The Job Interview
February 2000 My imaginary conversation with Nobel laureate TS Eliot as I crawl along Oxford Road, Manchester goes like this:
No, Thomas Stearns, the cruellest month isn’t April. It’s February here in the North West, when I can’t see past the car in front.
Freezing fog passes for daylight at this time of the year. I’ve left and returned home in the dark all winter on my three-hour daily commute. And today is no different.
If I’m not careful, I’ll be doing this for the rest of my working life. “The fog clears by mid-morning and turns to rain that smashes against my office window. I glance down at the stick figures below, scurrying along with umbrellas aloft, like a scene out of an LS Lowry painting. When I next look up at the clock, it’s 12.30pm. I grab my coat and umbrella and make for the door. It’s still raining, but lunchtimes are my only chance to get any exercise during the working week.
As it’s Monday—when senior jobs in advertising, broadcasting and media education are advertised—I buy a copy of the Guardian. I’m not looking to move jobs, but I want to know what’s out there. As the rain pelts down, I hurry back to work, shaking off the water as I run up to the canteen to buy lunch, then to my office to eat al desko while looking at the job ads.
I turn straight to the media section. A display ad, with the words Media Professor New Zealand, jumps out at me. I think of my other half, known as BB Lookalike or Not Bryan Brown after a drunk in a sleazy bar in Montreal mistook him for the Australian actor. An assistant professor for ten years, he maybe needs to leave or threaten to do so to get promoted to full professor.
There aren’t many universities in New Zealand. I’ve studied at three of them—graduating from Victoria in Wellington, a place I left 20 years ago, with an arts degree. And BB Lookalike’s only connection to the country is through me. We spent a Christmas and New Year there, and one highlight was walking in the Abel Tasman National Park, not far from Mariri, where I grew up. It’s a bit of a leap from going on holiday and liking a place, to applying for a job there, so I set aside this fantasy and examine the practicalities.
The job is in Hamilton at the University of Waikato. Despite being on the main highway between Wellington and Auckland, it’s a place I’ve never wanted to stop at. And the friends who grew up there have all left. Known as a “cow town,” it’s smack in the middle of the North Island and prime dairy farming country.
How bad can it be? At least it’s driving distance to the bright lights of Auckland.
At 5.45pm, my boss walks into my office. ‘On your way,’ he says. ‘We don’t get paid for overtime.’
When I’ve been here as long, I’ll turn into a clock watcher like you.
‘I’m waiting for the traffic to clear,’ I fib. In reality, I’m agonising over a Catch-22. In one corner is an agent who wants a fee we can’t afford. In the other, a producer who is pressuring me to pay what they’re asking, and in the third, the boss who says we’ve reached the payment ceiling. And I’m the one who has to get them to all agree.
Things must be bad if sitting in a traffic jam is preferable to answering another passive-aggressive email from the entertainment department. I log out of my computer, sling the newspaper into my bag, grab my coat, and head out the door.
Once I’m clear of the city centre and on the M56, after the Manchester Airport turnoff, the traffic flows and I make good progress. I roll up at the home of Sue, our dogsitter, and as usual, Zebedee is reluctant to leave after hanging out with other dogs all day.
When we finally get home, the first thing I do is show BB Lookalike the ad.
‘What do you reckon?'
“I’ll have a look,’ he says. ‘I’ll see if anyone knows anything about the department.’
When I have a spare moment, I weigh up the cost of living and the price of houses in England versus New Zealand. But I’m not comparing apples with apples, as the North West is one of the cheapest places to live here. Or I am, as Hamilton is comparable. The only difference is New Zealand has no stamp duty on property purchases.
BB Lookalike says he’ll throw his hat in the ring and see what happens. Applying for jobs at other universities is expected when you’ve been at the same institution for a long time.
Two weeks after the closing date, Waikato invites BB Lookalike to an in-person interview. In New Zealand. I want to go with him on a “look-see” visit, but I have neither the money nor the flexibility at work to take a holiday at such short notice. Because he leaves on a Saturday, I can drop him off at Manchester Airport. But as I can only park in the five-minute drop-off bay, we have to say our goodbyes in front of the parking warden, who strides towards us, telling me to hurry.
“Take plenty of pics,’ I call as I zoom out of the parking spot before the grumpy attendant can book me.
I spend my days coming up with sweeteners, persuading a reluctant agent to go with the BBC rather than ITV for the sake of their client’s future career. I can’t pay the client what they ask for, but I can throw in a clothing allowance and their preferred hair and make-up artist. By night, I imagine myself walking on a deserted beach on the other side of the world.
Midweek, BB Lookalike calls me from his hotel. ‘You’ll love it here,’ he says. He’s come back from a tour of the countryside with one of the staff in the film and media department. She’s taken him to Raglan on the West Coast, known throughout the surfing world as having one of the best left-hand breaks.
‘It’s how I imagine California was before it was ruined,’ he says. ‘There is a guy here from Hawaii who runs a burger bar and will never return.'
“I pick him up from Manchester Airport the following Sunday. If he was offered the job, he’d say yes because he can shape the department and run with it. It’s his chance to make a difference in a country with a population the size of Ireland’s.
He’s been back for fewer than twelve hours when the verbal offer comes through.
It’s madness to up sticks and move to the other side of the world because we’re sick of the weather and the climate in the UK. We both suffer from a form of seasonal affective disorder (SAD), but then, doesn’t everybody? And what about the upheaval? Surely it’s easier to find new jobs in England.
One of the many things BB Lookalike and I have in common is we are boarding school survivors. No experience will be as traumatic as the first night in the dormitory, lying awake, listening to all the other children weeping under the bedclothes and pining for home. Having the rug pulled out from under you when you’re seven forces you to stand on your own two feet. We’re both seasoned independent travellers, living abroad after graduating from university. And we thrive on change. The difference is this time, we’ll be going on an adventure together.
New Zealand is my past, but could it be our future, too?
I scribble a note to say yes; in principle, subject to the fine print in the contract.
When the written contract comes through, we realise the salary will be enough for us to live on. And there’s a generous relocation package. The university will pay us to take all our furniture and effects, cover our airfares, and give us six weeks in short-term accommodation. Of course, we must cover the cost of dog transport and vet checks for Zebedee, which will be more than both our flights combined.
‘What do you think?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We left London and made it work. We can make it happen in New Zealand too. The timing’s right. For both of us.’
With a stroke of a pen, BB Lookalike signs his contract. The start date is another seven and a half months away.
And so, the countdown begins.
