I realised I had applied for the wrong job when I came for the interview.

I was dressed smartly - a new suit, well new to me: I'd found a bargain in the charity shop around the corner from me, the volunteer who sold it to me told me "an old geezer died wearing that suit, but you'd never know would ya?" - and I'd had a haircut especially for the occasion. My mother would have been proud of me, I thought.

Or at least, not as ashamed as she usually was.

I arrived at the interview with plenty of time to spare. The foyer was full of people dressed as clowns, which I thought was odd, until the person at the reception - after taking my name, and checking it off a list - asked if I wanted to get changed: "the toilets are usually quite clean at this time of the day," she said.

It dawned on me that I had somehow applied to be a clown. This was something I had no experience in at all. I had two choices: leave, as quickly and quietly as possible; or I could try to blag it.

I shrugged - internally - and thought: why not?

...

Hey there #ZapFic fins!

You might be interested to know that #ZapFic is returning to the Freewriters Community this Monday!

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