I applied for the job of part-time assistant recycling attendant at the waste management facility on the Drumbarrel road. I didn’t expect that getting my CV together would be such a bother. I was sure ’twould be what one might call a slim volume. Beyond my primary and secondary schooling, all there is to say about me is that I’ve spent years on the council.

The Mother wasn’t impressed with my efforts: “You’re sellin’ yourself short,” says she. “What about all you’ve done in the council? How many committees did you sit on over the years? How many of those environmental junkets did you go on? You need to blow your own trumpet, no one else will.”

I did what I was told, and the following day I discreetly handed in the amended CV and a letter of application at County Hall. Within two days, I got a phone call telling me to come for an interview at 10.30am, last Monday.

I got to County Hall just in time, I didn’t want to be hanging around the place with everybody wondering what I was doing, all dressed up in my Sunday best.

I knew exactly where to go and arrived outside the door of the interview room just as Mary Doran, the director of services, came out for me,

“Ah, councillor Maurice, come in.”

I nearly calved when I walked in and saw that the chairman of the interview panel was none other than Percy Pipplemoth Davis. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Along with himself and Mary, the other panel member was Martin Killeen, a box ticker from the engineering department.

They all stood up and shook hands with me.

“Now Maurice,” says Percy, “Mary and Martin will ask the questions and I will interject occasionally for the purposes of elucidating greater detail or to pursue matters of interest.”

Elucidating my arse, the hoor was out to ambush me at every turn. Mary Doran began by asking me to go through my CV. All was going well until she asked me about my work on the council committees and what I would regard as my significant achievements on these committees.

I was stumped, if the truth be known I slept my way through most of them, the only thing to keep me awake would be a good row, or if I was keeping an eye out for something for my own area.

“Well now,” says I, “that’s a very good question Mary and indeed a difficult one, given that all the committees were diligent and hard working and attended keenly to detail. It is hard to pick out one committee over another, but I would have to say that among the greater achievements was the new scheme of houses in Honetyne, the draining of the Dribble in the area around Moyganny Bridge and the straightening of the Borrisnangoul road at the Killdicken side of Hanrahan’s Cross.”

“Isn’t achievement an interesting word to use,” said Pipplemoth, “in light of the fact that the ‘new scheme of houses in Honetyne’ is 20 years old and in need of total refurbishment, the drainage job on the Dribble has created flooding problems downstream in Shronefodda and the Gardai still regard the Borrisnangoul road as one of the most dangerous in the county.”

The mean hoor was out to get me and there was worse to come.

“It will be part of your job,” continued Percy, “to encourage people to recycle and reuse more. How do you square that with your enduring opposition to the ban on plastic bags?”

The blackguard was playing dirty.

“Well,” says I, “as a member of the council you learn to put up with all kinds of people and things you don’t particularly like or agree with.”

He grunted.

Martin Killeen asked me about the conferences I attended over the years and what I had learned, especially in the environmental and conservation areas. All I could think of was the enormous collection of conference mementos I have in the shed at home, the boxes of Biros, the selection of fancy leather folders, the hundreds of bookmarkers, memory sticks, diaries and key rings that are piled on the shelves among the half-used tins of paint and turpentine. The whole lot constitute a monument to waste.

“I have a special interest in the environment,” says I, “and I always selected conferences that had something to do with conservation.”

“Like the conference you attended in Brighton on coastal erosion,” interrupted Percy.

“I wouldn’t think the issue is a particularly pressing problem for Tipperary.”

“It will be,” says I, “when Waterford is washed away by risin’ sea levels. As Frankie Byrne used to say: ‘It mightn’t be your problem today, but it could be someday’.”

That shut him up. The interview finished soon after. Now I wait.