Dear Sir/Madam,

The tables have turned. I am currently embroiled in having to recruit a number of people for this department I work in. Scary stuff considering this is my first ever real job and I’m usually the one clutching the little glass of water in the interviewing room, coughing a lot and laughing nervously. And I’m usually the one agonizing over that application form, desperately trying to find more managementy words like ‘succeeded’ rather than ‘managed’ and ‘enjoyed greatly’ rather than ‘did okay’.

I wrote the job advert and lo and behold! Applications started to arrive. To make things easier, all people had to do was fill in a fairly straightforward form. None of that coverletter-and-CV nonsense. To my horror, I soon came to realise that maybe a CV and cover letter would have been easier for some of the (and I mean this in the loosest possible sense!) unlucky applicants.

The form is easy enough to populate. There are boxes for everything. Including the exact skill set asked for in the job advert. Communication! Analysis! Working with people! And so on.

Instead, some people invented their own competencies (decisional skills) or left the whole field blank. Another wrote no less than four paragraphs about his psychological air into the ‘communication skills’ box. I don’t know about you, but would you want to employ someone who basically threatens to psyche you out between the hours of nine and five? Exactly. I wasn’t sure about the motivational speeches either. It’s only an admin job, for God’s sake. And you, my dear, are not a life coach. So keep your excellent grammer and spelinge to yourself. And if you are indeed dyslexic, for goodness sake, ask someone to check the form before you send it off.

And why would you want to explain in great detail how one fillets a salmon under ‘analytical skills’? Don’t get me wrong, it made for a riveting read, but … why? And what about the gluten free party you threw in Lagos? Where your friend provided the entertainment (… he makes excellent music)?

As for ‘organisational commitment’. Well, well, you are applying for a job in an organisation. The clue lies in the title. This was your chance to give the impression you actually bothered looking at the Office’s web site. That you did some research and know what you’re letting yourself in for. It was not the box where you tell us how organised you are and that you’re always on time. Or that you are committed to keeping your desk tidy. Neatfreak!

All this may sound very harsh, and I do realise that filling in forms is a nightmare and that you probably did so in a rush, but … please … all I’m asking for is some sort of connection between the job advert and what you stick on the goddamn form. It’d be nice if I could actually read your handwriting, too! And don’t you realise that answering every question with I was a school governor for fifteen years! Is going to scare the living daylights out of me? Do you not realise you might come across as slightly deranged?

There were three of us sifting through those application forms. Plus gallons of tea. And biscuits. Two hours later, all three participants had started shrieking uncontrollably. Somehow, we decided on 13 (sic) interview candidates. I am looking forward to meeting these people in two weeks time. I don’t know what to wear yet and I do hope I manage to control myself and won’t collapse under the table laughing hysterically when you whip out that salmon.

(and yes, I am a complete bitch sometimes)