Dropped the Harley accessories and have gone for the Red Clydesider look as my interview progresses. Red ribbon in the hair, Che Guevara badge on one lapel and CND badge on the other.
Remember Bridget, focus on the downtrodden, the unemployed and the disadvantaged. The good councillor now lives in the leafy suburbs, is chairman of five quangos and drives a Merc, but hasn’t forgotten his roots. Right.
I give a performance of Oscar-winning proportions. Half-time arrives. I reckon I have two wins and a score draw. My early experiences in the drama club at school and college were coming in handy.
Next was Councillor Robertson, ex-colonel-in-chief of the local regiment, Lord Lieutenant and owner of half the county. From Clydeside to Deeside in one easy move: sensible shoes, tweed skirt, WI brooch and true-blue scarf, all topped off with a Robertson tartan shawl. Was this OTT? Who cares.
What a coincidence. My dad was in that regiment, too. I used to go on my holidays to Banchory. The nice old guy asked if I thought a woman could do this job. Could I drive? Did I have a vote? How many children did I have? I told him I thought Maggie T had been inspirational. Did I hear a cock crow in the background? I’m not sure if the good clan chieftain was impressed by me or not. I wasn’t a man’s man after all. Thank God.
Hugh was an out-and-out bluenose, a closet Son of William and one of the many sensible professional Dr Jekylls who turn into Mr Hyde for 90 minutes each week. Bridget would be a wee problem but, thanks to our politically correct HR colleagues, our application forms only gave a first initial. I could be anything I wanted. Go for it, girl.
I was wearing orange and blue and had a Union Jack brooch. I didn’t paint my hand red, as I didn’t want to overdo things. I told Hugh my name was Billie. He lit up when he spotted my brooch. I had learnt the names of the Rangers players and I knew how they were doing.
Hugh’s questions were simplistic and easily dealt with, all except one. He ended by asking for my opinions on denominational schools. I crossed my fingers behind my back, winked at him, patted my brooch and looked him straight in the eyes.
“I don’t think you and I would be a million miles apart on that one, would we?” He had an expression which said: “That’ll do for me, Billie boy.”
I think I’m winning four-one with two to go - Julia and Tarquin.
My coats of many colours seem to be working. Julia is a child of the Sixties. For her, the simple peasant-girl look, no make-up and rosary displayed. Hair tied back, Greenpeace badge on lapel.
She greets me like an old friend and offers empathy, compassion and a Tunnock’s caramel wafer.
