I'd left a job I'd been in for four years - which in my industry is a long time - and had a massive, boozy send off.
Only, the boozy send off was the night before a last-minute interview for a new gig, one I really wanted. It really was "Can you come in tomorrow and meet the boss?" I said 'yes of course' and, on an idiotic high - leaving the old, the promise of green pastures new - I was in the mood to celebrate...
Cut to early the next morning and I'm on a bench, on the South Bank, trying to stop the world from spinning and my stomach contents from paying a visit. I still smell of pure alcohol and I'm gingerly self-medicating with croissant & coffee.
I'm ushered into a glass office, overlooking a busy, open plan workspace. I'm meant to wow the big guy with my expertise and knowledge but mostly I'm cold sweating last night's tequila and drawing booze blanks left, right & centre. I can barely string a full sentence together. Putting sentences together is a fundamental part of the job. My mouth is dry and I'm really beginning to regret the croissant I had earlier...
I'm aware, as the wave of nausea overtakes me, that I've been asked another question. My ears are ringing and my head falls onto the glass table I'm sitting at. I want to stay there because the room is moving. I feel terrible. Also: who has this much glass? It's all glass, the walls, the furniture, the trendy chairs...
It's no good, I move into damage limitation mode. I confess all, profusely apologise and then ask if I can quickly borrow his bin...
At the end of the interview, we say goodbye, I muster whatever dignity I have left and walk out, head held high. And straight into his (firmly closed) glass office door.
It turns out, when I walk out of doorways mortified, I do it at some speed so the impact of my face on glass caused quite a loud bang. If anyone in the open plan office wasn't already watching the strange woman throwing up in a bin, they were doing so now.
I apologise for what feels like the umpteenth time and let myself out, through the door, old skool style, by opening it first.
There is such a thing as an office walk of shame when the office is open plan and you've made a complete tit of yourself.
Reader: I did NOT get the job.
Years and years later, at a business function, when I was much more senior and less prone to out and out stupidity, I was reintroduced to that interviewer. He was now, also much more senior. I decided to front it out, letting us be introduced by another. Sure, he wasn't going to remember little oik me. He took one look at me and laughed "Oh, I remember you!"