A Compromising Position

A COMPROMISING POSITION

Marcia rubbed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh of frustration. This wasn’t turning out the way she’d imagined. But she wouldn’t give up hope quite yet; there were still three more to see.

         “Come in.” She waited in anticipation as the door opened. Her spirits lifted when she saw the next candidate. If looks were anything to go by this could be just the man for the job.

         “Take a seat,” she gestured to the chair opposite her. “Please feel free to ask me any questions during the interview. Shall we make a start?”

         “Sure,” he replied. “Fire away.”

         Mmmm. Confident; Marcia liked that in a man.

         “Where do you originate from Mr …er…Evans.”

         “As the name indicates I’m Welsh and proud of it. My father was a miner all his life. I think it’s important to remember your roots, don’t you agree?”

         That reminded Marcia she needed to make an appointment at the hairdressers.

         “Well, to some extent maybe but I believe we all need to move forward. It’s not where you come from as much as where you’re going that matters.” Marcia stated firmly. Oh dear, a socialist, country bumpkin; not quite what she had in mind.

         “On that subject Mr Evans, may I ask what your ambition in life is?”

         “Oh, that’s easy. I have my heart set on restoring the Central Wales Steam Railway line. Are you interested in history?”

         Oh God, an anorak. Boring old fart. Her lifted spirits were evaporating at the same rate as the contents of the gin bottle hidden under the table.

         “Generally I prefer to think of the future rather than the past. Do you have any other passions?”

         “Oh yes. I’m a big fan of Rugby Union and a keen member of the local choral group. I also enjoy growing leeks; I’m a vegetarian see. What’s your favourite food?”

         “A rare, juicy rump steak would be my first choice but I wouldn’t say no to a bit of Welsh lamb with mint sauce.” This was growing more disastrous by the minute. Marcia cleared her throat in an attempt to eradicate the images of huge, mud spattered thighs and nut rissoles drifting through her mind to the tune of ‘There’ll be a welcome in the hillside.’

         “Shall we move on? Where were you educated Mr Evans?”

         “I attended the local Methodist school before going to Cardiff University. What is your religion if you don’t mind me asking?”

         “Actually, I’m an atheist but I do believe in fate and astrology. What‘s your star sign?”

          “I’m a Virgo.”

         ”I might have guessed.” At least this gave her a polite way of rejecting his application.

         “Oh, an earth sign. Well, I’m a Leo and I have to say I prefer someone with a bit of fire in their character. I’m sorry Mr Evans but I don’t think you’re a suitable candidate.”

         “Don’t worry on my account, Ms Beckinsale-Yates.” Mr Evans rose abruptly from the chair. “I wouldn’t donate my sperm to a jumped up, carnivorous heathen like you if you were the last woman on earth.”

         “Well, at least we agree on one thing. My eggs are curdling at the mere thought. Send the next one in on your way out.”

         Marcia rubbed her eyes again as she reached under the table for her lifesaver. Advertising for the ideal father in an attempt to conceive the perfect child had seemed a good idea at the time but now she realised it was hopeless. She had a strong urge to go down to the pub, get totally rat arsed, open her legs for the first presentable specimen, then cross her fingers and hope for the best. It had to be a better option than this.