Believe it or not, but eons ago I was actually EMPLOYED.

I received a real paycheck, really (REALLY) paid taxes, had real health insurance. But most importantly, I really worked my arse off. (Although I'm sad to report that it has since grown back.)

And I really don't know how I got that job in the first place.

Sure, I went for a job interview. I remember that part of it very well.

It was early autumn - which in Johannesburg basically means that it's 75 degrees Fahrenheit instead of 80.

I had finished full-time classes at Journalism School about five months before with no prospects of an internship. Fortunately I felt I needed... no, DESERVED... a vacation of undetermined length.

Unfortunately my parents, under whose roof I was living it up and acquiring a taste for daytime television whilst reclining on the couch - an art I've since perfected! - passionately disagreed with me. Besides, I would have to endure a journalism internship of at least nine months in order to graduate from college. So after a few months of leisure, I allowed myself to be sufficiently threatened by my parents and I had to seriously start looking for work.

Coincidentally it was right around that time that a good friend of mine called me up. He was a fellow journalism student. And he was WORKING.

"Hey Red! Are you working yet?" And then, before I could answer, he said: "Well, I guess not, since you're home right now." (He's quick on the uptake like that.)

I asked him about his job.

"Oh, it's a drag! I get paid to see at least three movies a week and I have to dine out a lot and then write about all of it."

"Sounds dreadful," I said.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say that, because that's actually why I'm calling. A position has just opened up at our sister paper, and they're rather desperate to fill it..."

"Yes, I'm interested." (Sometimes I can be surprisingly quick as well. I was already having visions of leisurely "working" lunches followed by matinee performances. In my fantasy, I was demanding overtime for seeing a three hour-long movie.)

"Great!" he said. "Since it's our sister publication, we'll be working in the same building, so I'll be seeing you a lot!"

I remarked that he sounded awfully sure of himself that I would indeed be working there soon.

"Well... and you can thank me for this later... I happen to know the editor really well and I've already put in a good word for you, so unless you REALLY screw it up - and I doubt that even YOU have it in you to screw something like that up* - I really think you'll get the job."

(*Luckily I didn't consider that comment to be a dare or even an insult. I was too busy writing my first professional restaurant review in my head.)

"Okay, thanks. So what else do I need to know before I come in for the interview?" I asked absently while dreaming up puns for my review. It was love at first bite. The crowd was positively cookin', even though the chef clearly wasn't.

And here he paused for the first time.

"Er, well... here's the thing. The position? It's for..."

"What? Reviewer, right?"

"Yes. Well, no. Kind of, but not in the way I'm doing it."

"No problem! I already have loads of ideas of my own - even though I'm sure your ideas are excellent, as usual, but..."

"Red! No. You will be writing revie... reports about..."

"Yes?" I suddenly had a really bad feeling.

He mumbled something. It was barely audible.

My heart sank. "Oh, no... please... PLEASE don't tell me you've just said what I thought I heard you say?" I pleaded.

But my ears had not deceived me after all, because he said:

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