Over The Hills And Faraway, Book 5. Paying The PiperChapter 11: New Job, Old Problems free porn video
July 23rd, 2002. Military Systems PLC; RAF West Drayton, England
Came the morning for the aptitude test and interview, and I deliberated on what to wear, and which characteristics to project; suit and tie and a regimental manner, or smart casual and a laid back attitude? I chose the former, expecting all ex-military on the interview to be similarly dressed.
In the room set aside for the aptitude test it was easy to pick out the ex- servicemen and the students, and not only because of their ages. The former were dressed like me, the latter in scruff order, or so it seemed to my military and more formal eyes. A third group, dressed mainly in smart casual, I thought would likely be graduates changing careers.
The aptitude test started at 10am, and for an hour it was a gruelling, mind boggling, race to get through as many of the 100 questions as possible.
Some questions had me completely baffled, some had several similar answers, some the, hopefully, correct answer jumped right off the page. And then there were the pages of series of patterns, where the applicant had to pick the next one in the sequence from a selection. I could only take a wild guess at these – no time to painstakingly work through all the permutations – and hoped to choose the correct one in the series instinctively
After an hour of feverish activity the papers were collected and taken away to be marked, and I was sweating like a porker. I had completed march and shoot assault courses in a better mental and physical shape than after that aptitude test. After the papers had been marked there would be a series of interviews for those who had passed; the others would be thanked and then leave.
I didn't hold much hope of progressing any further – unless we did have an assault course to complete.
For a nerve-racking half an hour we waited for the results.
Coffee, tea, and biscuits had been prepared for us, but I don't think many partook. Eventually our ordeal ended when suited man, with a beard and a clipboard, came into the room. "May I please have your attention, ladies and gentlemen." His request was delivered in a slightly Scouse accent. We were all ears.
"The following applicants are not required for the next phase of the recruitment procedure. When their name is called would they please leave by the door to the right." He indicated the door, and started reading out the names. I waited, expecting the worse, but after some 30 names had been called the man said. "Congratulations. Those remaining have passed for the next phase of the recruitment procedure."
I let out my breath; at least I hadn't fallen at the first hurdle. About half of the original 60 applicants remained; most of the former servicemen had gone, leaving me and two other suited ex-military types, who both wore ties bearing the RAF crest. Few of the smart casuals had been eliminated, but at least half of the student types had missed the cut.
The next phase consisted of a psychological assessment, where the applicants filled in a questionnaire. The results would be perused by the company's resident trick cyclist to see if we were raving mad or merely just round the bend.
You've probably sussed I don't have much time for people who probe into my mind to determine if my mother had been scared by a bull when pregnant, or any such bollocks, and viewed the questions with suspicion.
The first half dozen or so questions, which I answered properly, or at least with some truth to my answers, seemed fairly innocuous, but when they started to rile me I gave flippant or facetious answers, which probably said more about me than had I answered honestly.
Question 8a: What life targets have you set yourself?
My Answer: Target 1. Play football for West Ham United Football Club.
Target 2. Shag Debbie Harry.
Question 8b: Have you achieved any of your targets?
My Answer: Target 1. No. Target 2. Yes.
Obviously I haven't, and I apologise to Ms. Harry for the slur on her character, although if she would like to help me achieve that target she can contact me via my publishers.
Question 9: Did you enjoy a good relationship with your father when you were a teenager?
If No please give as many reasons as possible why not.
My Answer: No ... He was dead.
Question 9b: Did you enjoy a good relationship with your mother when you were a teenager?
If No please give as many reasons as possible why not.
My Answer: No ... Left home at 15½ ... She was a lousy cook.
Question 10: Have there ever been times when you wondered how you would get through a stressful day?
If Yes please give as many details as possible.
My Answer: Yes, frequently. In The Falklands, in Northern Ireland, in Bosnia, in Afghanistan, and at West Ham games against Millwall.
I thought that would cook my goose for the job, but bugger it, ask a stupid question and you will get a stupid answer.
After handing in the questionnaire my name, and those of the two other ex-military applicants, were called and we followed the bearded gent into a smaller room with another suited man sitting at a desk.
"Gentlemen," he got from his chair as he spoke, "please sit down and make yourself comfortable. The next phase, assessment of the applicants as team players, doesn't concern you," He said, "as former SNCO's in HM Forces all of you are obviously team players, and I would not insult you by setting questions for you to answer. Similarly, any security vetting will not take too long as each of you served over eighteen years in the military, and your records are squeaky clean. These are some of the reasons we are glad to employ suitable former members of the Armed Forces as computer programmers/analysts. Not all of my colleagues take this view, but when it comes down to it, it's results that count."
He went on to tell us that, barring a disaster during our one-to-one interview with a senior manager, we would be all offered employment.
One of the ex RAF men remarked. "I hope I don't get interviewed by one of your colleagues who thinks we shouldn't be here."
The gent laughed. "I can assure that won't happen. I am the Site Director, Alan Guthrie, and will be the senior manager to interview you. The one-to-one interview will take about fifteen minutes each. I can fit one interview in before lunch, so if I start with Mister Desmond the rest of you can go to lunch, and return here by 1.30. My P.A will show you to the dining room."
As he finished speaking a young woman about 25 years old came in. "Would you like to follow me, gentlemen?" She said.
"Not 'arf" I heard the RAF man say quietly. And he was right, she was a honey. They all piled out, leaving me with Alan Guthrie.
"Mister Desmond," he said, "or may I be less formal and call you David, or Des?"
"Des will do fine." I said.
"Well, Des, you obtained extremely high marks in the aptitude test, and are a natural for a system analyst. It is quite amazing for some one of your..."
he hesitated, so I helped him out.
"Class? Intelligence? Education?"
" ... education," he finished gratefully.
Guthrie, hurriedly, went on to say he was the only person on site who knew about my GBH conviction, and I had been cleared by MoD to work on the top secret government contract.
"In other words, Des, you are invited to start work as soon as you are able. Welcome to Military Systems PLC, or MilSys as it is more commonly known."
He left his chair to come around the desk to shake my hand when I said, "What about the psychological assessment, has mine been checked yet?"
Guthrie laughed. "Yes" he said, "and it proves you're the sanest man on the site; wanted to play for the Hammers, and has shagged Blondie! Anyway we chuck all you ex-servicemen's papers in the bin. There's no need for that assessment any more than checking your team player skills."
He shook my hand warmly, and I thanked him equally warmly. We were making small talk – he too was a West Ham fan – when his pretty aide returned.
"Cecilia, please take Mister Desmond along to the dining room. I'll see you back here at two thirty, Des, and I will brief all of you together."
I followed Cecilia's pert buttocks and saying hips to the dining room, an experience I relished.
On the first day of my new career I joined a team of computer programmers, along with three other new starters, two former students: a Yorkshire lad name of Brian Blewton, from Harrogate I think, a pretty young girl from Kent by the name of Samantha Lawson, and an ex-RAF bloke called Ted Blackford.
Our team leader, John Rudry, who became a good friend of mine, explained what the team was working on, and informed us we were part of one of the three teams under a Project Leader, Ms. Suzannah Weston, who we would meet, with other senior members of staff, at the induction course starting the next day.
The induction course was held in the same large room where we had sat the aptitude test. Alan Guthrie welcomed the new starters, and gave a synopsis of what the MoD contract entailed. Having signed the Official Secrets Act I cannot reveal much about the contract, suffice it to say it encompassed a military air traffic control system, and John Rudfy's team was responsible for the Secondary Surveillance Radar (SSR) element of the system. Yeah, I didn't have a clue about SSR either, but thankfully Ted Blackford did, and gave me a crash course in the basic technology, and more importantly the jargon, such as garble, fruit, transponders, IFF, and other arcane and esoteric stuff, so after a week or two I could talk the talk even if I didn't walk the walk.
Hortense
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