The fledgling journo

WHY I QUIT A NEW JOB AFTER 2.2 DAYS – A TRUE TALE IN 3 CHAPTERS

2009-06-29T14:55:00.000-07:00

Chapter three: resigned to a speedy resignation

Of the three days, this was by far the best...
9am-11am: Having decided upon the course of action most beneficial to my mental state, I entered the office of doom, emailed my editor the classic ‘we need to talk’ message and endured a brief wait, before going for a painful (but thankfully, fairly brief) conversation with him, in which I told him I wanted to leave.
11am-11.05am: I was instructed to speak to the editor in chief about my resignation. He came hunting for me - a big hulking man, who probably eats babies for breakfast. He barked me into his office and then made me participate in an even more painful conversation with him.
11.06-11.07am: He told me to get my stuff and leave.
11.07-11.09am: I got my stuff and left.
11.09- ongoing: Overcome by a feeling of euphoria, freedom and rebelliousness. Employment schemployment.
The only downside to the day's dealings? The realisation that I had left a well-stocked lunchbox in the office of doom's fridge. Proof you can't have your cake and eat it too.

The moral of the story? Just because it's pretty much IMPOSSIBLE to get a job in these cash-strapped, gloom and doom times, that doesn't mean you should settle for a job you hate. Don't give up on finding something better. I left a job after less than three days, found another in less than a month and love what I'm doing now. Also, don't take a job you don't think you'll like. If you know you're not interested before you accept an offer, it's highly unlikely you'll discover an interest in it once you've signed on the dotted line. I knew I'd hate the job discussed above but took it because I was sick of being broke, sick of living at home, sick of borrowing money from long-suffering parents. If you've battled on this far, you can battle on a bit longer. Wait for something you actually want to do and keep yourself busy with other stuff in the meantime, anything, as long as you keep writing and don't take on a job that sucks up your soul, chews it up a bit, shreds it into little pieces and then spits it in to the gutter. Not to be over dramatic or anything.

WHY I QUIT A NEW JOB AFTER 2.2 DAYS – A TRUE TALE IN 3 CHAPTERS

2009-06-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

Chapter two: shouting, students and 3000,000 unanswered questions

Day two saw a rise in both my productivity and heart-rate...
9am-10.57am (and then 10.57-11am): After a morning of reading incomprehensible emails, I had a news meeting from 10.30-10.57am (timings are crucial here, as you will see). At 10.57am, my editor said, "Sarah, write about the Moot in Vienna, it’s an easy one for you. Call the Head of the International Blah Blah Blah in the Middle-East and Africa and interview the team of students from Tunisia who are there competing. Just ask them about a few questions - how it’s going, what their hopes are etc. I said you'd call him at 11. It's 11 now. Call him. "
11am- the end of time: I had a minute to look at a Wikipedia entry on this competition. I had no idea. I then had to call this guy (in my silent office, by my silent desk of silent colleagues) and conduct an interview. The guys I spoke to had thick Tunisian accents. The phone kept cutting out. They asked me to repeat things. They asked me to shout. I shouted. It was awful.
The end of time – the end of dignity: I had to call them back sometime later (I lost track of time and my memory is still a little hazy from the PTSD) and repeat the entire process. Room still silent. Phone line still laughably (if this had been happening to another person, in another life) baaaad. Told by my editor to write up article by 4pm. No lunch break. Got it to him at 3.45pm, having spent the day in a manic, non-stop mode (I only realized this later in the day, when I heard myself actually GOBBLING instead of eating like a human being). Semi-happy with what I thought was a fairly decent first attempt.
The end of dignity – the end of my tether: My editor went away, read it, then got me to sit next to him as he fired about 3000,000 questions at me. The conversation went like so:
Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. Editor: What did they say about X? Me: I didn't ask them that. In a silent room.
The end of my tether – 6.39pm: I was then told to revise the article. No positive comments. I stayed til 6.50pm, again, everyone else had gone, just my magazine team there. In a rare moment of social outreach earlier that day, some guy had sent me an email inviting me to a welcome lunch. I replied saying I couldn't because I had a telephone interview, but could meet tomorrow. Another member of my magazine team emailed a reply saying I wouldn't be able to do lunch tomorrow because of briefings and put (I quote): 'very soon you will realise you only have a life on Tues and Thursdays.' I was there on Tues and I saw no sign of life, neither did I feel like I had one.
7.23pm: Missed my train home, bought a gigantic bar of Dairy Milk which I don’t even like, contemplated buying a Maccy D’s cheeseburger and decided to jump in front of a train. Cue five minutes looking around for a train to jump in front of. Owing to our shitty public transport system, they were all late/out of service/AWOL, meaning I had to accept extended time on the planet and the prospect of another tomorrow.

WHY I QUIT A NEW JOB AFTER 2.2 DAYS – A TRUE TALE IN 3 CHAPTERS

2009-06-29T14:45:00.000-07:00

Chapter one: Silence, boredom and lumber prices

Day one - a lesson in human endurance and office-based despair...
9am-all day: Listening to the deafening, deathly, oppressive silence. I think I counted four words spoken in eight hours. Make that three actually - I think one was a sneeze.
12pm-5pm: Battling panic attacks about losing my vision, after attempting to read about arbitration. Stuff so dull I swear the words actually started leaping off the page, jumping, swimming and blurring before my bamboozled eyes.
12.05pm, 3.52pm, 4.07pm: Jumping in my (death-trap) chair at the rare sound of talking, only to slump back into a dazed depression as the words turned to lumber prices, expropriation, the ICSID, derivatives and, well I don’t even know what.
5pm-5.40pm: Watching the rest of the office trickle out between 5pm and 5.30pm, whilst my team continued to slave away over at their computers, having started before 9am. At least I was prepared for this (my editor had told me in a meeting that morning that: 'For some reason, our team always stay on later than everyone else.’) Hooray. I love being on the team that stays on unpaid later than everyone else.
6.30pm: Sent home 'early' because my colleague was too busy to show me the thing I was waiting to watch, which I’d already been shown earlier.
6.45-8pm: Train ride home. Notable only for my mood of doom and gloom and my sudden insight into suicidal and psychotic mental states. I didn’t even do pre-dinner food porn on the way home. That’s saying something.

Sexy Sleeping...

2009-06-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

Dover aint just about the ferries you know ...

Full review at theculinaryguide.co.uk

Delicious Dover Dining

2009-06-19T10:04:00.000-07:00

There is a God. And his name is Banana Soufflé...

Full review at theculinaryguide.co.uk

A postcard from the Albany restaurant

2009-05-21T08:44:00.000-07:00

Delicious French feasting. If you can be bothered to trek to St Albans.

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/41/7167/London-City-Guide/article/The-Albany

Murmurs from Mr & Mrs Smith...

2009-05-05T15:16:00.000-07:00

I'd like to start by saying, quite simply, that Mr & Mrs Smith rocks.

Assorted murmurs assembled so far:
http://www.mrandmrssmith.com/luxury-hotels/australia/hobart/

http://www.mrandmrssmith.com/new-hotels

http://www.mrandmrssmith.com/competition

http://www.mrandmrssmith.com/luxury-hotels/united-kingdom/london/the-marylebone-hotel/

Copy writing project No.2: virginmedia.com

2009-04-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

This is the most exciting project I've ever been involved in. The end result is the work I'm most proud of. The campaign, with virginmedia.com, involved creating a city style guide for Copenhagen and Malmö, Sweden. I visited both cities with a photographer and stylist for three days and spent this time interviewing the locals, visiting various bars, clubs, restaurants, cafes and hotels and spending time with representatives from the Danish and Swedish tourist boards.

After the trip, I wrote up all the interviews I'd conducted and reviews of the nightspots we visited, along with bar, eats and hotel listings and various general information pages e.g. daytime activities, local area, festivals, on the local area, how to get there, etc. I was responsible for all the copy produced; a one in a million opportunity. The campaign's aim? To get people to see Copenhagen and Malmö as great destinations for a clubbing city break - the ideal location for stag dos, girly mini-breaks etc.

Thank you Chomoi and Annie. I couldn't have cooked up a more exciting, more rewarding and at times, more challenging (!) campaign.

http://www.virginmedia.com/vmsp/oresund/

For curry lovers...

2009-04-21T09:10:00.000-07:00

Image copyright of Chomoi Picho-Owiny

The best curry house in Holborn:

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/41/7037/London-City-Guide/article/HASON-RAJA

For 1940's fun...

2009-04-09T08:21:00.000-07:00

Boogy on down to the sweet sound of air raid sirens:

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/39/6944/London-City-Guide/article/Blitz-Party-

The Ballad of Bromley Jobcentre Plus

2009-03-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

Bromley Jobcentre, how I shan't miss thee,
Bromley Jobcentre, thank Christ you are history
For now the holy grail has come my way
At last, a journalism job that doth pay
We've shared some good times, you and I, you and I
So as I depart thee, I'll try not to cry
Your fat-bellied workers who never pick up the phone
God knows, when they leave work, they go home alone
How I'll miss their pimples, their wrinkles, their scowls
Their over-done make-up laid on with trowels
Bromley Jobcentre, I shan't miss thee, oh no, no indeed
As I leave your cheap surrounds, my heart it don't bleed
But I shall not forsake thee, oh no, no, not I
I will keep my claims booklet eternally close by
For in these hard times one can't be too sure
Permanent employment it just ain't for sure
And my fellow spongers, my chavtastic friends
Wave goodbye with your fag, as our journey now ends.
Bromley Jobcentre, I shan't miss thee,
Thank Christ you are history
For now the holy grail has come my way
At last, a journalism job that doth pay.

For musos...

2009-03-30T09:49:00.000-07:00

A new competition to find the best in unsigned talent...

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/39/6788/London-City-Guide/article/The-Peoples-Music-Awards

Copy writing project No. 1

2009-03-30T09:35:00.000-07:00

Lucky enough to write the copy for a very talented photographer, Laura Beveridge. Check it! (and her sensitive portrait pics) online:

http://www.laurabeveridge.com/about.htm

Photographs copyright of Laura Beveridge Photography 2009©

For pre-train feasting...

2009-03-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

Eat at The Phoenix and catch the late train...

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/41/6713/London-City-Guide/article/The-Phoenix-SW1

For hip hop heads...

2009-03-30T09:07:00.000-07:00

Laughably biased depiction of legendary rhymer B.I.G...

http://www.itchybath.co.uk/article.cfm?id=6583&cityid=1§ion=35

For dim sum addicts...

2009-03-30T09:00:00.000-07:00

Less is not more. More is more.

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/review.cfm/11/208821/London-City-Guide/review/New-World

A perfect place to while away the weekend...

2009-03-30T08:57:00.000-07:00

A beautiful West London pub serving up mammoth roasts...

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/review.cfm/11/208982/London-City-Guide/review/Paradise-By-Way-of-Kensal-Green

For lovers of Italian food...

2009-03-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

Delicious Italian grub on the cheap and in sexy surrounds...

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/review.cfm/11/209009/London-City-Guide/review/Princi

For the brave at heart and style conscious...

2009-03-30T08:45:00.001-07:00

A terrifying way of acquiring new garms...

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/44/6779/London-City-Guide/article/Swishing-or-Squishing

For chocolate lovers...

2009-03-30T08:43:00.000-07:00

Review of scrumptious hot chocolate and macaroons...

http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm/11/41/6782/London-City-Guide/article/Apostrophe

London Fashion Week: Romeo Pires

2009-02-25T07:01:00.000-08:00

So, the other day I was lucky enough to get press tickets to my first ever fashion show. Pretty sweet (daaahling). The off-schedule London Fashion Week show was organised by Vauxhall Fashion Scout. The designers are an Anglo-Brazilian duo called Romeo Pires and the show's theme was 'Summer Holiday'. According to the press release, the inspiration for the collection was the 'backwardness' of Brits going abroad in the cold winter months. Hmmmmmm, seems pretty straightforward to me. My camera didn't work (bloody typical) so these images come courtesy of the designer's official photographer, Christopher Dadey.

This was fashion at its finest - ridiculous, impractical, beautiful, ugly, innovative, pretentious, artistic, breathtaking - all at once.

Have a squiz at the pics and make up your own mind. Should you have nothing better to do, take a gander at my tips on attending a fashion show... http://www.itchylondon.co.uk/article.cfm?id=6650&cityid=11§ion=44

Feeling Doleful

2009-01-19T08:43:00.000-08:00

Today I made my fortnightly pilgrimage to my local job centre to sign on. Other than the accompanying dip in self-worth, these trips are generally uneventful (and that's the way I like it - who knows what kind of ruccus could occur if all us no-hopers decided to riot? Actually that could be fun - note to self: start job seeker ruccus).

But today was different from the norm. I was shaken from my characteristic sleepy ennui by a terrifying moment of clarity: I HAVE SPENT TOO LONG ON THE DOLE! The trigger for this realisation? One of the job centre's 'personal advisors' called out 'Mr Yunice?' to the assembled motley crew of dole bludgers waiting to sign on. 'I know that name from somewhere!' I thought to myself, racking my brains for an image of the aforementioned Mr Yunice - a family friend or school mate fallen on hard times perhaps? A be-tracksuited chav scuttled into sight and after recognising his pimply face, I realised where I knew him from - THE JOB CENTRE!!!!!!! Being on second-name terms with my fellow spongers just takes the biscuit and is further proof of what I already know - I NEED to get a job and fast.

Until this magical day comes, I will continue to don my Job Centre Uniform every two weeks. My job centre uniform is a highly important element in my trips to the centre, it helps me to get into character. It is composed of the following elements: baggy grey tracksuit, pyjama top, baggy jumper, old trainers topped with a trampy parka coat with fake fur hood. The hood is important, it must be worn up and erect over the head for as long as possible to achieve a cheap thrill and sense of danger.

Wearing a hood may not seem dangerous to job centre virgins but they would be wrong - the wearing of hoods inside the job centre is banned and probably illegal. Wearing one is therefore a mini rebellion and a means of baiting the burly job centre bouncers, who will inevitably trundle over and tell the hooded hoodlum 'No hoods allowed in here mate' (my job centre uniform is a little de-feminising I must admit). I find this anti-hood rule baffling; have these bouncers forgotten we're all supposed to hug a hoody??

Maybe one dole-day I will learn Mr Yunice's first name. Maybe one dole-day I will initiate some kind of verbal interaction between myself and my fellow freeloaders, rather than us all pretending to be invisible both to ourselves and to each other in a pathetic attempt to cling on to dignity. We can swap signing-on stories or discuss the terrible local jobs offered up by the job search machines (apparently the scientific term for these hunks of crap is: vacancy search terminals). Speaking of which, here's a round up of some of today's local jobs spawned up by a flirt with the terminals (I cannot promise you that these roles are still vacant, any interested party should contact their local job centre. Helpful link: http://www.jobcentreplus.gov.uk/JCP/index.html):

LOVELY LOCAL JOBS COURTESY OF MY LOVELY LOCAL JOB CENTRE*

1) Gutter cleaner
2) Santa Claus (I have a hunch this is a system error and the role may no longer be active)
3) Anti-social Behaviour Officer ("No, you cannot stay in and watch the entire box-set of Family Guy" shouted the Anti-Social Behaviour Officer to the poor couch potato)
4) Scissor lift operator (I find this mildly funny as I have no idea what it means)
5) Urgent leaflet distributor (not sure whether the post was meant to read Urgent - Leaflet distributor needed or whether you will be dealing with highly important political leaflets but given it involves working for my crummy local area, I would hazard a bet it's the former)

* Unlike journo jobs, these are paid roles and by paid I mean actual money, not magic beans.

The Carrie Bradshaw Myth

2008-11-14T04:46:00.000-08:00

Carrie Bradshaw (hallowed be thy name) has a lot to answer for.

The image of her sitting in front of her Apple Mac in a characteristically fabulous ensemble, puffing on a cigarette as she types a few words and then pauses for a sip of her Cosmo or a dab of lip-gloss, is printed indelibly on my brain.

It is my belief that Sex & the City has perpetuated a seductive and, sadly, wholly unobtainable myth about journalism.

Carrie is allegedly a columnist for the New York Star, a weekly tabloid paper. I say allegedly, because we never really see her doing any journalistic work. Instead she swans around New York in her designer garms in a flurry of bars, clubs, restaurants, cafes, shops and sequins. I haven't even factored in the time she spends between the sheets!

Yes, there are occasional, token shots of her tapping away at the keyboard but judging by these, and taking into account the sheer amount of time she spends discussing penises (both literal and metaphorical) with her gaggle of gals, Carrie’s work productivity rate must average at about fifteen sentences a month. And that’s when Big is out of town.

Now, according to one guide to journalism rates of pay, produced by the NUJ, http://www.londonfreelance.org/rates/w1000new.html, a writer in Carrie's position could earn around £500-£600 per feature - but that's based on 1000 words and I'm guessing Carrie doesn't get that many words in her little tabloid column. So that means earnings of less than £500 per week.

Yet Carrie can somehow afford to pay for her Manhattan apartment, eat (and drink) out all the time and feed her Manolo Blahnik addiction, shoes which, according to my research, can cost anything from $555 to $14,000 (£374 - a whopping £9438.00) PER PAIR! My maths has always been a little dodgy but it's clear even to me that these figures just don’t add up.

And the worst thing is that the industry itself perpetuates this myth. Whenever I get all Carrie Bradshaw-esque (and I have seen and heard others doing the same thing, citing her as an inspiration for entering journalism) I take a swift reality check.

But look at this advertisement for a job application I saw recently:

Do you see yourself as the next Carrie Bradshaw with a career in journalism? Is fashion your passion and going out something you love to discuss? Let us help you take that first step up the ladder.

Sadly, despite my efforts at becoming the next Carrie, the ladder's first step proved highly elusive (I am suppressing the obvious and bad Manolo joke that comes to mind here).

So, potential employers, stop lying to us - you can't turn us into Carrie or give us her fabulous life. And fellow journalists, stop lying to yourselves too! Journalism is hard graft, often monotonous and highly unlikely to lead to a Manhattan apartment or a wardrobe full of designer garms.

But, every now and then, you may get to use and abuse your press credentials to worm your way into swanky press events (particularly if X-Box are hosting the event), you will meet a bevvy of interesting characters (maybe even some good-looking eligibles) and you will have a lot of fun along the way. I'll raise a Cosmo to that, Big or no Big.

Hacks and Hollywood

2008-11-13T04:09:00.000-08:00

It dawned upon me today that being a graduate journalist is like being a struggling actor.

Though the two industries seem poles apart (one is glamorous, potentially astronomically well-paid, based on fantasy, the other is slightly scruffy, with teeny tiny wages and, ideally at least, based on reality) they actually share some common ground.

Firstly, as a freelancer, just like an actor, you have to become accustomed to rejection. I had my first taste of this today, after trying to sell an interview to the Observer Woman. I had spoken to the assistant editor over the phone and she sounded keen, asking me to email some more details about the article across to her. It all seemed positive. I duly did as told and shortly received a reply which said simply: "Thanks for this, but I don't think it'll work for us." Crushing. I felt like I had delivered my lines badly, or forgotten my script before the judging panel.

As my second point of comparison, from what I hear, everyone in LA is trying to be a film star. When you buy a cappuccino, coffee, pizza or glass of wine, the chances are that the person who serves you is one of these wannabes. In London, when you go for a meal or tarry out to quaff booze in some darkened bar, chances are that the person who serves you is a wannabe journalist.

At the magazine where I'm currently slaving away for free, I am surrounded by people in the same poverty-struck situation as myself, all of whom have second and even third jobs as waitresses to keep them afloat. As a fellow 'work-experience' girl said to me today: "Yeah it's hard having to work in the bar after working here all day but journalism is what I want to do, so it's worth it." I believed her; her eyes were all ablaze with a fervour and dedication verging on religious devotion. It was then that the actress comparison struck me again, since acting is one profession about which people say, 'Only do this if you can't imagine doing anything else because it's hard, unreliable and you may not make any money.'

It seems to me that the same can be said for journalism. Despite this, just like in the acting industry, there are unrelenting hordes of devotees willing to sign away their freedom, life, salary expectations and sense of self-worth, just to get a foot in the door. A former web-editor at the magazine told me recently that she didn't know anyone who hadn't worked unpaid for about A YEAR before they were taken on as staff by a publication.

Call me a broken woman but at this point in time, I can't help wondering: why do we do it?

Mind Your P's and Q's

2008-11-11T03:23:00.000-08:00

I am one of those pathetic people with a compulsive need to be liked. It therefore crushes my soul when strangers commit random acts of rudeness. When this occurs (and it does, all too frequently) I spiral into a three-step emotional journey of bewilderment, hurt and rage.

Take this morning, for example. I was sitting on the bus when the girl next to me started fidgeting with her bag. Concluding that she wished to remove herself from the bus, I promptly rose to my feet and made way for her, generously flashing her a polite smile as I did so. Rather than make any eye contact, smile back, or even mutter 'thank you' in the style of well-mannered Londoners, she pushed past me with a scowl.

I sat back down feeling slightly shrunken and unsavoury and watched her figure recede as she stomped off into the chaos of Whitehall this morning. We all have bad days when we resent the close physical proximity with other commuters imposed on us by London transport but does nobody believe in manners anymore?

As I pondered upon this, I remembered my recent work experience at a popular weekly celebrity magazine. I had turned up all a-brim with bubbliness and journalistic enthusiasm, excited at the prospect of writing seedy exposes of the latest c'leb scandals.

When I arrived, I was given a thick booklet with 'Work Experience Job Description' on it, which listed tea making, distributing the post (and even opening the post, variety is the spice of life) re-filling the stationary cupboard and doing the office 'breakfast run' as my sole duties. In the first hour, I maintained a perky cheerfulness, delivering the post to each person with a little 'hello' or 'here's your post' or some other introduction, since according to my booklet; "giving out the post is a really great way of getting your face known in the office".

The problem was, despite my efforts at friendliness, nobody was even looking at my face. My face seemed to be an offensive foreign object. And my efforts at friendliness just made them more uncomfortable. Even when I lugged huge parcels from one side of the office to another for the Lifestyle team, no one offered any acknowledgment. It was if I was invisible, or at best, a slightly distasteful smell wafting across their territory. It made me wonder why people are so afraid of human contact and so suspicious of each other? Or is it just extreme laziness?

I came close to breaking-point on that first morning. I took a letter to somebody's desk, which according to my floor plan made her the rightful recipient of that post. She ignored my hello, looked at the letter and tossed it aside with a slight curl of the lip. "I'm not Juliette Readly" she snarled, without pointing me in the direction of the genuine Juliette.

As I walked off, I couldn't help muttering two expletives between clenched teeth. This was the only unmannerly outburst I allowed myself during that entire awful week. My restraint was tested throughout my time there, largely because of the general attitude of contempt displayed towards the work experience. Tasks such as the daily collection of the entire office's supply of papers and magazines (arm-destroying parcels which had to be lugged back to the 3rd floor of the office from a local newsagents) and having to pick up the editor's dinner at 6pm on a Friday evening also made me want to unleash some rudery but I somehow managed to keep a grip on decorum.

Taking positive action instead of taking a gun into the office, I called a talk with the editorial assistant and explained that I was there to gain journalistic experience and if I couldn't do any writing at all I would have to leave. This tactic worked and I ended up writing two articles which were published on the magazine's website.

Having graduated, I'm now back working for the online team (albeit unpaid, which I grant, is quite an impediment but seems to be the way it works) and have already had about twenty stories published on the website.

Proof that manners don't just make people happy, they also help to get your foot in the door.

A mannerly way of demanding payment for my labour? I'm still working on that.

Tomorrow's News, Tomorrow's Journalists

2008-11-10T08:02:00.001-08:00

A blog forum on www.journalism.co.uk has posed the question, 'what would you do if you were given a million dollars to save journalism?'

So, if a million dollars magically came my way...

I would swiftly hand it over to my mate Chris, a mathematical genius and professional poker player. Under strict instructions not to get distracted or cocky, he would then invest the wonga in Lady Luck and make a sum of money large enough to actually make a difference to this industry.

If Chris came up trumps (which he would, he's a decent chap) and made me a substantial pot of money, I would:

a) Increase the salaries of trainees/entry level reporters working for regional newspapers as £14,000 is NOT enough for anyone who wishes to be fed, clothed and alcoholed.

b) Give money to influential publications who regularly take on interns. Rather than offering 'travel expenses' as if pulling a rabbit out of a hat, these publications could then actually pay interns for their labour, even if it's minimum wage. A little goes a long way, especially when you have mastered the art of living off a tenner a week as an impoverished student.

c) Invest in training within publications to make sure all staff are switched on to digital media and the importance of blogs and the online community.

d) Set up mentoring programmes so that experienced and established journalists can offer advice, support and even training to young graduates and students.

Ok so there is a slight bias emerging here in terms of helping those at the bottom of the food chain such as myself but we are the future of journalism and are therefore highly deserving!

With any remaining money I would buy myself a mac laptop since a recent job application I filled in cited ownership of one as a vital job requirement.

There is a pleasing symmetry to this injustice: I have no laptop, so can't get the job...I have no job, so can't get the laptop. Catch 22, journalism stylee!

Signing on to a bleak future?

2008-11-10T05:47:00.000-08:00

"So what job do you want to do love?" asked Bev, my 'personal advisor' at the JobCentre Plus, peering at me through her tortoiseshell spectacles.
"I want to be a journalist."
"Yes dear, but I need three types of work to put on the form."
"Erm, put editorial assistant, reporter and sub-editor then."
Bev took her spectacles off and scowled at me.
"We need three types of work because that way They think it's more likely you will get a job. If you don't put three down, you might not get your job seekers allowance."

I scowled back. Fresh from noSWeat journalism college, all a-fire with a single-hearted desire to make it as a hack, Bev just didn't seem to be getting me. Having survived a year of working in healthcare PR, a job so dire I could feel little slices of my soul evaporating day by day, I was not prepared to switch career allegiances.

Bev cleared her throat and attempted a kind smile.
"Look dearie, all the journalists are in here at the moment. We've had people from the Sun, the Daily Mirror, they are all signing on love. There aren't any jobs in journalism at the moment."

I crumpled a little and looked around at the fellow no-hopers sitting patiently on the suprisingly dashing red sofas. It dawned upon me that the whole building was full of deliberately bright colours - vivid purples, lime greens and vomit orange. I suppose it would be dangerous to sit the down-and-outs on grey furniture, it would probably be the last straw and cause us no-hopers to slash our throats with the plastic folder of our claims booklet.

I sighed and looked back at Bev.
"I worked in healthcare PR" I offered, glumly. "I suppose you can put me down for that."
Result! Bev smiled and tapped away on her keyboard.
I left the JobCentre Plus a broken woman. If highly employable journos from the nationals were queuing up alongside me to claim the weekly 60 quid dole money, what chance did a wannabe hack like me have?

In my hands, I clutched two print-outs from the odd little machines inside the centre. I looked forward to sharing my new career prospects with my parents: 'Chimney Cleaner' and 'Dog Boarder'. Whilst I printed the former just because it made me laugh, I was actually quite optimistic about my prospects as a dog nanny. Whoever knew you could earn £50-£100 a week, just for letting a furry four-legged friend share your home? I could be onto something here.