Refresh Yourself

In my final year of uni, I decided to try and make some extra money by subjecting my friends and passing acquaintances to a gruelling twenty minute survey about their prospects or, most often, lack thereof. To incentivise participation, I was given armloads of a British sweet called 'Refreshers', sickly rainbow chew-sticks with no discernible flavour other than sadness and gristle. I can only imagine that the man running the surveys had accidentally come into possessions of several dozens of these confections and had started the operation as a means of getting rid of them.

I begged, cajoled and guilted as many as my friends as I could into completing these surveys. I needed twelve to be paid the full amount. The manager threatened to call up four of the people whose names we submitted to check that they were real people, and he had such a manic look of obstinacy that I truly believed he had nothing better to do with his time. The survey was being sponsored by the Times and so I put on my CV that I had done some freelance work for them, it was true in the same way most things on my CV were true; they were jobs I felt I should have had.

One of my friends claimed that he wouldn't do the survey for ethical reasons; he didn't like big companies collecting his personal data. I told him I understood and then later saw him doing the survey for another of our friends, quite happily giving out his phone number. I made a show of seeing him and going up, pretending not to know what was going on, making small talk and then quietly stole the USB containing his dissertation and chucked it in the canal. We were adults now; no more mercy.

However, by far the most distressing incident was with my friend Opal. We had become quite fast friends that year, joined by our mutual love of dictionaries and procrastination. The questions were fairly standard for that time of life: 'what are you going to do next?' 'How much do you expect to be earning?' 'Do you want a family?' 'How are you ever going to make it in the world, you pathetic little child?'

I had developed half-joking, armour-like answers to these queries due to frequent conversations with my parents' friends. I had developed immunity to their stings, and so what had been a fearsome box jellyfish was turned to nothing more than an irritating bumblebee. Something to be brushed away before you go back to basking in the sun. I was certain I would turn out okay.

But Opal seemed to have somehow failed to toughen herself to the toxin of contemplating her future. Every question she answered 'I don't know'; she was crying before we even reached section 4C ('How Will You Find Meaning?'). I had cried in front of her many times, but she had never allowed me to see that side of her before. I offered to stop but she blubbed that we should continue, she really wanted me to get that £45. I gave her a Refresher and she managed to stammer out a few more answers, another and we reached section 5b ('What's the Point of Anything, Anyway?'). She ended up taking all the Refreshers, about thirty all told. I really hope she didn't eat them all, but then that was the year that I actually drank straight ethanol, so I don't think any of us were at our best.

I managed to complete the necessary twelve surveys and reported back to the boss for payment. He asked me if there had been any problems and I mentioned my friend's adverse reaction to the questions. He half-smiled and answered, 'Yes, I was hoping for that.'