tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26865500240249985782024-02-20T13:18:33.927-08:00Always an InternA blog bemoaning the perpetual state of being an intern and the impossibility of getting a good job as a graduate. Wry humour, cynicism and sarcasm abound.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-39223869816803254412011-04-14T04:37:00.000-07:002011-04-14T14:06:39.217-07:00Employment OpportunitiesLadies and Gentlemen, I have discovered a new vein of employment: “The Assistant Internship”<br />
<br />
I have seen such positions crop up for a while now, most recently in the latest <a href="http://www.artshub.co.uk/uk/">Arts Hub</a>* newsletter, which advertised:<br />
<br />
<strong>Research Assistant Internship </strong><br />
We are looking for a bright and enthusiastic individual to work at an exciting innovative media company for a 10 week 'research assistant' internship.<br />
<br />
<strong>Project and Administrative Assistant - Internship </strong><br />
*** are recruiting for a Project and Administrative Assistant to join our small and busy team in South West London.<br />
<br />
Now, surely, <em>surely </em>someone must realise the stonking great oxymoron staring them in the face?<br />
<br />
<strong>Assistant</strong>, <em>n</em>: <br />
1. someone who receives Actual Money <br />
2. someone with privileges such as a desk, a working computer, holiday time, a name (other than “you”)<br />
3. someone who is not kicked out of a company at the end of a set period<br />
<br />
<strong>Intern</strong>, <em>n</em>:<br />
None of the above. <br />
<br />
I’m sorry, I have tried to write an intelligent and informed response to this, but I simply can’t - it's got to be a joke, right?<br />
<br />
Note the patronising use of quotations in the research position, which suggests that the ickle intern will be pwaying at having a weal job just like the grown ups do. Only without being paid.<br />
<br />
“Assistant Internship”? What the hell does that even mean? <br />
<br />
Well, I know what it means.<br />
<br />
In employer jargon, it means “the opportunity to spend 10 weeks working on an exciting project, assisting the research/project and administration departments and learning about that side of the industry”<br />
<br />
Which roughly translates to “the department can’t cope, but we’re too cheap to hire an assistant. We’ll just stick the word “internship” on the end of it and pay ‘em expenses. They won’t know the difference.”<br />
<br />
What’s next? “Doctor – Internship”? “Prime Minister – Internship”? Is “Internship” just going to become a byword for “p.s. we pay you jack shit”?<br />
<br />
I shudder to think on it.<br />
<br />
*Disclaimer: I am not saying in any way that Arts Hub are writing these applications or are in any way involved with the misrepresentation of applications. So there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-50143910829788896772011-04-05T09:04:00.000-07:002011-04-05T09:12:49.203-07:00It Sucker Punch-ed<div style="text-align: center;">As an intern in any sort of film related industry, you become privy to a number of films which aren’t set to come out for a very long time. You also spend vast amounts of time on Apple Trailers. For research purposes, of course.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Thus, I had been hotly anticipating Zach Snyder’s Sucker Punch for more than a year, so much so that I dragged The Boy to see it as soon as it came out last Friday, even though it meant going to the Leicester Square Odeon, which vastly overcharges its patrons to sit in a room full of tourists, watching a screen which is slightly bigger than your average Vue.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I haven’t yet been forgiven for this. Sucker Punch, quite frankly, Sucked. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Luckily, I have unearthed a transcript from the movie, so you can spare yourselves the inordinate sums I paid, and read for yourselves whether the movie’s for you:</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>FADE IN: A slightly murky looking American landscape with vaguely 1930’s overtones.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em><br />
</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Cue really loud and dramatic rock music over the title sequence, which features Synder’s key technique of giving random object such as a tear a major close up. This is supposed to be powerful.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Throughout the title sequence, the premise is set up: EMILY BROWNING’s mother dies, leaving all her money to EMILY and her LITTLE SIS. This enrages Browning’s EVIL STEPFATHER, who throws a lot of paper around his study to convey said rage.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Enraged evil stepfather attempts to kill/maim/rape little sis. Browning grabs a gun from somewhere to stop him, but inadvertently shoots little sis by mistake.</em><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">EVIL STEP FATHER (to Browning): And now, I will shove you into this mental hospital which has been ripped off of a Tim Burton movie for all eternity, in an attempt to justify Synder’s claim that the film is about the oppression of women, rather than just a chance to show a lot of leg</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>EVIL HEAD DOCTOR greets Step Father and demands money from him in exchange for Browning’s eternal incarceration.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">EVIL HEAD DOCTOR: Ah-ha, I like to beat girls in a way which totally justifies Synder’s claim that that the film is about the oppression of women, rather than just a chance to show a lot of leg.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">EMILY BROWNING (to camera): As you will see, I haven’t yet said anything. Nor do I say anything for quite a while yet. But look at my lips, aren’t they pouty?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Teenage boy in the audience has a furtive wank in the back row, which totally justifies Synder’s claim that…oh, never mind…</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">HEAD EVIL DOCTOR: And now, I will give you a lobotomy, so that you are as mindless as the rest of this movie.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Cue close-up of a sharp pointy object going into Browning’s eye, although because the movie is only rated 12A, we swiftly cut away before we see anything remotely violent and instead enter “Ancient Japanese Land.”</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">ANCIENT JAPANESE MAN: hello, you have to find these fairly mundane maguffins in order to create some semblance of a plot. They include a map, a lighter and anything else the Famous Five went searching for. Whilst you’re out there, see if you can also find the plot. It appears to have gone missing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Emily Browning, now dressed like an X-Rated Anime character, does lots of moves which involve her spinning upside and showing us all her pants. In a non-gratuitous way.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Kung Fu Panda has a furtive wank in the corner.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Browning is suddenly transported to a completely inexplicable middle level, where she and all the other mental hospital inmates are dancers/prostitutes in a burlesque house overseen by</em> EVIL HEAD DOCTOR. <em>They do some sexy dancing, taught to them by</em> FOREIGN MATERNAL DOCTOR, <em>who wants to look after them. There she meets</em> SWEETPEA, ROCKET, AMBER <em>and</em> BLONDIE.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Teenage Boy swiftly leafs through his back issues of NUTS, to see if they've done any topless press.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">SWEETPEA: Hey there, Emily Browning, Zach’s given us all names suggestive of female genitalia, so for the rest of the movie you shall be christened Baby Doll. Oh, and you’re allowed to speak now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">EMILY BROWING/BABY DOLL: But I don’t want to speak, I want to do a sexy dance. And every time I do my sexy dance, we will be transported into a futuristic Nazi Germany, were we will fight people in very prolonged and yet dull action sequences, wearing skimpy outfits which are in no way gratuitous. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Baby Doll and her band of burlesque rebels go back and forth between Video Game Land and Burlesque Land, neither of which have anything to do with the original setting of the mental institution, apart from a very tenuous metaphor about “escaping.” Along the way, they all get hyper emotional which has absolutely zero effect on the audience, because they have been too blinded by the amount of leg on show to form any sort of emotional attachment to the characters.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;">AMBER (flicking through her script): Wait a minute: I was the lead in High School Musical and I dated Zac Efron - why do I only have two lines?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">ZACH SNYDER: Shut up and show some more leg, slut. In a totally empowered way. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>He whips them all. Charlie Sheen wanders on set and mistakes Emily Browning for one of his Goddesses. He wanks furtively in a corner.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Snyder realizes that he’s forgotten all about the mental hospital, so hastily returns the action there before he runs out of ideas. Emily Browning has been lobotomised, allowing her to act slightly more emotional than she has done for the rest of the film.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>FOREIGN MATERNAL DOCTOR realizes that EVIL HEAD DOCTOR is evil, and tatles on him to the police, who come to arrest him. He gets upset because he can no longer rape the inmates. </em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em><br />
</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Teenage boys, Kung Fu Panda and Charlie Sheen suddenly feel guilty. </em><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-76238008114394050512011-02-17T04:44:00.000-08:002011-02-17T04:53:32.180-08:00A Tory-d Affair<div style="text-align: justify;">So, the <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/feb/17/internships-elitism-conservative-auction?commentpage=last#end-of-comments">Tories have been auctioning off internships...</a></div><br />
I say: let 'em.<br />
<br />
Yes, it is slightly cringe-worthy that rich Tory parents are digging their hands in their pockets so that little Susanna and young Hugo can spend a week doing photocopying at Tatler, but really, what do we care?<br />
<br />
If I have proved nothing else over the last year and a half, it's that doing an internship does not lead to a job. <br />
Neither does doing ten internships.<br />
<br />
Yes, it is unfair and elitist that these teenagers have the privilege of gaining access to these locations just because Daddy went to school with Dave and thinks he's a Jolly Nice Chap, but at the end of that week, it's extremely unlikely that they will get anything out of it. <br />
<br />
Do you really think that Susanna and Hugo are going to be making power point presentations in board meetings or taking the floor in conference calls, leading their employers to see their potential and offer them a job on the spot? No. Like everyone else, they are going to spend a week making tea for people who won't know their name, and will then be booted out on Friday evening with the rest of the garbage. Ok, someone may argue that they are taking places away from those who really deserve these places, but actually all they're doing is saving those assumedly intelligent and hard-working people from the degradation of being treating like a hostess trolley, and hopefully instead they will make a crack at getting an actual job.<br />
<br />
The hilarious thing is that these people are forking out up to £3,000 for their children to work for free: surely this proves that we should be spending more time thinking about the intern culture and what it means for our society, and less about how feckless people are spending their money. <br />
<br />
Hate the game, not the players, people.<br />
<br />
Always an Intern. Out.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-45097326591603994772011-02-09T14:34:00.000-08:002011-02-10T05:47:51.731-08:00Mash-Ups<div style="text-align: justify;">I feel that I have been working in "Media" for a relatively long time now. <br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Apologies, that should have read "Working" in Media.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Being considerably familiar with the industry (and spending rather a lot of time listlessly staring at the television), I have discovered a rather lucrative niche in the market: The TV Mash-Up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The way I see it, TV is already scraping the bottom of the barrel (see <a href="http://alwaysanintern.blogspot.com/2010/06/consequences.html">My Monkey Baby</a>), so why not cash in on these money-spinners by combining some, thereby ensuring that the Powers-Can-Be can spend less time having to think up new shows, and more time wondering what they’re going to have for lunch. So that the intern can go out and buy it for them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If there are any TV producers out there reading this, here are a few ideas to get the ball rolling:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><u>Strictly Come Dine With Me On Ice</u></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A stunt-filled spectacle in which contestants much each prepare a 3-course meal whilst performing a choreographed ice-skating routine. Arlene Philips, Pamela Anderson and those fat greek men off of Britain’s Got Talent will judge. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The winner gets some money. And potentially an injury.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><u>Glee-Stenders</u></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A thrilling two-part special in which the Glee Club win a trip to England, where they must stage a full-scale performance in the Queen Vic. Rachel and Dot rehearse a stunning rendition of Wicked’s “Defying Gravity,” but when Dot breaks her hip right before opening night, her faithful husband Jim must step in as “Glinda, The Good Witch.” Kurt gets off with the gay Indian one, and they perform a duet of “Ebony and Ivory” to voice their feelings. The special ends with an ensemble rendition of “Perfect Day,” during which Quinn gets a Croydon face-lift and is offered a position as a market trader.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><u>Super Sweet Sixteen and Pregnant</u></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bitter-sweet documentary series hosted by Bristol Palin, in which Super Rich and Super Pregnant teens set out to plan some extraordinary birthday bashes. Will the teens make it to their big day in time? Or will they end up Super Sweet Sixteen…and in labour…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><u>Mock The Weakest Link</u></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A Robinson-Bashing extravaganza in which the Mock The Week gang hurl abuse and open cartons of milk at the ginger host, interspersed with their discussions on the week’s most topical events. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Come on producers - these ideas don't just think themselves up - you want me on board, right?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Right?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-49383886544531737282011-02-01T09:46:00.000-08:002011-02-02T08:06:04.681-08:00I'm Back, Baby.<div style="text-align: justify;">It's been a long hiatus. One fraught with worry over whether I would be blacklisted from the film industry for telling some unhappy truths.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">BUT I'M BACK.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You missed me, right?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This silent period has been one of great reflection; one in which I have truly sat down and considered what my internships have taught me and what possible career choices I could have after a year's hard slog. Here is a short list:</div><br />
<span style="color: black;"><u>Tea's Maid</u></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKdtr_8fVvbZpGMJ3t6naRK2js_uFO0FzKWSYG9yw5w4PxB6UmQKdOcryRAO4Y91rOIRqCK9qgS8L_A5I1vTuB8ZuOSb4ayUr5hM1EHDsjsCSnO9jlQd45YVnl_2BHCeu7GiHTng5ecQ/s1600/teasmade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKdtr_8fVvbZpGMJ3t6naRK2js_uFO0FzKWSYG9yw5w4PxB6UmQKdOcryRAO4Y91rOIRqCK9qgS8L_A5I1vTuB8ZuOSb4ayUr5hM1EHDsjsCSnO9jlQd45YVnl_2BHCeu7GiHTng5ecQ/s320/teasmade.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like the iconic 60's Teasmade, only more human. My job would be to wait beside the slumbering owner until a designated time in the morning, at which point I would shout "TEA'S MADE" repeatedly in their ear repeatedly until they wake up, whilst simultaneously making them a handy cup of tea. The perfect solution for any early riser.</div><br />
<u>Vacuum Cleaner</u><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0UkmU2fga3YCv426PpuKeJIVscLtRi6Oxof_hbK21x1PjnTKNLRcVsl_frD0z4QrCOe3PJWUFHa4nkXbA-s-D_5JNpEd1PlQm_gbbitkectw8VuX5NADP8VGV2yR6Ll8PmUnUYiWDqM/s1600/vacuum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0UkmU2fga3YCv426PpuKeJIVscLtRi6Oxof_hbK21x1PjnTKNLRcVsl_frD0z4QrCOe3PJWUFHa4nkXbA-s-D_5JNpEd1PlQm_gbbitkectw8VuX5NADP8VGV2yR6Ll8PmUnUYiWDqM/s320/vacuum.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">As with the "Roll Easy," I too could be the vacuum cleaner you never have to lift. My professional experience at hoovering the office of key executives would make me the perfect addition to any corporate space. Simply install me into the appropriate area and I will personally ensure that your office is kept spick and span. On my hands and knees, if necessary. </div><br />
<u>Human File Binder</u><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8iqX0ROJV90O9ei1zzsmjlWHpK9n1N7i5w8ZySe3eAv5KXClpQv_RSepMYGzYfiGfTR8M8DJ0_VRR2M36oh0FM-2cggf7pRNUH8cPLdhXUfdTyAxDlUadk39DzKTn4fo3anA7Z2mQE0E/s1600/woman_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8iqX0ROJV90O9ei1zzsmjlWHpK9n1N7i5w8ZySe3eAv5KXClpQv_RSepMYGzYfiGfTR8M8DJ0_VRR2M36oh0FM-2cggf7pRNUH8cPLdhXUfdTyAxDlUadk39DzKTn4fo3anA7Z2mQE0E/s320/woman_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Men, are you tired of having to physically attach metal binders to scripts? Fear not, with the Human File Binder your worries are over. Simply hand the file you wish to bind over to the Binder, and she will personally ensure that the job is done: no mess, no fuss, no waste. Comes in two easy sizes: Starved (travel fees only) and Impoverished (travel plus lunch)</div><br />
<u>Intern-a-desk</u><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIi6DJQMyhV4uRSFiNntxqAlMJkmtifE_D7pPHwk0O4CHjdk05wc3pL5Uzb667FluNfQdMZ0dcZRKGfTpJt6o9soAv8GPL_0YZ4H_y8RW7naE2rma8Jv3FmDewuTBQCUz9M_0YOBF2xjU/s1600/man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIi6DJQMyhV4uRSFiNntxqAlMJkmtifE_D7pPHwk0O4CHjdk05wc3pL5Uzb667FluNfQdMZ0dcZRKGfTpJt6o9soAv8GPL_0YZ4H_y8RW7naE2rma8Jv3FmDewuTBQCUz9M_0YOBF2xjU/s320/man.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Always misplacing your pens? Losing your papers? Is your chair never at a comfortable height for your deask? </div><div style="text-align: justify;">With the Intern-a-desk, your problems are over. For a nominal fee and the occasional glass of water, this friendly intern will crouch at the perfect height to solve all your desk needs. With a handy mouth for storing pens and TWO WHOLE HANDS for holding everything from papers to plates to cups of tea (see Tea's Maid for added extras), the Intern-A-Desk is the latest in office technology.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Know anyone requiring any of these pictures? Send them my direction - I'm back, baby.</div><br />
Will work for money.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-18659887251950239642010-09-23T06:45:00.000-07:002010-09-23T06:45:04.442-07:00Last week I was on LBC talking to Jeni Barnett about growing awareness over the unfairness (and possible illegality) of unpaid internships.<br />
<br />
Thank you to Jeni for bringing light to the situation, and for dedicating a whole show to the topic; the general consensus was there need to be more regulations in place to stop interns being taken advantage of, a sentiment which has been echoed frequently by intern rights campaigners over the past year.<br />
<br />
Anyone wishing to hear the show can download it here:<br />
<a href="http://lbc.audioagain.com/">http://lbc.audioagain.com/</a><br />
(although you have to pay to sign up, and I'm sure no-one is <i>that</i> eager to hear me wittering on...)<br />
<br />
And yes, the podcast is entitled<br />
<table style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="player_item_list" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" valign="top" width="100%"><img align="right" alt="This audio requires a subscription" border="0" hspace="2" src="http://lbc.audioagain.com/shared/images/payment_blue.gif" /><span class="player_item_list_item" style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold;">"<a href="http://lbc.audioagain.com/" style="color: #02a7e9; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">Charlotte Church talks about her new single 15th Sept</a>"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Me and Charlotte. On the same show. Best buds.<div><br />
</div><div>Looks like I'm moving up in the world. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-65044277430077188372010-09-13T08:52:00.000-07:002010-09-13T08:54:34.479-07:00Things That Ruin My Day 2: Phone Numbers<div style="text-align: justify;">I have spent a very large part of my day - and indeed a larger part of last week - inputting business card details into my boss's email contacts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know - I live a riveting life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But it has come to my conclusion that there seems to be some kind of general disagreement here about the correct way to write down a simple phone number.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's take the humble London office number as a starting point:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eleven digits. I.e. 02071234567</div><div style="text-align: justify;">n.b. I don't know if this is an actual phone number. If you're feeling particularly frisky, give it a ring and report back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Come on, it's eleven digits - we're not talking Pi here - so why is it that there is such a vast disagreement on how the digits should be separated?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">is it 020 7123 4567?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">is it 0207 123 4567?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">0207 1234567?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">and don't get me started on the +44, 0044 or +44 (0).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No one is <i>consistent</i> and it makes me very, very upset.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Especially as I suspect I have discalculia.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All I desire is a bit of peace and harmony in the world. That we all band together and agree on one united form of telephone notation, so that humble, numerically challenged interns like myself aren't endlessly plagued with this problem, alongside other tough challenges like how to get jammed paper out of the photocopier, and what to do when you've hole-punched something on the wrong side.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Is that asking so much?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-55696707451609569672010-08-20T06:42:00.000-07:002010-08-20T06:42:24.185-07:00Things That Ruin My Day 1<div style="text-align: justify;">Apologies for the lack of recent posts - I have been away, recuperating before yet another cycle of internships (as there undoubtedly will be...).</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But as welcome back hello, I would like to present to you a new feature of this blog, which I would like to entitle, "Things That Ruin My Day."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Enjoy...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><u><b>1. Buffering</b></u></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a Highly Important Intern, I have the Highly Important Task of watching Highly Important Trailers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This task, in itself a definite Perk of The Job (and believe me, when the rest of the job involves inputting data and making tea, this is high up on the list), is made instantly odious by the spinning wheel of death inscribed with the words</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">*buffering*</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A trailer lasts, what, 2 minutes? 3 at the most? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well then, tell me, why is it that technology is not yet advanced enough to cope with playing the whole thing, without stalling half way through, right at the crucial plot detail?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The annoying thing is that it inevitably looks like it's my fault:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Intern, have you watched that trailer yet?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;">[me, cursing at the screen as the percentage buffering sign increases millisecond by minuscule millisecond] <i>"Trying to..." </i>[cursing at the computer, pressing pause to allow to catch up with the rest of the world here in real time, considering whether hitting the computer will make it run faster]</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They don't know this, obviously. They can't see this mounting frustration. All they see is that they need a job done and intern's holding them up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then it's always our fault.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, perhaps it's my computer - you know, the dodgy one they were going to chuck out before the intern programme started up, and then thought, "well, there's no point in wasting a piece of equipment that at least turns on..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am only an intern after all, what would <i>I </i>need with a computer that works...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-37057519680850272612010-07-21T02:45:00.000-07:002011-02-10T05:47:29.753-08:00Sing When You're Winning<div style="text-align: justify;"><u><strong><br />
</strong></u><br />
<u><strong><span style="color: black;">Places Where it is Acceptable to Sing Out Loud</span></strong></u></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">1. <u>Church</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">Or anywhere you happen to be holding a hymn book <em>(see weddings, bar mitzvahs and school assemblies). </em>If the spirit moves you...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">2. <u>In Your Car</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">Doubly so because it allows you the freedom to mumble the words you don't know without people (and, ahem, boyfriends) raising their eyebrows at you if you suddenly can't remember a line. Plus, if you're stuck in a traffic jam and some sees you emoting to Kelly Clarkson, you can just pretend to be having a particularly heated discussion on a hands-free.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">3. <u>The Shower</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">Think of it as your own private Wembley Arena. One in which the sound of running water drowns out the actual noise emitted.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">4. <u>A Concert</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">Especially if whilst singing you are brandishing an oversized poster made at home using 6 sheets of A4 and a packet of glitter glue. <em>Especially </em>if said poster bears the words, "Ronin, Father My Son," as I still remember from Boyzone concert nearly 10 years ago. If the person who made that is reading this blog: genius.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><u><span style="color: black;">Places Where it is <em>Not </em>Acceptable to Sing Out Loud</span></u></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">1. <u>The Theatre</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">Ok, good for you, person third row down from me at <em>Dirty Dancing </em>(guilty pleasure, don't judge). I'm really pleased that this was your favourite movie when you were a kid, and that you, like, <em>totally </em>had a thing for Patrick Swayzee (RIP). That does not give you permission to catarwhaul along. That's what the actors are for.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">2. <u>On the Pavement, Swinging the Arm of a Friend Whilst Skipping Simultaneously</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">Come on girls, you know you're guilty of this. It's not cute. You're in my way. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">3. <u>On The Tube</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">I already have the distinct displeasure of having to stand with my head wedged into your armpit for the next 20 minutes, let's not make things worse.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">4.<u> In The Office</u></span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">There is someone in my office who has taken it upon themselves to <em>sing</em> at various intervals of the day. There is no radio in the office, so perhaps this person thinks that they are doing some sort of charitable deed: perhaps they thinks that we are all musically undernourished, and that they<em> </em>and they alone are responsible for our lyrical salvation.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">We're not talking about under-breath, lost-in-thought singing - we're talking full-on renditions of Mama Mia, Queen, and even, on one ghastly occasion, <i>Les Miserables</i>.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Shudder</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Singing whilst they're walking to the photocopier. Singing as they types at their desk. Singing when they add milk to their coffee. I have been spared the opportunity to be in the loo with them, but I am convinced that there, too, the slow trickle of their urine will be accompanied by some form of Beatles medley.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Nowhere is safe. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;">I don't know what this person expects us to <i>do </i>about their singing. Should we applaud them? Cry for an encore? Join in?</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">As a lowly intern, I am not in a position to react as I would ideally like: namely to shout, loudly and clearly, <b>"WILL YOU </b><i><b>KINDLY </b></i><b>SHUT THE FUCK UP?" </b>before re-acquanting them with the occasions it is and isn't acceptable to sing out loud.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">So instead I have stilled my irritation by sharing it with you.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Enjoy.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-499905435785514282010-07-13T02:22:00.000-07:002011-02-16T04:27:51.454-08:00Starbucks: The Sequel<div style="text-align: justify;">It's official ladies and gentlemen: I'm a Starbucks VIP.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">How do I know this?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was queue-jumped. Twice. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hell. Yeah.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's right people - envisage a hefty line of tourists, snaking their way along the register (always in the wrong direction - why, oh why, can't they obey the simple rules of our country?) and little old me is right at the back, with the important mission of garnering the boss' caffeine fix.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But not for long - oh no, I am far too special to waste my time in a petty queue. My friendly barrister spots me, and with a gentle wave of his arm, reminiscent of the soft swaying of corn in summer's breeze (Or something. Hey, I'm a city girl, I tried my best) beckons me over to the front of the queue, assuring me that I have neither the time nor the patience to wait in line with mere mortals.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He's wrong - I have ample amounts of both - but do you think I'm going to stop him?.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I may not have a job, but at least, in Starbucks, I'm a Somebody.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-19458965358704547662010-07-12T10:03:00.000-07:002010-07-12T10:06:46.592-07:00Isn't It Ironic?<div style="text-align: justify;">Rule Number One about getting a job:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Don't write a blog about your potential employers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, if only some had told me that before...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a world full of ironies, this has to take the biscuit: I had a job interview last week for a place I've interned - and vaccuumed at - before, and in a cruel twist of fate this blog was found, scuppering all chances of actually getting said job.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ah.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, yes, yes, I know what you're going to say: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><i>"be careful what you write on the internet, it'll come back to haunt you"</i></span>: we had full-on lectures about it at Uni, warning us that perhaps our naked and drunken profile pictures weren't the best impression for when potential employers decide to do a bit of digging.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what can I say? I was young, I was naive, I thought I had it covered: a private facebook profile, a strictly "no names" policy on the blog, the World [Wide Web] was my intern oyster.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But fate had other ideas.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What do I feel? Stupid. Slightly embarrassed - especially as the person who found it was a genuinely nice guy who I would never have wanted to hurt.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mother Dear, in classic Mellow Dramatic Jewish Mother style, has been having hysterics - "Take the site down NOW, you've ruined your whole career now, they'll send it to all the film companies in the world and you'll be blacklisted forever."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Elder Brother, the Voice of Wisdom, has gone for the more succinct, "Fuck It."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I think I will plum for somewhere in between.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Vaccuum-cleaning Assistant: if you are reading this, I am truly sorry for offending you. My experiences this year have taken me from the highs and lows of internships, but I am sorry to say that unfortunately, whether it was just my bad luck or not, this experience was not one of the highs, but you were not part of the problem.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But never fear, in the world of internships, I am sure that another will come along which will blow this one out of the water - an experience so wretched that I would rather spend my time cleaning up sick with a straw and a sieve.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wait this day with bated breath...if not perhaps with my tail between my legs...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-42166128820703091942010-07-07T02:50:00.000-07:002010-07-12T09:00:14.594-07:00Bully Two Shoes<div style="text-align: justify;">"Intern...I think I'm an office bully."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">These words were said to me by a friend of mine who actually has a job...and look what has happened to them...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, this person is my friend, so I can vouch for the fact that they generally wouldn't hurt a fly, but their confession does raise awareness of one of the more unpleasant sides of interning: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">The Office Bully. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Boy, in one of his rare moments of wisdom, has pointed out that it is usually only those lower down in the office pecking order who deign to bully. Or as he scathingly refers to them as, "The Middle Management."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bosses (generally) don't have time for the pettiness of bullying. If they have a problem, they resort to the quicker and more effective form of yelling at you. Fine. I accept that. Straight, to the point - if you have fucked up, you sort it out and move on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what I can't abide by, and what I've witnessed more than once as an intern - particularly, it must be said, in my non-film placements - is the Bully Assistant.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Think about it. These people are on hallowed ground. They have fought through the slog and actually managed to catch hold of the golden apple which is A Job. Many of the people on this first rung considered themselves to be especially intelligent for having been born far enough in advance to avoid graduating during the credit crunch. So they definitely don't want some scrappy little upstart (that's you, interns) coming along and doing a better job than them, in case they are routinely replaced and find themselves out with the rest of the garbage, begging for the scraps of whatever jobs are left.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so, in order to maintain that primitive awareness - "ME ASSISTANT - YOU INTERN" - they feel the necessity to put you in your place, ensuring that you lose any feelings of self-worth which may make you confident enough to steal their job. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At Online Fashion Magazine [cue shudders], this took the form of school-girl cattiness, resorting most of the women back to a time and place they feel most at home. You know the sort - hair flicking, giggling, the occasional rolled eyes - and all because you ask where to find something on the shared drive, or attempt to join in the conversation - "Yes, I saw X Factor last night too - I really like...". </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This particular incident, which actually happened to me, plundered me right back to being a ten year old, realising that I had my pinafore tucked in to my knickers. In the workplace jungle, joining in with the conversation is the equivalent of sniffing another cheetah's ass. It says, "hey, look at me, I'm part of your species - Befriend Me!" But when those fellow cheetahs simultaneously look at you, roll their eyes and giggle, you realise you are left out in the cold, and will probably have to hunker down in a separate part of the jungle for the night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This, like most office bullying, is a wonderful example of passive aggression. They never come right out and say "Fuck Off, get back to the photocopier, you Intern you." No, that would break the unspoken rule of "protocol". Instead, it is giggly-girly batting eyelids, all the while reassuring the victim that underneath that butter-wouldn't-melt smile are a pair of sharply gnashing incisors. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now let me get something straight: I am not your "hun". I am certainly no-one's "babe". If you want to put me in my place by telling me to make you a cup of tea, Do Not preface your request with any of these terms of endearment. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So what does the lowly intern do, when faced with such sickly-sweet but obviously cutting remarks? </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fight fire with fire my friend. You flutter those eyelids. You smile that smile. They want you to react, and I have it on good authority that if their tried and tested playground efforts are defunct, their heads may just explode.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then you can steal their job.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-27123864261456007742010-06-17T14:54:00.000-07:002010-06-17T15:58:57.416-07:00Consequences<div style="text-align: justify;">Do you think TV producers play Consequences to create new shows?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You remember, that game where you write a sentence at the top of a piece of paper, then fold it over and pass it on to someone else, so that at the end you have a funny story?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A friend of mine once got into serious trouble on a school trip when she wrote one about a teacher (I think the crux of which was "shagging up a tree"...oop, naughty) and accidently left it on the coach.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I digress.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Do you think that TV producers have been so jaded / lacking in creative juices that they have resorted to this game in order to provide the public with entertainment that is about as stimulating as a dead kipper.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Picture the scene:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's Friday afternoon. Barry, Head of Production at Dead Kipper Productions is frustrated. It's been a long week and they've thought of nothing new all week, plus the combination cappucino maker / vacuum cleaner is broken. By which I mean it's the intern's day off. He is slightly damp under the arms in his cumbersome suit. But everything is going to be fine...Barry has a plan...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He seats himself next to Frank, Head of Entertainment (36, lanky) and rips a cool, crisp sheet of paper from a pad. Trembling slightly he bears down on the paper with the tip of a ball point pen, salivating as he watches the glutinous black ink flow. Satisfied, he folds over the paper, concealing his creativity, and hands the paper to Frank.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Frank takes it, as carefully as if he is caressing a baby squirrel, and has his turn, a low chortle of satisfaction emanating from his lips, so pleased is he with his choice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And finally the paper passes to Max (40, token Jew), Head of Factual Entertainment, who puts the final flourish to the paper, reaching a hand up to loosen his tie as the pressure starts to affect the tightness at his neck. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The paper is passed back to Barry. The room is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Slowly and cautiously he unravels the sheet, and there, in bold black writing, are the three words they know will make a hit:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Monkey</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Baby</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Barry can't contain himself. He weeps. Tears of joy. Stinging the corners of his eyes. And he's not even ashamed. Frank and Max clasp hands like school girls. This it the break they have all been waiting for.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What has this got to do with interning? Not a lot. But think about it: My. Monkey. Baby.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And these are the people who actually <em>have</em> a job...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">NB: My Monkey Baby is an <em>actual </em>TV show. No kidding. Channel 4 if you please</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">No Monkey Babies were harmed in the writing of this blog post.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-57621829022400097422010-06-09T09:10:00.000-07:002010-06-09T09:10:27.021-07:00It's The Small Things<div style="text-align: justify;">When you're an intern, surviving the daily grind of photocopying and phone-answering, there are few things in life to get excited about.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Which is why I like to look at the small things to brighten my day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And today, that small thing is the Starbucks in Soho Sqaure.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, call me a materialist, call me a coffee whore, but I'm going to come right out and say it: I like Starbucks. I like the reassurance; the feeling that no matter where I am in the world, whereever there is a Starbucks, I can feel at home. I remember on a trip to Madrid the Boy and I got so sick of eating Spanish food that on our last day we positively fled to Starbucks, basking in the familiar green and the welcoming aroma of generic, Capitalist coffee. I <i>like</i> frappucinos, even if they are a bastardy of Italian in a manner that no Paulo or Graziella worth their cafe solo would be proud of. I <i>like</i> the fact that my coffee can come with vanilla or hazelnut syrup, in sugar or sugar-free varieties. Hell yeah, I'm not afraid, I'll say it again: <b>I like Starbucks.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I like it even more because, despite their obvious commercialism and cut-and-paste sites, if you go in there enough times the staff start to treat you like on of the family.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Case in point: My current boss is very particular. He likes the same thing, at the same time, every single day. This includes a particularly complicated coffee order which contains at least five words which took me at least five days to remember without having to write it down.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Starbucks doesn't really have that many staff members, so it's likely that if you're in there at the same time, every day, ordering the same thing, they'll eventually remember you. It starts off with an awkward "of all the coffee shops in all the world..." type smile. Then you move on to the "ah, we meet again" type hello. That hello makes you feel special. That hello says, "hey, you're not just an ordinary customer, you're a <i>regular</i>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But today - oh, today - I hit my personal best. The barrista sees me comes in, points a finger at me and recites my order without even blinking. I'm <i>remembered. </i>I'm <i>somebody.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that is what has made my day. A barrista in Starbucks remembering an order that isn't even for me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wow, I really need to get a job. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-85566339066627502532010-05-24T04:55:00.000-07:002010-05-24T04:59:22.357-07:00To Lunch, or Not to Lunch<div style="text-align: justify;">Ok, I'm not going to lie: I like my lunch break.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I like being able to have that hour in the middle of the day where I can contemplate life and my surroundings and really assess the state of humanity, and what I am doing on the humble Planet Earth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I also like meeting up with Daisy and hypothesising what our friend's weddings will be like. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We do this on a surprisingly regular basis.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there is also that internal struggle over whether or not I should be frolicking in the streets of London when my "colleagues" are hunched over their desks, eating a sandwich using mouth only, whilst both hands are tied to their computer keyboard.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the vacuuming - sorry, production - internship, the choice was made for me. I was not there to eat lunch. I was there to fetch lunch for others. It would have been un<i>thinkable </i>to leave the building unless I was returning with 5 bags of M&S food and a packet of Urgent Cigarettes. And no, that's not a brand name.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the - ehem - online fashion magazine - which I have spoken most delightfully about in the past, most of them seemed to bring food from home. This was helped along by the fact that the office was set in the middle of a concrete desert, so there really was nowhere to go even if I wanted to. In fact, there was nothing said about lunch break until nearly my last day, when they had obviously decided that they want to have a "talk" about me and Other Intern Girl without us hearing. This was because we had dared to speak to one another. We were politely "informed" that lunch break was taken daily between the hours of 12pm and 2pm. It was now 1:30. Hint: leave now so we can talk about you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I digress.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the whole, it seems that those who actually Get Paid are expected to use their payroll hours productively, which largely means grabbing food on the go.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But where does the lowly intern fit in to that picture?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One intern-supervisor positively encouraged me to take a full hour every day. The words "we're not paying you, so the least we can give you is an hour's lunch break" seemed remarkable sentient of her, and I have to say I appreciate her point of view.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you're slogging it out for the same amount of hours as people with actual jobs, but not being paid for it, what harm is there in taking an hour in which to collect your thoughts and psyche yourself up for the next batch of errands?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But at the same time, should you be attempting to ape a Real Job as much as possible, in the hope that one day they might forget that you're an intern and accidently put you on the payroll?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's all about appearing inconspicuous, right?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't really know where I'm going with this - what do other interns think? To lunch, or not to lunch?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I shall ponder this on my walk to Pret. It's 1 o'clock after all, and I'm starving...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-46807340302577857942010-05-18T15:55:00.000-07:002010-05-18T15:55:37.520-07:00Reader, I Did His ExpensesOnce in a while there comes along an internship that makes my heart sing, that makes me realise that there are some people in this world who actually realise what an internship is for, and more importantly that an intern is actually a <em>person</em>, rather than just than chameleon-like being who changes appearences every month and is there to clean the kitchen.<br />
<br />
As you may be able to tell, I started a new internship today, and the result is just...ah!<br />
<br />
Words do not suffice.<br />
<br />
Never fear, faithless followers, this does not mean that Ms. Intern will be giving up her anarchic tone for a world of sweetness and light.<br />
<br />
After all, she loves nothing more than seeing the irrelevant replies clogging up her blog about exactly how much money she has in her bank account.<br />
<br />
I am sure that I will find plenty to gripe about in the coming months, and if not...I have a wealth of injustices stored up from past experience.<br />
<br />
But in the meantime, I feel that all is right in the world.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is because, for once, I am interning in exactly the department of exactly the industry I want to be in: namely Film Development. <br />
<br />
I am greeted each morning by the twinkling chatter of box office ratings and potential castings.<br />
<br />
I sigh contentedly as I caress scripts, still warm from the printer, and frolic to the supplies cupboard to achieve roladex cards and spare binders.<br />
<br />
If this were a Disney movie, it would be a part where the little blue birds come out and start making me a dress out of scrap paper and treasury tags.<br />
<br />
But mainly, I think it is because the people working there have actual been brought up with good grace, and the common sense that, really, treating people like crap does nothing for anyone.<br />
<br />
I don't think I've ever been in an environment where I've heard the words "please" and "thank you" so much. <br />
<br />
It's like being back in primary school. <br />
<br />
And when one of the bosses asked me to pop to Starbucks for him, <em>he even asked me if I wanted one too.</em><br />
<br />
It took me a while to actually work out what he was saying, "I'm sorry, what now? Me, have a coffee? That's not how it works. I'm all confused. Where's the special cappucino maker, and the variety pack of tea?"<br />
<br />
Of course, there is still the amount of admin, intern level stuff to be done - don't get me wrong, I'm not the one hiring and firing yet. But what this has made me realise is that it is not necessarily a question of WHAT you are asked to do, but HOW you are asked to do it.<br />
<br />
I honestly don't mind filing receipts, doing photocopying, making coffee etc - hell I'll even get their weightwatchers supplements - if the person asking is gracious enough to understand that they are asking you to do something as a favour to them, rather than just commanding you to do their bidding.<br />
<br />
In contrast, one incident at the vaccuum-cleaning-hell-hole that sticks out for me is being asked to fetch a salad for someone from M&S. They didn't have the salad, so I rang the office and asked his assistant what I should get instead. I returned and brought up the salad to the guy. When I was clearing up after, I saw that the salad was barely touched. The guy, seeing me pick it up, came over and said, "Did you bring me this salad? Intern, listen, what do I look like? I'm mediterranean! Bring me ham, or parmesan, or rocket. <em>Not this</em>."<br />
<br />
Um...maybe you could try...I don't know...getting your own lunch, if you must be so picky?<br />
<br />
Many, many light years away from the Debretts Etiquette of New Internship.<br />
<br />
And so, for the moment, I am happily toiling away in film-geekdome, still unpaid but less despairing to be so.<br />
<br />
For the moment, that is.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-4316863759368070202010-05-13T03:01:00.000-07:002010-05-13T06:51:59.202-07:00So Long, Farewell...<div style="text-align: justify;">I am in a nostalgic mood today.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday was my last day at yet another internship, and I found myself leaving it with a strange mix of pleasure and disquiet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is always a good feeling to know that I am finally free from doing people's dirty work, getting up early and returning home late to the tune of £50 a week. Until the next one of course.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the end of my more depressing internships, I tended to shoot out of the building with cries of "I'm free! I'm free!" as soon as I was out of earshot.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But even in places that have just been so-so, there is an odd feeling of sadness. Maybe it's just because I am particularly resistent to change. I get used to going to the same place every day, and seeing the same people. I am comfortable in a routine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is almost easy to fool yourself into thinking you actually <em>work </em>there, as you become familiar with the building, know where the loo is, start leaving pens and empty water bottles at your desk each night. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's rather like that point in a relationship when it's ok to start leaving your Nivea face wipes in the bathroom.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then suddenly, that's it. It's over. You are ousted from your seat and thrown out with the recycled paper.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And no matter how much you convince yourself that <em>"this one was special,"</em> <em>"this time it was different,"</em> in reality come Monday morning some other tart will be sitting in your desk and using your Nivea face wipes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or something.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then there are the relationships you form with people. It seems like it's always in that last week of an internship that you really feel like you know the people there. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You think you have it made - "hey, these guys are my friends! We like each other! We have a Connection!" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But in actual fact you end the internship and really, what have you got? </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course there are the cheerful promises to Keep In Touch. "Do write and let us know what you're doing!" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But come, isn't it just a bit weird to be sending bi-monthly updates?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">[Cue overly-keen voice]</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hey <em>guys. </em>How's it <em>going? </em>Watcha <em>up to?</em>"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The thing is, unlike a regular employee who has been there for a veritable length of time and is on the same level as them, the truth is <em>you are not really friends with these people</em>. You are just one link in a long chain of people who make up the job title known as Intern.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But still. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sigh.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They gave me a card.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A card.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've never been given a card from an internship before...</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I shall clutch it to my breast, and remember the good times...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-13834087117693304242010-05-04T05:32:00.000-07:002010-05-04T05:32:53.435-07:00An Open Letter To EmployersDear Various Employers Who Have Recently Contacted Me,<br />
<br />
No, thank you very much, I would <em>not </em>like to come in for interview for an internship.<br />
<br />
If you recall, in my previous email, I quite clearly and legibly stated that I am looking for <u>graduate and/or entry level positions<strong>.</strong></u><br />
<br />
Do you see the word "internship" anywhere in that phrase?<br />
<br />
No, neither do I.<br />
<br />
Now, maybe there has been a misunderstanding.<br />
<br />
Maybe in these recent times, the word "graduate" immediately suggests to you "desperate young person willing to work for no pay."<br />
<br />
Perhaps you (wrongly) assume that graduate positions and internships have somehow become conflated, and that it is no longer possible to get a job until you have been interning long enough to require a zimmer frame.<br />
<br />
But no, this does not mean I am eternally grateful to you for fobbing off my request for a job with the offer of unpaid slavery.<br />
<br />
It is rather like opening a box of Laduree macaroons to find that they have been replaced with KFC popcorn chicken. <br />
<br />
Greasy, and smelling slightly of cheap labour.<br />
<br />
Find someone else to make your tea.<br />
<br />
Best,<br />
InternUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-52824635447629233702010-04-28T07:39:00.001-07:002010-04-28T07:39:34.956-07:00I've been asked to take place in a case study about graduates and the impossibility of finding permanent jobs. <br />
<br />
I'm being paid £50's worth of vouchers and a bottle of champagne. <br />
<br />
Being paid to talk about not being paid?<br />
<br />
What a funny old world we live in...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-79269460336256384672010-04-27T09:04:00.000-07:002010-04-27T09:04:57.358-07:00Ooh, It's Temp-tingDid I mention that I'm an intern?<br />
<br />
Oh right, you got that.<br />
Well, as an intern, it is par for the course that you make roughly enough to take a zone 1 tube and buy half a sandwich each day.<br />
<br />
It is also likely that, like a resting actor, you will find yourself with the odd week or two inbetween internships with nothing to do.<br />
<br />
The first few times this occured, I found <em>loads </em>to do. By which I mean I spent more time than necessary watching Loose Women in my pajamas, and realised that I was slowly morphing into a forty-year old housewife.<br />
<br />
When it got to the stage where I was actually starting to take on the shape of the sofa, I realised that it was time to move on.<br />
<br />
And I started a new, healthy relationship: Temping.<br />
<br />
Temping, I have discovered, is a Purgatory-esque land in between a permanent job and an internship.<br />
<br />
The obviously benefit is that, shock horror, you're actually being <em>paid</em>. My, was I proud the first time I received the payment receipt - "you mean...I do work, and people <em>give me money</em>? What <em>is </em>this promised land?"<br />
<br />
But, as with an internship, you are on that strange periphery where you go in to work every day and yet aren't really relevant to the company. That slightly first-day-of-school feeling when you try to remember all the names of the people you've been introduced to? A common practice in temping. And even worse is when people just <em>assume </em>that you should know everyone off the bat. <br />
<br />
"Intern (or, sorry, 'Temp'), could you pass this on to James please?" <br />
<br />
"SURE!" [Bright smile.] "And he would be...?"<br />
<br />
And even worse is finding your way around. As an intern, it is accepted you are new, and thus you get the perfunctory Office Tour (apart from at the dreaded online mag I interned at, where it took them most of the week before they showed me where the loo was). But, as a Temp, you are suddenly catapulted into a busy environment where no one has the time to hold your hand. Probably because they're too busy requesting cappucinos from the interns...<br />
<br />
The best example of this was my recent experience of temping on a reception desk at an advertising agency. I was having a great time doing pretty much what I do interning, i.e. greeting the visitors, answering the phones and playing on the internet. I had been there for nearly a week when the other receptionist had the day off, and I was asked to help with a meeting-room setup.<br />
<br />
Sure, great, I can handle this - plonk some biscuits here, chuck some tea bags in there, and voila! I'm a temping mastermind.<br />
<br />
Only one problem...I had no idea where the meeting room was. In fact, having been basically confined to the reception desk for most of the week, I barely had any idea where the rest of the <em>office </em>was. Tricky when trying to negotiate a large service trolley and a small office. Never one to back down easily (unless I'm asked to carry a TV), I set on my own merry way. <br />
<br />
It's all about the process of elimination, right?<br />
<br />
There were three meeting rooms.<br />
<br />
Thank heavens for the Office Manager, who gently steered both me and the trolley in the right direction, or else I probably would have ended up setting the tea pot up in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Ah well, one small blip in a role where I learnt about as much as did in any of my other internships. And in return: the sweet smell of money.<br />
<br />
Seriously, try it. It's temp-ting.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-88130393211682559012010-04-22T07:16:00.000-07:002010-04-22T07:16:38.831-07:00Intern: A Definition<strong>in·tern</strong> also in·terne (in'tûrn)<br />
n. <br />
<br />
Today I was pleasantly surprised to discover that amongst the dictionary definitions for "intern," there is one which reads, "To confine, especially in wartime." <br />
<br />
Interesting. <br />
<br />
The thing is, there seems to be rather a lot of confusion about what an internship actually is. <br />
<br />
Some companies have been led to believe that an intern is some moron brought in to do the dirty work no one else wants to do. <br />
<br />
Others seem to think an intern is a rare breed of cleaner who is happy to vaccuum their floors and wipe their arses without being paid for the privilege. <br />
<br />
In my experience, an internship entails making one's own life harder in order to make everyone else's lives easier. <br />
<br />
And of course, this means getting that tricky, hard-get-item that they can't live without.<br />
<br />
Case Study: Coffee and Tea<br />
Oh, the amount of time I have spent talking about hot drinks on this blog. But the fact is, it seems that once you reach a certain level of employment, your brain simply cannot function unless you have <span style="color: blue;">*exactly*</span> the hot drink you desire.<br />
<br />
In my carpet-vaccuming internship, they had 5 (FIVE!) different types of black tea alone. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm terrible confused, I thought I was working at a production company, not a tea palace in the middle of Rajasthan. <br />
<br />
And seriously, hands up anyone who can tell the difference between Lady Grey and Earl Grey. Unless you're one of their descendents, there is no need to have both.<br />
<br />
This was bad enough, but they also had an actual cappucino maker for the One Person in the office who required a cappucino. Funnily enough, this was the same guy who needed his carpet vaccuumed. Now, maybe I haven't been in a high-pressured enough job, but I just can't understand how it can be so vital to have a fancy coffee made in the office - I would have been better off getting a job at Costa, at least they would have paid me.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I like a fancy coffee as much as the next person. I feel a certain relish going in to Starbucks and conjuring the words "I'll have a Tall, Skinny Latte with Sugar Free Vanilla Syrup to have in but in a Take Away Cup." But the world won't end without it. So stop being so damn picky. Asshole.<br />
<br />
Same goes for the ridiculous woman in my first ever work experience placement who would insist on getting her coffee from Flat White. Now, it was the workie's job to go on a coffee run about twice a day. Fine, she says through gritted teeth. Everyone would ask for a coffee from Pret, conveniently located next door, apart from Bitchy McBitch Face (as I shall christen her), who would demand that the intern would schlep into the middle of Soho to get a solitary cup of coffee, which, by the time it was brought back to the office, would probably be cold anyway. Fair enough, get one yourself in your own time, but don't abuse your position by being a massive fuss pot, or next time I shall replace the coffee beans with dirt. Ha.<br />
<br />
Case Study 2: Lunches<br />
Ok, obviously people have a right to have what they want for lunch. When they're getting it themselves. It is distinctly Not Ok to request a specific lunch from a specific place, when you know that the itern is already going in a completely different direction to get someone else's lunch. I once spent an hour picking up a can of tuna in one direction, and a panini from the other. Seriously, hasn't anyone ever heard of a Ham and Cheese sandwich?<br />
<br />
On this subject, I would like to end this post's rant with a little story about the ridiculous needs of exec producers.<br />
<br />
Again, this was at the vaccuum-cappucino hell hole. I was about to go on the first lunch run of the day. I was waiting for another producer to get off a phone call so I could take her lunch order. As I was waiting, the Exec Producer's frantic Assistant ran down the stairs. He was out of breath, his eyes darted wildly about. He reached out his shaking hand and proffered me money. <br />
<br />
"Can you get [Insert Exec Name] a bar of chocolate, a chicken salad from M&S and a packet of cigarettes?"<br />
<br />
I dutifully accepted the money, and went on my way to M&S with all the lunch orders. 10 minutes later, half way to M&S, I received a call on my mobile,<br />
<br />
<em>"Where are you??"</em><br />
<br />
It was the assistant.<br />
<br />
"I'm on my way to M&S, why?"<br />
<br />
<em>"What about the cigarettes??"</em><br />
<br />
"I was getting them on the lunch run."<br />
<br />
"No, no, the cigarettes are <em>urgent</em>. She needs them <em>now. </em>Never mind, I'll get them myself." Dial tone.<br />
<br />
Really? Cigarettes? Urgent? Obviously not urgent enough that she would consider, oh, I don't know, <em>going out and buying them herself? </em><br />
<br />
Perish the thought.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't be surprised if arse-wiping soon became a regular requirement of internships.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-14998311690020513322010-04-14T08:19:00.001-07:002010-04-26T04:48:43.356-07:00THAT side is for WALKINGYou know when you’re an Official London Workie when thoughts of the Tube begin to fill your waking moments.<br />
<br />
You know you’ve truly made it when you use the “walking” side of the escalators.<br />
<br />
I’m sure you’ve noticed the cultural divide of the tube escalators. On the “resting” side are:<br />
<br />
1. Tourists, with their rucksacks placed inconveniently between their feet – or even worse, on a separate step – so that the straps spill out and potentially trip those of us with better places to go.<br />
<br />
2. The leisurely shoppers, perhaps with a coat casually strung over their arm, nonchalantly dreaming of what they’re going to have for lunch<br />
<br />
3. The old, infirm and young. Read: nuisances.<br />
<br />
On the “Other” side; the “Proper” side; are the rest of us. Those of us who are determined to step on other's toes to secure their space on the tube platform. And woe-betide anyone who tries to blur the boundaries. <br />
<br />
I’ve started conducting an internal dialogue in my head with the IDIOTS who decide to stand in the walking aisle, which goes roughly something like this:<br />
<br />
“THAT side is for WALKING, you moron. Do you realise that you have created a stampede of traffic behind you, and that you, yes YOU, are personally responsible for London-wide delays on the Underground, and more importantly me being late for the next episode of Glee. Move it, lumpy.”<br />
<br />
I once actually saw a pair of Japanese tourists taking pictures of one another at the foot of the escalators. <em>Reeeally? </em>In rush hour? Are <em>trying </em>to incure my wrath? (Note: my wrath is a powerful and much feared force. Just ask the last warden who tried to give me a parking ticket.)<br />
Minor satisfaction is to be had when said unaware moron is yanked into position by a friend standing on the correct side. If they are a moron <em>and </em>a loner, only an inside-lane-overtake will suffice. But make sure you get a slight elbow barge in there to prove your point. Go on, you show them who's boss.<br />
<br />
Once you’ve bypassed the escalator-loungers, two factors really prove your Tube-worth: <br />
<br />
Platform Position and Exit Point.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Platform Position</em></strong> is only really applicable to split-branches such as the Northern Line or District/Central/Hammersmith overlaps, but when it is, It. Is. Gold.<br />
<br />
The casual tube-goer mooches along the platform, and if a train for the wrong branch comes along first, they merely hang back in submission. Fools.<br />
<br />
But not me. Oh-ho. Not me. I am a stallion.<br />
<br />
Ladies and gentlemen, you want to get a tube seat in rush hour? Then I'm you're girl. <br />
Join the back of the queue for people cramming themselves onto Morden via Bank, even if it's the wrong branch. Stop in front of the doors, ignoring the looks of befuddlement from people inside the carriage. You are now in perfect position for where the doors line up when the correct train comes along. The train always (or at least to my knowledge) stops in the same place.<br />
<br />
Aha! See, a Cambridge degree is worth something...<br />
<br />
Now you merely wait and give a smug smile to all those standing in the wrong place. (“You think that’s where the doors’ll open, do you? Aw, that's sweet, isn't it? New to London…?”).<br />
<br />
The only glitch in this process is that my mother has ingrained in me an irrational fear that there are psychos residing on the tube platform who are going to push me into the path of an oncoming train, so I have to stand backwards, bringing down the cool factor somewhat.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Exit Point</em></strong> (or E.P, as it is known in Army Training Facilities) is more of a matter of knowing which exit applies to which area of the world, and is definite proof of the amount of time you have spent working in London.<br />
<br />
The number of occasions I have got off at a multi-exit station and seen “Exit (North),” “Exit (East).” <br />
<br />
I'm sorry, what? I barely know my left from my right, let alone which way North is. And darn it, just on the day I left my pocket compass in the barn, along with my tracker bars and emergency flares...<br />
<br />
And so I feel that victory is truly mine when I realise that I have successfully worked out which exit correlates to which part of the street, and, after a few day’s unsuccessful trials, manage to get out at exactly the place I need to be.<br />
<br />
If only someone where actually paying me to go out of these exits, everything would be just hunky-dory…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-68808986222268897652010-04-12T14:20:00.000-07:002010-04-22T06:26:22.034-07:00This Is Just To SayI have spat <br />
in the tea<br />
which you asked me<br />
to make<br />
<br />
and which <br />
you were probably<br />
expecting<br />
by now<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
it was delightful<br />
so hot<br />
and so temptingUnknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-69114032099912357032010-04-11T07:43:00.000-07:002010-04-22T06:26:54.491-07:00Question...<div style="text-align: justify;">I have spent rather a long time on the Guardian Jobs website. And when I say "rather a long time," I mean time enough to move down the list of career choice until I realise I've started seriously considering roles which involve clincal trials and dog walking.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what I have noticed, and what, all the more, has rather baffled me, is that above all other positions, what comes up again and again are adverts for recruiters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now what I don't get is</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: purple;">What are they recruiting for?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">How do we need that many recruiters?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Do they know there are no jobs?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or is the world slowly being taken over by recruitment agencies? Will we suddenly be over run by recruiters recruiting recruiters recruiting recruiters and so forth until eternity?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or is it actually a communist plot to rid the world of all forms of employment, so that we all just end up recruiting one another, until there's no one left?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take today's Graduate section, for example. There are 336 jobs listed, of which 202 mentioned the word "recruitment." No joke, I actually did a word search.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm sorry, but that is just ridonculous.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have these visions of a recruitment office slowly become more and more crowded with employees until they start bursting out of the windows.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Imagine Lemmings, but replace the sea with an office. You get the picture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And do you think they just sit there twiddling their thumbs on a monday morning going, "well now what?" "Um, hire more recruiters?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's really nice that they have such a "more the merry" attitude, but perhaps they aught to start broadening their horizons, non?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686550024024998578.post-78625119587808425552010-04-10T08:42:00.000-07:002010-04-22T06:27:38.328-07:00Cover Letters (Part 2)<div style="text-align: justify;">Ah, cover letters. The necessary accoutrement to your CV which proves you are the best possible person for the job, and that the recipient may possibly be smote by God if they don’t hire you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or a mindless wad of cack in which you employ stock phrases such as “transferable skills” and “time management” and then press the “send-to-all” button.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There seems to be a sliding scale of cover letters, ranging from the standardised “dear-employers-I’m-sending-this-to-everyone-but-please-give-me-a-job-anyway” to the so gushing “I just love this company and I’ve wanted to work here since I was three so please oh please give me a job I’ll do anything.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FACT: The former makes you look sterile and devoid of personality. The latter just makes you look <span style="color: purple;">mental.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FACT NUMBER TWO: The elephant in the room is that everyone <span style="color: lime;">*knows* </span>that you’ve written to a thousand other companies. You're initiated the first part of the game in which everyone makes believe that they are the number one company you are applying to, and that you can't even contemplate working anywhere else. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was at an interview yesterday and mentioned that I was interning at another company. They asked how I’d managed to get it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: blue;">“Um, because I spent about 5 consecutive hours on Tuesday working through a list of companies, of which you were one?”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course I didn’t say that, I laughed nonchalantly and waved away the question with “Oh, I just emailed them and they happened to have a last minute opening…” Breezy. I'm being breezy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, how do you tread the fine line between facelessness and wack-job when writing a cover letter? Your friendly Intern is here to tell you now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong>DISCLAIMER:</strong></span> Long periods of cover letter writing may result in the following: the shakes, mild schizophrenia, periods of doubt or depression, typing fingers (similar to tennis elbow), bleeding eyes from scaring at the computer screen, increased thirst, mood swings, the voice in your head starting to talk like a cover letter (i.e. like it has been tattoed with inverted commas)...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or may that’s just me…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">1. <span style="color: lime;">SPELL THE NAME OF THE COMPANY CORRECTLY.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Idiot. Not a great start when writing a letter pertaining to your interest in the company. You can’t be that interested, now can you? There’s no silent g in Price Waterhouse Cooper.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2. Make sure that the right cover letter is sent to the right company.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No joke. I have actually accidentally copy and pasted a cover letter to two companies and forgotten to change the names. Shit. “Ah ha ha, of course, when I sent a message to “Red Communications” addressed to “Dear Blue Communications,” it was because I was thinking of how much better Red is than Blue. Ah ha ha ha. Mmm…job?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3. Don't forget to <span style="color: purple;">ATTACH YOUR CV</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Again, an mistake. You get all excited about the cover. You finish with the flourish of "please find my CV attached." You press the send button. Hm, something seemed to be missing...Oh CRAP. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Don't. Do. it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">4. No-one wants to hear your life story.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Succinctness is the key. They don’t give a shit about where you went on your Gap Year, or what you ate for breakfast. They just want to see that you’re not a moron, and gather a basic understanding of why your email address has inconveniently turned up in their inbox and wasted valuable time when they could be checking Facebook. Short, sharp and snappy, please.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">5. But at the same time, make it personal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ok, so I know I vetoed your life story, but you want to give a cursory few lines in reference to the particular company you’re emailing, even if you’ve just read the website and seen something vaguely interesting. Flattery gets you places, as long as you’re not over-saccharine. Think Grace Kelly, not Shirley Temple. And for God’s sake, <span style="color: blue;">DON’T PUT KISSES</span>. These people aren't your friends. And they never will be now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And finally: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">6. Create a template</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The fact is, it takes a fucking long time to write thousands of cover letters. It is incredibly boring and time consuming to write a brand new cover letter for each and every company you email. Create a Word document with the basic boring information you can’t be bothered to type out: “I graduated from the Monkey School of Communication in 1920 with a BA in Pig Latin. Since graduating, I have been de-worming orphans in Somalia, working in a sweat shop and eating cheese. I am scared of people and better working alone in the cupboard in my room, hate computers and speak conversational binary code.” You get the gist. See previous post. Now you can simply copy and paste these bits and add the personal shit they want to hear, which should cut down your time by, oh, at least an hour. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Only four more to go!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0