The interviewee made me feel sick. Sickened by his ill fitting suit. Sickened by his grey comb over. Sickened by his nervous cough. But most of all sickened by the realisation that one day I would be in his seat, pushing 50, answering patronising questions from young asses, desperately hoping that they might offer me a contract position that would allow me to continue feeding my family, paying my mortgage, for a few months before they cast me out, back into the cold, back into the interviewees chair. Sickened that this future shadow-self would be willing to accept whatever indignities or petty humiliations this new organisation might heap upon me, inwardly hating myself for allowing myself to get into this entirely predictable and entirely undignified position. The nauseating interviewee was a weight lifter and his handshake was firm. I was glad that we got a solid contact. If he’d just caught my fingers they might have been mashed off as surely as if I’d shoved them in a meat grinder.