HARROWING

D-day. The day of my interview.

I am super-stressed as a result of problems with new boyfriend which culminated in an agreement to have dinner to sort things out. For some reason, perhaps the fact that I actually quite like him, the whole thing has being doing laps in my head at an alarming pace.

I have a lot of work ahead of me. Firstly, I don't know anything about the company. Research. I have perused the website before and it's all Spanish to me. For some reason google translate doesn't change that one iota.

More pressingly, my appearance. One of the perks of working from home is that I often spend 15 hours of every day in pajamas. I don't think this will quite cut it in PR.

I track down my pair of black pants and my only jacket and discover they are more than a little creased. I don't have an iron, so I head off to find a place that will iron them. It turns into an epic mission of several 'just two more blocks in that direction' and before I know it I'm halfway to Guatemala.

Now, the question of what to wear under the jacket. I head off to the Zona Rosa and get sidetracked buying a lovely pair of brown shorts and a little pinafore. And a white shirt for under the jacket.

I have also realised that I have been using the same lipstick for three years, and its brown tones don't work with the white base of my outfit. So I buy a pink-based lipstick.

Even I can't believe I have been in possession of one lipstick and two lips glosses (total) in the past three years.

I then discover that pink-based lippies make your teeth look yellow, and my steady diet of coffee and red wine has taken its toll on my pearly-used-to-be-whites. Fortunately, my teeth have always been a source of vanity and I dig up my teeth-bleaching kit.

While transforming my smile, I surf the web googling phrases like, "What is PR?"

I also message Vanessa, who's leaving the job, with some questions:

"Exactly who am I allowed to kiss? Is it wrong to kiss the boss?"

"No! That's fine."

"It's just that once I kissed the guy who sells fruit and veg at the market and Ara told me that was unnecessary here."

"Yes, Mexico is hard-core with the class thing: vendors, cleaners and market people are out. But bosses are fine."

The other problem is that the median height of everyone in the office seems to be five-foot. And with my black shoes, I am around six foot. I will be damned if I buy another pair of shoes though, so I will have to settle for bending down to kiss the boss and everyone else in the office.

I then give myself a manicure and pedicure. Pick up my freshly ironed clothes. There are a couple of things I lack:
- a suit
- a necklace
- any jewellery at all actually
- a leather belt
- perfume

I've never cared about any of these things except the leather belt, but suddenly I feel it. Will the boss notice when I kiss him, that a frangrance doesn't float up his nostrils. Does my neck look excessively bare? My fingers. My wrist?

I'm still not exactly sure what the job is.

I hop in a VW beatle cab and say, "Do you think it'll take us more than an hour to get to Coyuacan?"

"No," the cabbie replies, pulling out in front of a high-velocity truck, "We'll get there with enough time to have a coffee together."

I'll be surprised if we get there are all. I am almost regretting my mention of time constraints, as he has started driving as if I'm in labor. All the cars around us are beeping and I am feeling the road rage.

"So, you're a model then?" he asks.

If I was a model, would I be catching a VW beatle cab where death is more likely than arrival? No.

It's storming. It's the perfect weather where the air is heavy and lightening is striking the road 20 metres in front. He doesn't even jump as the thunder cracks right outside the window.

I look at him. He's got a young face and very heavy religious paraphenalia around his neck. We start chatting about Easter.

He's doing a three-day pilgrammage to some small town a few hours away by car. St Chelmo or something.

"Are you very religious?" I ask.

"Yes, well.. my wife had problems with her pregnancy. She was going to have to have an abortion but I promised God that if my daughter was born ok, I'd do the treck for three years. This is my fourth."

I find myself captivated by his story. He started dating his wife when he was 14. They got married when he was 18, and she was 21. The daughter is three now, she's fine. He's 21, and they have a son as well, called David. He does a pilgrammage on the 28th of every month as a result of a pact with God about David's health.

"So, are you going to have any more kids?" I ask.

"No."

"Yeah, you might run out of days in the year for walking hey?"

He laughs. He actually laughs.

He started driving when he was 14, and was driving buses at 15. He got caught, but paid the bribe. He was studying motor mechanics, but it wasn't worth it for the job opportunities and the time. Besides, he likes driving.

We like each other, this cabbie and I. He probably doesn't get to tell his story that often, and I am completely fascinated by his life. It is a world away from mine. But here we are together, in his little cab, chatting about life.

We arrive way early, so I tell him to do a block and drop me off at a cafe nearby. He gives me some final words of wisdom:
"Don't show you're nervous," he says, "Chilangos can tell, and they see it as weakness."
"I don't look nervous, do I?" I ask.
"Yes, you look a bit pink in the face."

I tip him 25 percent, and jump out into the rain. He was my favourite cab driver ever.

While killing half an hour, I exchange a couple of terse messages with Ignaki about the evening's arrangements.

The interview goes fine. The only moment of super-stress comes when he asks what I want to achieve in the job, over the next year.

It's really hard to spin shit, when you don't know what you're spinning shit about. What I really want to say is, "Well, my first step would be to find out the job description."

But I say, "Well, obviously it's a similar skill set, but still slightly different. So I want to learn all there is, and then do the job really well."

That is SO lame.

Then he asks me some weird questions. Are my friends Mexican or expat? Do I drive here? What do I do with myself, in my spare time? What do my parents do for a living? Have I had problems with security?

"I don't really arreglar (dress up) that much," I say, "So I don't think I'm a prime target for muggers."

"No, you don't really seem to wear jewellery," he says, looking at my hands.

"I have only been mugged in Ecuador, here it's just guys who grab your bottom and run away." And suddenly, I find myself telling him the arse-grabbing stories.

None of his questions make me feel uncomfortable. He has a fatherly, slightly distracted air about him and I like him a lot.

He tells me I have the job if I want it, pending two more interviews. One with the other director (the woman I kissed) and the other with an international relations director.

I walk out feeling elated and drained. There's still one harrowing event before the day is over: the conflict resolution dinner. I am tempted to suggest we just have drinks, in case I have to storm out before the mains arrive. But no, this will be my lesson in How To Express Anger Without Using the Word F*ck.

I decide against a red shirt and heels. That would be just inflammatory and spiteful. Then I set about the mandatory 40 minute waiting-for-Ignaki-to-arrive-late period, whilst dancing in front of the mirror to pass the time.