. Fate really didn't want me to get this job. I realised that the moment I saw the next candidate. You see, I had turned up in standard interview wear consisting of a white blouse, black pencil skirt and stockings and simple (fake) diamond studs. I think you'll agree: classic. I had however, accessorised my outfit with a superb purple coat that was belted at the waist and gave me a super figure (well, in silhouette form at least). Now, purple Mildred, really? I hear you ask. Yes, I reply. I chose purple because the day was rainy, grey, cold and dreary, so I thought that I'd spread some Mildred cheer and brighten up the interviewers' days. With hindsight, I think that may have backfired, because I saw that the next candidate was wearing a grey and lilac anorak. She had her hair scrapped back into a messy ponytail and was wearing (flat) trainers with unflattering man trousers. I started to doubt myself: was I appropriately dressed? Or did my appearance scream too high maintenance to make me an eligible candidate for the job? I don't know, but whatever it was I shall never know.
The following day I received a phone call from the garden centre people. They told me that I was their second choice and thanked me for my time. As I hung up the phone, I wondered why they'd thought it necessary to tell me that I was their second choice, because who enters a race with the intention of coming in second?
I won't lie, I did shed a tear, but I recovered fairly quickly. If it was meant to be, I'd have got the right garden centre.
Yet I have taken some very important morals and life-lessons from the experience:
- Don't pretend to know Latin plant names if you don't know the English. It can only lead to embarrassment. Trust me.
- ALWAYS research your market.
- ALWAYS ensure that you research the correct market.
- Never, and I stress never, wear high heels to a garden centre job interview when their footwear of choice is steel-toed boots.
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