had already
received about ten rejection letters in the previous two or three days, some
stating ‘unfortunately, we do not have any vacancies at this current time’ and
the remainder saying ‘sorry to inform you that your application has been
unsuccessful.’ I was overjoyed. I smirked as I thrust the interview letters
into Dad’s hands later that night,
“See? I can do
it Dad.” He grinned back and hugged me tightly, delighted to see me looking
more positive.
“Well I always
knew were capable, darling. I really hope you interview well - you will be an
asset to any company, I’m sure.” I hoped so too. I was desperate to do
something that would make my parents proud of me. I needed to!
I went along to
the next appointment with Mr Gillespie two days after receiving my interview
letters. This time he wanted to know all about my obsessions. When exactly had
it started, how often did I indulge in my obsessions? Was it every day? What
did I feel I was achieving? How many times a day was I scrubbing my hands or
showering? Did I think that this had all been triggered by Gavin having sex
with Bobbie? (Of course I did.) Did I feel mentally contaminated because I
couldn’t rid myself of the vision of the two of them indulging in such a way?
(What sort of question was that to ask? Wouldn’t anybody feel the same way,
having witnessed those two shagging like a couple of dogs?) Why was I arranging
Dad’s books in perfect symmetry? Was I trying to get my life back in order?
(This is a total waste of my bloody time. I’ve come here to see this guy and he
sits there telling me what is patently obvious.) He ended the day’s session by
confirming that I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and that as things had
only recently started occurring, he was quite sure that with some additional
help, Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, quite soon, it was possible that I could get
past this stage in my life before it really took a hold. He would make the
referral and the therapist would write to me offering an appointment. On the
journey home I was feeling rather disgruntled and well – pissed off with
things. I badly needed not to have to go through with the therapy.
I parked my car
in the drive, ambled up the path and in through the door. Mum was in the
kitchen preparing the vegetables for the evening meal, and asked me,
“How was today’s
session, darling?” and without pausing for another breath, or waiting for an
answer “There’s some more mail for you - well, one letter – on the coffee
table. The post arrived just after you left.”
I left Mum
alone in kitchen, muttering as she continued to attack the swede with a touch
too much enthusiasm. As I ripped open the envelope and read the letter, I
started to smile and couldn’t stop myself from punching the air. I had been
offered an interview, 10am Monday morning the following week.
By eleven am
that following Monday morning I had been offered a position. No waiting whilst
hundreds of other hopefuls had interviews, no hanging about waiting for the
rejection (or in this case, acceptance) letter. He told me immediately that
there was a position and possibly a future for me within the practice. I had
liked the gentleman Mr Hopkins from my first impressions and it was all I could
do to keep myself from flinging my arms around him and kissing him. He told me
all the necessary information with regard to salary, holiday entitlement,
sickness, and training. He would get the employment contract drawn up
immediately and asked when it would be convenient for me to start. I left the
office on cloud nine and with an overwhelming desire to punch the air again as
I walked back to my car knowing I would be starting my new career the following
Monday.
Mum and Dad
were delighted for me and after some persuasion I think they both agreed that
it would probably be more beneficial than seeing the therapist. They reminded
the next morning that I should call the other accountancy firms and inform
received about ten rejection letters in the previous two or three days, some
stating ‘unfortunately, we do not have any vacancies at this current time’ and
the remainder saying ‘sorry to inform you that your application has been
unsuccessful.’ I was overjoyed. I smirked as I thrust the interview letters
into Dad’s hands later that night,
“See? I can do
it Dad.” He grinned back and hugged me tightly, delighted to see me looking
more positive.
“Well I always
knew were capable, darling. I really hope you interview well - you will be an
asset to any company, I’m sure.” I hoped so too. I was desperate to do
something that would make my parents proud of me. I needed to!
I went along to
the next appointment with Mr Gillespie two days after receiving my interview
letters. This time he wanted to know all about my obsessions. When exactly had
it started, how often did I indulge in my obsessions? Was it every day? What
did I feel I was achieving? How many times a day was I scrubbing my hands or
showering? Did I think that this had all been triggered by Gavin having sex
with Bobbie? (Of course I did.) Did I feel mentally contaminated because I
couldn’t rid myself of the vision of the two of them indulging in such a way?
(What sort of question was that to ask? Wouldn’t anybody feel the same way,
having witnessed those two shagging like a couple of dogs?) Why was I arranging
Dad’s books in perfect symmetry? Was I trying to get my life back in order?
(This is a total waste of my bloody time. I’ve come here to see this guy and he
sits there telling me what is patently obvious.) He ended the day’s session by
confirming that I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and that as things had
only recently started occurring, he was quite sure that with some additional
help, Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, quite soon, it was possible that I could get
past this stage in my life before it really took a hold. He would make the
referral and the therapist would write to me offering an appointment. On the
journey home I was feeling rather disgruntled and well – pissed off with
things. I badly needed not to have to go through with the therapy.
I parked my car
in the drive, ambled up the path and in through the door. Mum was in the
kitchen preparing the vegetables for the evening meal, and asked me,
“How was today’s
session, darling?” and without pausing for another breath, or waiting for an
answer “There’s some more mail for you - well, one letter – on the coffee
table. The post arrived just after you left.”
I left Mum
alone in kitchen, muttering as she continued to attack the swede with a touch
too much enthusiasm. As I ripped open the envelope and read the letter, I
started to smile and couldn’t stop myself from punching the air. I had been
offered an interview, 10am Monday morning the following week.
By eleven am
that following Monday morning I had been offered a position. No waiting whilst
hundreds of other hopefuls had interviews, no hanging about waiting for the
rejection (or in this case, acceptance) letter. He told me immediately that
there was a position and possibly a future for me within the practice. I had
liked the gentleman Mr Hopkins from my first impressions and it was all I could
do to keep myself from flinging my arms around him and kissing him. He told me
all the necessary information with regard to salary, holiday entitlement,
sickness, and training. He would get the employment contract drawn up
immediately and asked when it would be convenient for me to start. I left the
office on cloud nine and with an overwhelming desire to punch the air again as
I walked back to my car knowing I would be starting my new career the following
Monday.
Mum and Dad
were delighted for me and after some persuasion I think they both agreed that
it would probably be more beneficial than seeing the therapist. They reminded
the next morning that I should call the other accountancy firms and inform
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