to bother interviewing anyone without them? It seemed like another good sign. I proudly told him about my NNEB from Gateshead College and he seemed duly impressed. He asked what experience I had and so I went into detail about the places I’d worked and the children I’d looked after. He seemed pleased with my answers.
Next he asked how old I was and if I had a passport. I’d need one, he said, because, as the advert had stated, the crèche wasn’t in Britain but in Amsterdam. I liked the sound of that immediately and told him so. I also explained that I was 19 but I had travelled abroad before and had a valid passport. As the conversation went on I realised with a little thrill of excitement that not only was I being interviewed for this job, but that I seemed to be impressing John. He said that everything I told him sounded very promising. After about half an hour he asked me a few personal questions: what did I look like, was I neat and tidy, what sort of clothes did I usually wear, did I like to go out on a night and did I consider myself an extrovert or an introvert? He said he needed to know all this information because it was a great responsibility finding a nursery nurse to look after other people’s children and that he wanted to make sure I would be suitable.
He asked me to supply references from my current and previous employers and finished off by saying that he’d have his assistant call me back in a few days to let me know if I had got the position. As I put the phone down I felt confident that I’d done well and that I might well have landed my dream job. I fairly skipped back into the living room to tell Mum all about it. She gave me a look that very plainly told me she thought I was being an idiot.
True to his word, John Reece got his assistant to call me. She phoned one evening after I got back from the nursing home. She said my references had arrived and were impressive, and that she had some good news – I’d got the job. I was elated, I’d done it! I was going to start a new life in an incredibly exciting city, doing a job I loved. I felt like I was going to explode with happiness.
And John’s assistant seemed really friendly: from the moment I picked up the phone she and I just seemed to hit it off. She said she was a trained nursery nurse herself and told me all about the crèche. My contract to work there would be for an initial six months, but might be extended after that if I proved a success. She told me the salary I’d be paid – not terribly generous, but she explained that I’d be given free accommodation: my own room in a city centre flat used by other people John had previously hired. What’s more, she would meet me at the airport personally, take me there and settle me in before I had to start work the next day. Everything she said made me more and more excited.
I’m going to call John’s assistant Sally. It isn’t her real name and I’ve thought long and hard about whether I should actually name her. There’s absolutely no legal reason why I shouldn’t and some people may be surprised – given what happened – that I’ve decided to protect her by giving her a pseudonym. There are reasons why I have done so; as this story progresses you can judge for yourself whether you think they’re good ones.
Sally told me that I’d start work at the beginning of September and that she’d shortly be sending me my plane ticket to Amsterdam. Since we wouldn’t actually meet each other until I arrived at Schiphol, she asked me to give her a good description of myself. I gave her chapter and verse about what I looked like – how tall I was, what colour my hair and eyes were, what clothes I’d likely be wearing. She gave me a rather less detailed description of herself, but I was confident that I’d be able to recognise her from it.
My travel date was only a couple of weeks away, but the days dragged by so slowly. I was in a state of constant excitement, desperate to
Next he asked how old I was and if I had a passport. I’d need one, he said, because, as the advert had stated, the crèche wasn’t in Britain but in Amsterdam. I liked the sound of that immediately and told him so. I also explained that I was 19 but I had travelled abroad before and had a valid passport. As the conversation went on I realised with a little thrill of excitement that not only was I being interviewed for this job, but that I seemed to be impressing John. He said that everything I told him sounded very promising. After about half an hour he asked me a few personal questions: what did I look like, was I neat and tidy, what sort of clothes did I usually wear, did I like to go out on a night and did I consider myself an extrovert or an introvert? He said he needed to know all this information because it was a great responsibility finding a nursery nurse to look after other people’s children and that he wanted to make sure I would be suitable.
He asked me to supply references from my current and previous employers and finished off by saying that he’d have his assistant call me back in a few days to let me know if I had got the position. As I put the phone down I felt confident that I’d done well and that I might well have landed my dream job. I fairly skipped back into the living room to tell Mum all about it. She gave me a look that very plainly told me she thought I was being an idiot.
True to his word, John Reece got his assistant to call me. She phoned one evening after I got back from the nursing home. She said my references had arrived and were impressive, and that she had some good news – I’d got the job. I was elated, I’d done it! I was going to start a new life in an incredibly exciting city, doing a job I loved. I felt like I was going to explode with happiness.
And John’s assistant seemed really friendly: from the moment I picked up the phone she and I just seemed to hit it off. She said she was a trained nursery nurse herself and told me all about the crèche. My contract to work there would be for an initial six months, but might be extended after that if I proved a success. She told me the salary I’d be paid – not terribly generous, but she explained that I’d be given free accommodation: my own room in a city centre flat used by other people John had previously hired. What’s more, she would meet me at the airport personally, take me there and settle me in before I had to start work the next day. Everything she said made me more and more excited.
I’m going to call John’s assistant Sally. It isn’t her real name and I’ve thought long and hard about whether I should actually name her. There’s absolutely no legal reason why I shouldn’t and some people may be surprised – given what happened – that I’ve decided to protect her by giving her a pseudonym. There are reasons why I have done so; as this story progresses you can judge for yourself whether you think they’re good ones.
Sally told me that I’d start work at the beginning of September and that she’d shortly be sending me my plane ticket to Amsterdam. Since we wouldn’t actually meet each other until I arrived at Schiphol, she asked me to give her a good description of myself. I gave her chapter and verse about what I looked like – how tall I was, what colour my hair and eyes were, what clothes I’d likely be wearing. She gave me a rather less detailed description of herself, but I was confident that I’d be able to recognise her from it.
My travel date was only a couple of weeks away, but the days dragged by so slowly. I was in a state of constant excitement, desperate to
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