Interview Sans Coffee

Tomorrow I have an interview without coffee. It's at an establishment that was once housed in a rather grand and traditional building that sat equidistant between the MI5 and MI6 buildings on the south bank of the River Thames. That building had offices, board rooms, meeting rooms and a great big room that was decked out like a courtroom where discipline cases were conducted.

However, the establishment was moved a few years ago to a new premises near London Bridge. The new building is a modern, open plan affair with plenty of glass. But it's the open plan feature that's important here.

As you go in you're not met by heavy oak doors that detail the occupant's name and rank as per the building's predecessor. As you enter the new one you find yourself in a vast open space where uniformed officers sit hunched behind flat computer screens. Whenever I enter it reminds me of the opening scenes of The Office, where a telephone rings in the distance and there's the constant murmur of tippy tappy keyboards. As you pass through the threshold and into the work area heads pop up above work stations as the residents crane their necks to discover who's just entered their territory. It's this behaviour that has led to the new building being termed 'Meerkat Manor.'

So tomorrow I'm at 'Meerkat Manor' for an interview and to be presented with formal charges. I've been a very naughty boy. Tomorrow is the forerunner to The Carpet Parade and the familiar words:

'Soldier and escort......by the right....QUICK MARCH!' which echo loudly in my mind.

But what's this?

Have I hurt anyone? No.

Have I killed anyone? No.

Is there mass loss of property due to my professional incompetence? No.

But someone is offended so I'll tap the boards tomorrow in grey slacks, blue shirt, blazer and brogues.

I will admit to having been slightly nervous about tomorrow. Not because I'm of a nervous disposition but because I know many of the residents of Meerkat Manor and the shunning of the diseased one will be embarrassing for both myself and those I know.

But a blog post by a friend brought me to my senses and made me remember where I've come from and my nerves are no more.

I'm not from a privileged background and a good school but from the mean streets of Peckham and the hell hole that was The Beaufoy School for Boys.

I'm not from a comfortable office where the tea boat running dry is a major calamity but from the British Army where a major calamity transposes to a colleague paying the ultimate price and going home in a flag draped coffin.

I shall reproduce my friend's blog post here.

It's short. It's sweet. It's to the point. And there's more plagiarism to come.

As I travel this path less travelled I have to say thanks, Tomo.

Song for a Pirate


FEAR NAUGHT