It's already a well-established fact, but I thought I'd give it just a little more oomph; I AM AN IDIOT.

I had a job interview today; lovely little shop on the Prom that sells gift cards, ornaments, all kinds of things. It looked like a lovely, friendy place to work, and I was called on Tuesday to say I had an interview this morning.

And, oh Lord, it was awful.

The day didn't start off well with the two-mile slog through absolutely torrential rain; by the time I got there my jeans were soaked halfway up both legs and were dragging in the puddles. Lovely. Thank God I had an umbrella.

There were two people interviewing me; a woman, and an older man. It started off marginally swimmingly; I told them about myself, and about my family and how I'd finished school. Then, completely out of the blue, the man asks, "What's 15% of 200?"

The words "totally thrown" don't even cover how surprised I was. I mean...why? The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. I can appreciate that anyone working the tills has to have a basic knowledge of Maths, but when on earth would they need to do percentage calculations in their head? Or am I being naive?

The horrible thing was, I was so surprised, I drew a complete and utter blank. Urgh, it was so humiliating. I sat there for about a minute trying to work it out and failing miserably. After a while, he just said, "Okay, you don't know..." in a horribly patronising and extremely unsympathetic way.

I managed to get one eighth of thirty-two, though. Even crippling unconfidence and fear doesn't take away any fraction skills.

The rest of the interview, I'd rather not go into. Basically, rapidly draining confidence + uppity, cold interviewer = disaster. I don't know if it was my lack of confidence that caused him to be such a bastard, or it was his manner that made me uneasy. I think it was a bit of both, to be honest. But from the very start, he made it clear he wasn't impressed with me, and made no effort to make me feel comfortable.

Oh, God. I mean, despite lack of experience, I'm very aware that interviews for jobs are not designed to be sunshine and rainbows; they're meant to ascertain a candidate's full potential, and sometimes you can't go easy on them. But, for God's sake, it was an interview for a sodding teenager, for a little shop on the Prom. Since when did that give him cause to put me on the spot like that, and basically look down on me and make me feel two inches tall?

I'm fully aware that I didn't do brilliantly either, but I honestly don't think I'm entirely to blame. I went for an interview with another shop a few weeks ago with a guy called Daniel; he was about twenty-three or four, and he treated me like an equal, and made me feel comfortable and at ease. And as a result, I performed a lot better; although I wasn't offered a permanent job, I am top of their list, and I'm told that he was very impressed with me.

I'm rambling now. I just think that I was treated unfairly. And I'm not only saying that because I didn't do well; I know that I must have looked like an idiot at least once. But Mr Spectacles-Maths-Interrogator's attitude did anything but help. He was a positive hindrance. I wish I'd been interviewed by the woman; she was friendly and tried to talk to me, instead of at me.

So yes, it was a disaster; I headed straight out into the rain, found the nearest wall and collapsed against it, muttering, "Shit, shit, shit!" for about five minutes. I felt like I'd been ritually humiliated. And this is my complaint; surely there is some kind of rule against doing that to minors?

I had to get a cookie to cheer myself up. Didn't work. Then I walked two miles back home in even heavier rain to find my brother still in bloody bed, with a full dishwasher and wet washing in the basket. I was in such a dark mood I ended up hammering on his door and yelling at him to get up.

Cruel, I know, but needed. And it worked well; he ended up getting up and emptying the dishwasher. He was incredibly pissed off with me, though.

Well, another interview bites the dust. On the plus side, Mum and Dad were both sympathetic, which I wasn't expecting. They both said that, judging from the interview, it probably wouldn't be the best place to work anyway. And I starting to agree with them; for a little shop, they appear to be taking things a little too seriously.

God, this is not good. School has officially ended for everyone, now, and I still don't have a job. Not for lack of trying; I must have handed in my CV to every shop with a Vacancy sign in the window. And so far, nothing. I'm close to munity.

I'm Daisy. When I grow up, I'll be Daisy Steiner, I just KNOW it. And, as much as I do love Daisy, I don't want to be like her very much. I keep watching Spaced and getting startled at sudden similarites that just fling themselves at me.

(Hmm, maybe I'll be a weird mesh of Daisy and Tim; like Daisy, but with Tim's geekiness and fandom-involvement. Although with Doctor Who instead of Star Wars. Oh God, have got to stop this. Do not want!)

I'll give it a go tomorrow, I suppose. I might be meeting the-guy-I-really-like for a coffee in the afternoon, so that can be an interlude in amongst the job-hunt.

(Spent almost all day with him yesterday. 'Twas glorious, and not only just because of the weather.)

I'm still *so* pissed off at that man. Although at least I've passed the stage where I just want to flail hopelessly yelling "FUCKING FUCK FUCKETTY FUCK!" That got seriously tempting earlier. I think Michael Jackson music (Billie Jean is not my lover...) and bacon sandwiches helped.

And Jack/Ianto-related material. Ahem.

It's been pouring for twenty hours straight, and almost every street in Cheltenham is flooded. If there is a God, I think he gave our school a perfectly sunny day for Charity Day on the field, then gave us torrential downpour to make up for it. *sigh*

Harry Potter tomorrow! It totally slipped my mind until last night. I'm such a hypocrite; I maintain that the whole franchise is totally overrated and causes too much fuss, yet I'm desperate to find out how it ends. It gets into your head, see. My parents haven't even read the books, and they know the names of the main characters.

(My Dad was going to call me Hermione when I was born; I can't even begin to thank my Mum for intervening, especially as I look like her. The character, not Emma Watson, anyhow.)

My brother has promised to buy this one, seeing as I've bought the last three. What do you think the chances are of me venturing into town tomorrow, visiting guy-who-I-really-like (I'm not sure how to refer to him) who works in a bookshop, and somehow not finding out the intricate details of the plot before I get home? Very thin, I expect. I'm definitely avoiding several of my haunts on the internet for a few days.

(Note to self; when you start to call them haunts, you're online too often.)

RIGHT. MUST LEAVE NOW. If I keep typing I'll never stop. I'm listening to I Can't Decide as I type this. I'll say this for Rusty; he managed to create a perplexing, weird, and very confusing series finale, but he did manage to introduce me to a Scissor Sisters song that actually ISN'T awful.

Rosby out. Congratulations on the review, Marie!