Fire in the belly and volcanoes

"I'm a dreadful man manager, flighty and I'm recruiting because I have a very high turnover. Oh and I sacked a girl last week and generally my staff only stay three months." Ok, not the conventional way to sell your company, let alone a PR company, granted, but a way which obviously works for CJ, my potential new boss. Who completely put me off my stride by pointing out she was "soooo hungover" before we even sat down for interview.

But at least I relaxed. The MD of Proactive Communications was human, potentially a border line alcoholic and, due to impending acrimonious divorce (a titbit teased out during one of our many odd trains of conversation), teetering on the edge. I expected Alan Sugar, I got Eddy from Ab Fab. Without the garish clothes, wit or war paint. I stood 'at ease' with fire in my belly.

An hour earlier, the story was somewhat different. Quaking like a Parkinson's sufferer strapped into a giant cocktail shaker, I was terrified at the thought of meeting, well, anyone after being cooped up in the house for three months running my freelancing empire. Alone at a makeshift computer station in a solitary spare room with only magazine pics of semi-naked Jake Gyllenhaal, stuck crudely onto a pinboard, for company. Could be worse, I s'pose.

My pre-frontal cortex was flooded. Intimidation, humiliation, rejection, criticism. Negative emotions bounced over my brain wearing football spikes. Fraying hem at bottom of right trouser leg wasn't helping. "I look ok?" I asked Owen needily, desperately, slinging my bag containing portfolio of cuttings over my shoulder. "Yes, you look great. Now go!" he instructed. I opened the front door, walked to the car, walked back to the front door, opened it, went to the pinboard for hastily scrawled directions and out the front door again.

Fifteen minutes before interrogation time, I arrived at the bastion of environmentally-friendly developments, Epic House, a building covered with photo voltaics to absorb solar rays and generate power for 25,000 lightbulbs and 700 computers. 21st century commerce.

How do I know this? No, I didn't google the building, developer and car park attendant, as well as the firm itself, just to be on the safe side. The giant plasma screen in the corner of the desolate foyer, reminiscent of Gattaca, was installed solely to tell visitors how much the developer loved our planet. A bullet-pointed slide show saying "Epic House is built on a brownfield site" and "materials were sourced locally" helped demonstrate this.

Partly funded by the European Fund for Regional Economic Development, the primarily glass piece of contemporary architecture is dedicated to businesses dedicated to making a fortune from masking what they really do behind jargon. Namely, Public Relations firms and the like. Nine businesses to be exact reside there, renting a total of 25 offices. Of 500. Dodging the tumbleweed, I wondered, 'just how many plasma screens are there in this building, installed solely to demonstrate a commitment to saving the planet. And exactly how many photo voltaics are powering them?'

I eventually turned away when my potential new boss strode over in sensible black shoes, non-descript black skirt and white T-shirt covered by a threadbare black cardy. No make-up and puffy eyes that screamed "shut us, please, we can't take anymore." The body said professional but out of steam. I later discovered 72 hours a week at work was the norm.

"Hi, I'm CJ". she said. "Hi, I'm Pen". She shook my hand. As we navigated the stairs to the interview room, the empty canteen, she admitted she was a tad worse for wear. "I'm soooo hungover and realise I look a right mess." Ok. Don't say yeah or she'll think you think she looks a state. "Yeah, that's the good thing about working from home," I offered, jovially. "You can sound professional while wearing your pyjamas."

My attempt at a "hey, I can be your friend as well as a colleague" patter left her non-plussed, evident by her perfunctory "I see." We were into the zone of condescension. Good. Come on Pen, come on, I told myself, up your game. Think money, think respect, think gossip with people over 4.

After that, the interview went reasonably well. Aside from her strange attempts to convince me how horrid she was. Was she trying to impress me? And me stumbling like a dribbling chuwawa over the "On a scale of 1-10, how manageable are you?" question. I eventually worked out it was a trick, but only after muttering randomly for three minutes. "I'd say around 7-8, as I can be managed but can also effectively manage others?" I said, hopefully. The right answer.

Revealing I had a four-year-old daughter, however, was not as welcome news. "You're not old enough to have a child, surely," she asked. I smiled smugly, another reference to my not a day older than 23, youthful visage. It wouldn't be the last. "I'm 31," I said, in ready anticipation of the inevitable "never". "I realise that, but I'm older than you and I'm certainly not ready to have kids," came the actual repost. Ah. Cue thirty-something, 21st century career woman look of disgust and relentless quizzing. "But would you be able to work at a moment's notice?", "How would you feel about being away from your daughter all day?", "Do you think this job might affect your home life?" They came thick and furious. Why is it most female big cheeses give you hell when kids are part of the equation? Guess my response says it all. "No, it's not a problem, it'll be fine, I have kids club and my partner can step in at the drop of a hat." Might need to mention that to him.

Numerous masquerading-as-clever questions later such as 'do you think you are good worker?' (Uh, no, I think I'm pretty hopeless really - could I have that job now please?), I left for home to complete her press release writing task in anticipation of a second interview. Very confusing experience, all in all.

Home James and, to my delight, Lizzy was on top form, showing off her smiley sticker for good reading. Her feedback book is full of little gems from teacher, Mrs Wyatt, bringing to the fore the "my child's a true genius" parent in me. 'Lovely reading Lizzy, read all the words and used sounds and pictures to help her today, what a good girl.'

And I didn't know she could now see a word and read it back. Oh the pride. "So, can you read the word 'a' now?" I asked her. "Yes mumma," she answered excitedly. "Aaaaand how about 'an?". "Yes mumma," she offered again eagerly. "Aaaaaand what about.......'the?", I said, upping the ante. "Yes mumma", came the reply. I couldn't resist giving her a warm hug. "Good girl," I announced in head mistress fashion. "But mumma, what about volcano?" she asked, clearly frustrated. As I said before, the zone of condescension.