A bunch of us - ladies of a certain age - were Sunday lunching in a boardwalk cafe. The topic of conversation turned from "recent overseas trips" to "job interviews from hell".
We recounted our tales, each hoping to beat the other in the horror stakes, but Jane had hung back until the rest of us had spoken. Then, in her quiet way, she told a story that left the rest of us standing at the starting gates, so to speak.
"In the late '60s, I was looking for a second job" she said. "Just part-time so's I could save some money to go to England. A friend lined up an interview for me. I didn't know what the job was, but I was told to bring my bikini along."
Now, this would have rung a gazillion alarm bells for me, but not for Jane. Either she was devil-may-care when she was young ... or just plain stupid. In any case, she went along.
She was asked to stand, bikini-clad and very still, with her back against a large board and her arms outstretched, crucifix-style. At this point, the "interviewer" started throwing knives at her - real knives, sharp knives.
"Aaaaah" she thought as day dawned slowly but surely into her brain. "I'm to be a knife-thrower's target girl, am I? Not bloody likely!"
Then from the depths of our open-mouthed silence, someone piped up: "But did you pass the interview?"
"Well, I'm still here, aren't I?"
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