Sometimes even rodents get lucky…

It gives me the greatest pleasure to begin this post with: I HAVE A JOB!! I don’t mean a ‘job’. It’s not an internship. I don’t volunteer, and I don’t ‘work’ ‘freelance’ from my home office aka boyfriend’s sofa. My unpaid work has paid off and somewhere along the line someone deemed me ‘so bright and on the ball’ (shush!) and I’m going to be paid for my 9-5.30 now.

I’m employed! Just call me Editorial Assistant for an online fashion magazine 🙂 yep it’s not just a job, it’s basically my dream job. So much so it may have even been worth being dumped by the MediNazis in London, paying rent on a flat I don’t live in and moving in with a real life boy. My new title outweighs it all 🙂

Day to day is writing, playing with dresses and the odd photo shoot. Oh yes! I got to go to a photo shoot- imagine how well I pulled off the ‘I’m cool, I’ve been to hundreds of shoots and mingled with models’ look..

It really is like TV: the photographer really does shout ‘yes, yes, the camera loves you, ooh I love it, work it’ and no-one bats an eyelid. Except me who had to keep running to make tea because it was too funny to hear as a mere mortal. Talking of which the models aren’t. Mere mortals that is. They really are stunning- and have waists the size of my wrist. Not my ankle. My ankles are sadly bigger than said model’s waist. But she wasn’t mean. She was very lovely, and ate like normal people (well ish. She’d just had her teeth whitened – obviously dahhling- so she couldn’t eat anything sugary or drink the very milky tea I proudly presented her with between six and a hundred times!).

Talking of food: They bought sushi. They ordered it in and thought I’d be suitably impressed with free and trendy food. I was not. Normally I’d lie and be polite, but I have high hopes that this job will last longer than the last (three weeks shouldn’t be too hard!) and I’m not sure I can force down fish for that long. I got Katsu curry 🙂 don’t worry tho it hasn’t all gone to my head I’m still stupid- everyone ate with chop sticks so I followed suit. I don’t know why I followed suit, I struggle with cutlery at times. So of course I ended up with my dinner down me. And the model nomming on seaweed next to me. She didn’t notice. But later I heard the stylist tell her off for having to have rice brushed out of her hair…

Things are looking up and as much as I an not loving the commute (Northern trains suck you have to stand the whole way, I’m currently balanced half on some unfortunate woman’s knee and half on someone’s luggage, whilst trying to direct my nose away from the armpit that keeps finding my face) I do love the job. And heck I’m employed. Which for graduates is a bloody big deal. So… When the free portion of my role is up and I’m raking it in (let me believe this for a bit- I’m excited!) the drinks are on me! In exchange for chop stick lessons so I am not rejected from the money providing role for being a complete nonce/ attacking models with Japanese cuisine perhaps…

(employed) rat over and out -x-

Rat is back and has a ‘job’….

HELLO!

My sincerest apologies for this tardy post…I have been working. Or should I say ‘working’.

For those unfamiliar with the plight of graduates/idiots desperate to launch themselves into a successful job related to the degree they toiled long and hard for, ‘working’ is what we like to gloss over with the term ‘internship’.

Internships, are sadly more often than not unpaid. Yes, this means you work 9-5, sit at a screen all day, skip lunch, drink lots of tea, commute to and from with other similarly grumpy workers (and maybe some ‘workers’, but its hard to know since we actually are very convincing as actual real life paid workers)…all for free. No money. I am not paid to work.

Aside from the lack of funds, which I’d become used to before this ‘job’, it really is great. I am a Fashion Writer/ ‘Fashion Writer’. And I haven’t photocpied anything! I haven’t fetched many teas either- something I must work on for fear of being called ‘brew-shy’ again by my Manchunian ‘colleagues’ who drink so much of the stuff I’m sure it dribbles out of their every pore. While on the topic of my Manchunian ‘colleagues’- what the hell is a ‘bam’!? It might be spelt ‘barm’, I’m not sure, but I am convinced this word has been made up to confuse those not native to the North. Last week in the office, when I asked what a ‘bacon barm’ was I was stared at with disbelief, nay horror and then asked ‘Do you know what a bap is?’ in a very slow are-you-an-idiot kind of way. Of course I know what a bap is, it is bread. That is two ways of explaining that something is bread-like, good for a sarnie. Bap and bread are surely sufficient ways of expressing sandwich!? Not in the North.

But back to the internship… Did I mention its great. Its very hands on and I’ve been involved in lots editorial stuff- I speak to PRs each day in the hopes of securing interviews and images (getting images to help promote somebody/a brand for free is really not as easy as it sounds- PRs treat me as if I am asking them to dip their grandparents in honey and deliver them to a bee sanctuary/ explain what a barm is- and for this reason I am now put off ever ever working in PR). I also write the blogs for the fashion and editiorial aspects of the website and I am responsible for the social media too. I’ve learned so much already, not just about writing style for a fashion website (oh yes, alliteration is key and ‘on-trend’ never gets old) but also about websites. Who’d have thought I’d know how to handle coding for websites, link up affiliate feeds for e-commerce (let alone know what that meant a month ago!) and reformat pictures.

Its safe to say I love my ‘job’ but I’d love it even more if it were a real job. Boyfriend’s Dad summarised the idiocy of what we desperate grads are doing in these internships (which by the way the media moguls and high flyers at my ‘work’ have assured me are crucial to getting on to the career ladder in the creative industry so there) when he offered me some copy writing work for one of his websites. He then retracted his offer and informed me that he regretted his offer of cash for the job. He believes that if he’d made this work ‘work’ and called it an internship I’d have accepted on the spot! Pfft.

Anyways, I’ve got to go, I’ve got ‘work’ in the morning! x

I am adament I am due some good luck….

I don’t like to dwell on the bad time (far far worse than any of yours, the baddest of all time in the world, ever actually) I’ve been having recently, but for the purpose of explaining why I am most definitely due some good luck, and not so much for the purpose which I’m sure this post will fulfill- to make you like your life more, I will regale my hopeless experiences of late…

Transport, again. I simply do not learn from my mistakes and I have come to the conclusion that my sub-conscious likes writing about travelling hiccups and thus creates scenarios from which I can take blogging-material. A few weeks ago, the plan was to visit the boyfriend in Leeds. I left home, and headed to Southampton, the city I spent my uni years in and felt I knew well. I rocked up to the coach station an hour early, but that was okay, I had a vigorous game of Angry Birds to complete. I sat there, the birds making me angry, and the coaches going by. What made me angrier though was the constant interruptions from boyfriend, messages and phone calls making sure I was going to be on time, that I was in the right place- how dare he!? I carried on, ignoring his worries and pelting birds at rocks- metaphorically of course. Panic began to set in when the 4pm was not to Leeds but to Portsmouth. “Excuse me” I sweetly chirped, wheeling my Barbie pink trolley on wheels towards the help desk and over some dirty student toes, “Excuse me, this is probably a silly question, but the 4pm to Leeds, it is coming isn’t it?”. I beamed. She did not. She grabbed my iPhone from me (yeah, I know!) and scrolled down the ticket she had obviously seen me frantically checking for the past ten minutes. “Nope, we only go to Portsmouth. Sometimes we go to Cornwall if that’s any help?” she chewed her gum so sarcastically that I’m not sure if she was playing funny buggers, or she was actually stupid enough to think that was a helpful travel alternative. I grabbed my iPhone from her unhelpful (and very clammy!) fingers and tottered out of the coach station, Barbie wheels in tow. Cue phone call to boyfriend, and cue his smug “I told you so” and so cue my tears. It wasn’t really that sad….actually it was… this ticket, for the other coach station in Southampton (if it even exists!), cost £8, the train ticket I proceeded to buy cost me £103. And I had to change. At Birmingham. Where there are a large number of wheeley-trolley-unfriendly stairs. When I arrived boyfriend didn’t even offer to carry Barbie for me, on account of looking like a Barbie himself. Pansy.

In other news, I have also been rejected from several (million) jobs, and not just graduate ones, oh no, apparently I am no longer qualified to be a babysitter (I won’t drop your baby much, I promise and I will have a grand total of zero suitors hiding behind your sofa when you return- I am far too responsible for that, and, well unlike your 16 year old alternative, I really need the cash!), data entry clerk (to be fair I’d probably be rubbish at this anyway since it involves data and I’d like to think my hair is to nice for me to be a clerk- it might not be, but I’ll proceed to think this) or fundraiser…(I though charities were supposed to be charitable, I am in need, give me a job!).

And Natwest want my Student Overdraft back. Bugger.

However…. I am going to see the boyfriend this weekend (not that there is any guarantee I will get there at all/on time/by the means which I currently think I will).
AND, I’m published! Well, ish. I’ve started writing for various print and online papers in a bid to keep the creative juices flowing/ rant at a bigger audience/ make me more employable/ and in the face of a lot of graduate-writing-shaped rejection, continue to love and not despise what I do…and this is the first of my online articles that are actually shareable/bloggable:

‘9/11 and interracial connections’

http://www.graduatetimes.com/news/2011/09/13/911-and-interracial-connections/

Comments are most welcome!

It really is nice to be ending on a high. Imagine if next time I can write about a successful train journey!?

Applying for jobs/being a non-person…

It seems only fitting that I write a post/rant about applying for jobs, since that is ultimately my life now.

1. No graduate recruitment company, I do not want to be a graduate recruiter…I’m struggling to get my own job, how can I help some other desperate grad find out that their only vocation in life will be recruitment (or headhunting if I want to lure them into thinking they will behave less like pond-life when actually they will be the most algae-like of the recruitment sector but will earn lots more for it)? And how are there so many jobs in recruitment when there are so few jobs recruiting for workers…I’m adamant that there are more people in recruitment than there are jobs to recruit for! And, yes, I know ‘all’ the jobs are in London, but when I sign up for jobs in Sheffield, I don’t want to know about the ones in the capital..or Hong Kong for that matter (this has happened! And I can tell you, there are wonderful prospects for English grads there!).

2. I remember being told at High School to choose a ‘broad subject’ rather than anything specific as employers will prefer this, they can mold you, they will like this, you will find a job quickly, and you will be successful, and rich, and probably happy most/some of the time. All of the above is utter tosh. Funnily enough, the Journalism and Marketing jobs I’m applying for find that ‘writing skills are desirable’ (“scoreeeee” I think, if BA English boasts anything this is it!), however, ‘a Journalism/Marketing degree is essential’. I’d call that specific. Thanks High School teachers, thanks alot.

3. “You can just stay at home, darling. We can go to The Tank Museum and up that big hill where we all had that argument about how big the hill was that time and have nice dinners and drink wine, and I’ll look after you.”. Fantastic, Dad. That’s brilliant. I would truly love this. But I would also like to be a proper person. You know those grown up types. With lives, and jobs and homes, and dollar. Because as much as I love the food and the vino and the Dr Who nights..that.is.all.I.will.have….and I’ll be looking forward to it all day, whilst you’re at work, working, and earning money, and having a life and being a real grown-up person with dollar. I want this too. Then we’ll talk wine 🙂

4. Have you thought about taking a year out? Gain some experience? See some culture? Make some friends? Let your hair down!
Now, I would LOVE this. Trekking around Tailand, Sunbathing in Spain, Canoeing by the Cape, Partying in Peru, I want it. But sadly just because I can’t get a job and thus have oodles of time on my hands, it doesn’t mean I have the/any money to spend on filling this time. You see people seem to love ‘money doesn’t grow on trees you know’ when you’re a pesky child wanting a Wendy House (yes, it still hurts that I never got one) but once you resemble a proper person on the outside (but are obviously a poor and panicked student on the inside) other proper people assume you actually do have one of these money trees at the bottom of the garden. Which makes me wonder, do they actually have them? Did my seeds get lost in the post? AND, where is my Wendy House!?

5. You’ve left student accommodation. You want to buy Heinz not Tesco Away Kit. You want to throw that bread away after a week rather than three. You feel your wine is safe in the kitchen. But no. Stripey tins adorn my shelf; this is all I know, and all my bank balance will allow. The bread has to sit there. Whilst I pick the furry green bits off of it. And my wine suddenly becomes the communal ‘let’s get pissed because we’ve left school and we’re still really poor and jobless’ stash. So I’m hungry, ill, poor and not pissed. This is much worse than being a student.

6. Not being employed is depressing, and the shops are quieter when you proper people are slaving away at the office :p Retail therapy is therefore essential. Only, more depression follows when the snotty hippy behind the Topshop counter smugly refuses your crusty and expired Student ID card. You are old, her eyes say. You are not a student. You do not qualify for 10% off of these over-priced and poorly made garments that you love so much. I however am, she smiles. Because I am a student. And I work here. So that’s alot of discount. None of which I will share with you. Because you are old. And not a student. And because I don’t know you, and that would be weird.

7. People suggest you go on the dole. I understand it’s purpose. I understand I am entitled to it. I know I need it. But however many times you tell me to do it, I will not.

8. Forms. Council tax, bills, jobs applications, my subscription to Look Magazine (which sadly is no longer, because I am too poor for the luxury of £1.80 a week), they all want to know your status. Like this status defines you. And I have to tick ‘Unemployed’. I liked ‘Student’ better. That was a choice. ‘Unemployed’ is not a choice, but that’s what I am, and it just looks like I’m not trying, but I am. I might start NB-ing it: ‘Unemployed- but I don’t want to be…give us a job?’.

9. Other people getting jobs. I’m so happy for you. Just don’t expect me to show it.

10. You write countless covering letters, some official, some creative, some videos, some portfolios of your work. All are a piece of you. You are there on the page/screen, baring your soul, showing what you have to offer the working world. And you get rejected. How can you not take that personally? They don’t like ME. It is me in those applications, the applications that I felt applied to the role and to my ability, my personality, which someone doesn’t like. Rejections are made harder by the fact that they’re mostly generic. I was so rubbish, so generic, that I in turn got a generic response. And sometimes they don’t even reply. Maybe, next time they don’t reply, I’ll turn up at their offices, ready for work, sit down at the nearest desk and give it a go. When questioned, I’ll just tell them I didn’t get the rejection e-mail, so I just assumed I was hired…genius!

11. But what is nice…. I’ve found out what I don’t want to do, and where I don’t want to live, and that I’m getting better at handling rejection to jobs that obviously weren’t right for me anyway. I can read and write all day. I can visit friends. I don’t have to get up, at all, and when I do, guaranteed someone will notice my non-person status and share their nice real grown-up person things with me. I’d still take a job though- any going!?

Hello world/London

The Big move….

I’ve lived on the South Coast all of my life.

I want to write that it was brave and spontaneous and arty of me to move to the capital, but instead I will be honest and tell you that it was part of a long and extensively mulled over idea I had about myself and my future.

I had decided a long time ago that I would not be one of those people who worked where they were were born and had lived, and I certainly didn’t love my university town of Southampton enough to settle there. Not that I planned to settle for too long in London either, I just wanted to find my dream career, make lots of money, have a swanky apartment with swanky friends who enjoyed cocktails and weekends away before I could retire and probably accept that I had loved the beach all along and move home. 

If only things were that simple.

Instead, I have moved to London. I have jumped on the first job offered to me (albeit, it was an excellent opportunity in publishing and marketing) and I have signed for a quaint/damp and mouldy flat in Streatham/Somalia and have proceeded to be sacked from said job and be stuck in said flat.

Dream life not exactly achieved.

But I do feel brave. And I am glad I tried. And I will try again.

However, as the 2011 riots (as I am sure they will come to be known) are breaking out across London, and I am told only streets away from my mildewy hovel, I will write about my bravery and my city encounters from the comfort of my parents home, next to the beach, many many miles away and wonder if I ever should have itched that itch that made me leave for the big bad city.