Candidate.

So there we are then, an imposing white building somewhere in downtown Auckland. Having dodged several waves of evangelical Christians and Hare Krishnas, like some deranged game of Pac Man, I am keen as fuck for a drink. I make my way up to the entrance. Three Chinese guys hang around the door, talking in Mandarin. Or Cantonese? Doesn't matter really, I can't understand either. Occasionally they seem to burst out laughing for no particular reason, making me feel as if I'm in some surreal music video directed by David Lynch. Time to get on the lift. Sixth floor this is. Room 613. Potential bad luck? Hah. In my case, I'm hoping that the luck I bring with me will cancel out any unfortunate implications the number carries with it. Clench teeth. There we are. 613. Step out. Thankfully, I was alone on the lift. I hate nothing more than being trapped in a confined space with three or four total strangers, being left there to grin awkwardly, and contemplate how awful the others' teeth are, and whether any of them are English. Time to knock. Three taps. Don't want to sound too ominous. Or maybe I should.

Our gracious hostess answers the door. "Oh my God, hi Jay! It's been so long!"(I figured it's about time you learned my name, humble eavesdropper) I'm momentarily taken aback as this compact thing, swathed in white, with a cascade of shoulder-length hair envelops me in her arms. My nose is assailed by the strong scent of cheap perfume, possibly bought at an outlet store. "Good to see you too", I mumble weakly. I've never understood the urge girls feel to hug absolutely everything. It puts me slightly off, and in the worst possible outcome, gives me an erection. She enquires a bit about how I am, with regards to health, employment prospects, and academia. I answer pretty much on autopilot, only steering well clear of the dreaded ex-boyfriend, my friend, Jake. Her face seems to be one of those feminine ones that seems to be perpetually concerned. Despite all her bohemian affectations, I have a feeling Cheryl McPherson will probably be most at home as a middle aged PTA member, earnestly worrying about nasty men who hang around primary school carparks. Just then, another knock on the door grabs her attention. I seize the opportunity to exit discreetly. Time to check out the crowd.