Ok, concentrate. Stop talking to yourself. Oh God, please don’t let my lips be moving. Did he clean his teeth this morning? Must remember to Google how do you get a three year old to clean his teeth.
‘…Charlotte, you were saying …’ Oh God, what was I saying?
The dull monotone sounds of a male voice suddenly jolted me back to reality. Was I answering a question?
Here I am in a 10 by 10 glass encased box trying desperately to concentrate. This is the final stage of my interview. I can do this. I need to do this. After all, it’s not just me any more. I have responsibilities in the form of two hungry mouths and childcare, which makes my mortgage repayments look like pocket money.
Over the last two years I have been forced (kicking and screaming) to re-evaluate my priorities along with my shoe and bag allowance. Gone are the carefree days of casually choosing whether or not I would like to take on a role based on strict criteria of what its dress down policy is, or whether there is a Starbucks within a hundred yards of the front door?
Oh how I miss those days. I recognise that as a mother of two under five, I am not the most attractive of potential candidates and know (based on market research) that I have in fact been risk assessed.
What’s the probability of my being tired, late, called away at a moment’s notice, or on leave because of child sickness? 99.9%.
I hate to say it, but times have changed. In the good old days, all it took was a CV, a quick chat over a cup of coffee, ten minutes negotiating salary, an awkward handshake and - Bobs your Uncle - start on Monday.
Over the last six weeks, any elusive moment of spare time has been spent preparing for this bizarrely complex interview process.
To date, I have spent two hours re-reading the Application Form (navigating the sticky brown fingers prints and remnants of dinner), six hours drafting the answers to the ‘Why are you suitable for this job?’ and - apart from refusing to divulge my inside leg measurement - I can conclusively state that I have provided ever single detail of the last eighteen years of my life.
Don’t potential employers know I have just procreated? This act in itself ensures that anything PB (prebabies) has little or no relevance to the present day, primarily because I can’t remember. Something happened to my brain somewhere between month five and month six of their arrival. Although the term ‘baby brain’ is branded about, I more inclined to diagnose early Alzheimers.
And, so here I am attempting to venture back into a world where I once belonged, torn between the need to be ‘me’ again, not Mummy or, the twins mum, just me and knowing that this means I will inevitability miss experiencing many magical moments in the lives of my dynamic duo. Like the first time they learn to swim without their arm bands, or the first time they ride their bike without stabilisers.
As I look up into the faces of three nameless people sitting before me with five foot of solid oak dividing us like the Berlin Wall, I realise that I’m not the same me. I am different. I’ve changed. I don’t walk at 150mph any more, sleep with my mobile or, eat breakfast, lunch and dinner through a straw. I watch cbeebies not BBC, I wear Converse not Choo, I read Thomas not The Times, I don’t care if Harriet's on the up or, out. I only care that the two angelic faces before me smile, eyes sparkling wide open, dressed and ready for action armed with a Power Ranger and magic wand.
Then, it comes, the difficult, heart wrenching moment in every working mothers life when she knows she must choose.
'Charlotte, we’re waiting. When are you free to start?’
The only question which now remains is ‘Did I make the right decision?’
