"Will you clear this interview for a change?" I scowled when my father said so. And then he scowled and so, I smiled. 

"Yes pa! I will. I have gone through every possible interview guide and see, I've dressed well too..."

"For a change," my father completed the sentence and walked away. I had to crack this interview and land myself a job. 

You see, when you live in a country where sitting in a cubicle and pounding your keyboard to death counts as a job, fathers don't let you sing or act or open a store. Since I didn't do any of these, my father made sure I knew I hadn't. That hadn't deterred me from failing every single time until today. I had done my homework and was immaculately dressed too. All that had to be done was to step outside, ride the bike to the venue, clear the interview and return home with the order. I figured in about ten years I could rebuke my father and tell him things like, 'you are not eating well enough!' 

Buoyed by such encouraging prospects, I stepped out, oblivious of Murphy waiting on the sidelines to test his laws. Even as I rolled the bike outside the gate, a cyclist grazed past, staining the trouser - a beige one at that- near the ankle with fresh grease.

'Sorry sir!' he said as he cautiously stood ten feet away, his tobacco stained teeth showing. 'I didn't see you coming.' I took a quick look at the stain. It wasn't all that noticeable and in all probability the interviewer, nestled behind a huge office desk wouldn't catch a glimpse. And so, I waved him off. He placed his right palm on his chest to express gratitude and left. 

What is life if I can't take such small impediments in my stride? I had just finished asking myself when a crow decided it could test my resolve and relieved itself. On me. I knocked most of it off, at least the dark bits and all I had to do was to wipe the stain with a tissue once I got to the venue. Only,  I didn't realise Murphy was riding pillion until I had to stop at a signal. A rickety old truck that was running more on the grace of God than on fuel spewed every bit of soot it had on me and my shirt which was a mild lavender when I started off was by now greyish blue. I took a deep breath and rode off, hoping it didn't show or stink as badly as it seemed to. After all, the interview is an assessment of how good I am and not how good I look! I reasoned as I turned into the street before the venue, only for a speeding car to generously coat me in slush from a puddle before racing away.

That was it. I got down, stepped into the puddle and soiled the only untouched item I was wearing - my shoes. My transformation as a tramp was complete. My interview was ruined.

Even as a crowd gathered around me to commiserate and gossip, an old man in a brand new car rolled to a stop. 'What happened? May I help you? Is there something you need?' he said with utmost sincerity. I turned around to see Murphy giving me a thumbs-up. 

'Yes!!!!!' I said, rolled all over the old man's spotless car. As he watched on in horror, I paid it forward, leaped onto my bike and made my escape before anyone could react. 

I lost the battle, but won the war. Or whatever.