Bloomin' Boomerangs: A New Generation of Kidults

Did you know that there is actually a phrase for adult children living at home?

“Boomerang Kids”

I like, how it suggests something that you try to chuck away which inevitably pings back at you. And sometimes hits you in the face.

Hmm.

The fact is that, out of all the friends of mine who are in London since graduating, the only two who live away from home are the ones who aren’t from London, and therefore didn’t have a family fold to return to.

The rest of us have swallowed our pride and attempted to cram pots, pans, beanbags and other paraphernalia accumulated at university back into our childhood rooms, and are once again back in a routine of dinner times and making the bed.

The result is a network of commiseration amongst said “Boomerangs” which usually revolves around a familiar pattern:

You will meet up with a group of friends amongst whom there will be a number of Boomerangers. You will perform the usual round of “what are you up to,” “how’s the boyfriend / lover / sex life”, and then one will turn to the other and say,

“How’s living at home?”

Cue world-weary sigh from the friend and understanding looks of condolence from the speaker.

“Fiiine.” The head will loll to one side, the shoulders will hunch. “You...?”

“Fiiine.”

And then the story will erupt. Parents cross that their adult-child-Australian-throwing-device aren’t home for dinner. Boomerangs waxing lyrical about the long-lost freedom they had at university. Eventually more drinks will be ordered and the conversation will subside, but the thought still dwells under the surface that your living situation is less than ideal.

I would like to add a disclaimer here that I am far from ungrateful. I am incredible fortunate to be in a position where I can come back home: I have returned to my beautiful childhood home, I have no bills to pay (I kindly am exempt from paying rent), and as The Father (or My Mother’s Ex Husband, as she prefers him to be known) has decided to leave the familial home in favour of a fat American woman with five children (“living the dream,” evidently), it is just me and the Madre. Who is...most of the time... a delight. Although watch this space to read about the OCD tendencies which are leading me to a slow and painful death.

But this still doesn’t negate the fact that there is a certain amount of compromise which has to be met, and I do long for the days when I could go into the kitchen and chop an onion without being watched like a hawk for mess, or being offered marigolds and a knife and fork to do the deed (read: OCD tendencies).

In fact, I fear that I am regressing back to my teenage years:

Madre: Are you in tonight?

Me: [Grunt] dunno. Might be going out with Daisy.

Madre: But are you in for dinner?

Me: [sigh] I don’t know. We don’t know what we’re doing yet.

Madre: Well what will you have for dinner if not?

Me: I don’t care. I’ll make something. Cereal. Lemmealone.

Hours later, shouting from the top of the stairs.

Me: Muuuuuuuum. What’s for dinner?

Not exactly the sophisticated urbanite I like to picture myself as. Oh well, maybe when I get a job...

All in the Name of Research

Being an unemployed English graduate begs the question of how to put your skills to good use.

I could be a journalist, but I care very little about politics. I consider myself a lax conservative, but this, like which football team I support, is more due to the sway of parental pressure rather than a profound knowledge of inheritance tax or ID cards.

I could be an English teacher but I dislike school children. And teaching.

One day in November the idea came to me: I shall write a book.

And no, this blog is not a shameless attempt to get published (although if there's anyone out there who wants to do so, sweet) - the subject of said book is entirely unrelated to the subject of my blog. My book is about the 1920's.

Barberight (b): this is my own drawing anyone who steals in will get a punch in the face.

I have always had a fascination with the 1920's. The carefree spirit, the wild parties and, of course, the spangly outfits all suit my sensibilities perfectly. So I thought, if I love something so much, why not write about it?

I am in an intense period of research at the moment: I have Waugh coming out of my ears (although am steering clear of Vile Bodies to stop it influencing me), Mitford lingo peppering my speech (Hons and Debs, daahling) and a dash of the Fitzgeralds (Anyone who hasn't read Zelda Fitzgerald's Save Me The Waltz must put it on their reading list now) to shake things up again.

But the best possibile opportunity for research came last night, at the Prohibition Party. This event was so fabulous, so decadent, so utterly thrilling that I simple have to write about it, without of course, disclosing too much information as the event was "strictly hush-hush, what what."

Having convinced three of my nearest and dearest girlfriends that this was an unmissable event, we spent a good four hours primping and preening, finally arriving at the location, which was only revealed two weeks before the night.

And boy, am I glad we put in the leg-work. The place was a seething mass of feather boas and sequins, and even the "chaps" seemed to be good sports - decking themselves out in braces and spats. The atmosphere was sublime: a pop up bar, casino tables (for which we were given "money" on entry) and the glorious pleasure of a live band, donning fez hats and crooning twenties tunes like nobody's business. The highlightof these was a rendition of "Oobedo, I wanna be like you-o-o" (think Jungle Book) which got the whole crowd moving.

The best part of it was that everyone was totally in to it. There was not a single person in "civvies" and it was certainly the friendliest bunch of people I've ever met.

That said, there was one moment of "beef" in which I thought I was going to have to get out the old guns.

You know the scenario: a crowded space, groups of girls dancing in a circle, one bumps into another and a subtle game of elbowing ensues. A charming young lady behind us decided to initiate this game by repeatedly elbowing my friend in the back. Unfortunately for her, she picked the wrong person to deal with. Ellie doesn't take shit. She's Northern.

Thus, Ellie began to do the "backward back nudge," an age-old retaliation manouvere which involves shimmying one's upper body into said opponent's general vicinity. Always one for a fight, I decided to join in, but the funny thing was, my interchange seemed to occur only with the opponent's friend, in a sort of non-related version of a "Yo Mamma" slinging match. Sample:

Moi: Eh, could you kindly ask your friend to stop elbowing mine? Thanks

Opponent's Friend: Hey, tell your friend it's nice to dance, but not into someone.

Moi: Maybe you should tell your friend that

O's F: Maybe your friend should back off

Moi: Your friend clearly has an attitude problem

"YO MAMMA's SO FAT..."

Ok, so it didn't get that far, and things calmed down before there was any physical violence, which I'm quite glad about, because I have a height complex where I believe that I'm actually the world's tallest women, until I look in a mirror and realise I'm roughly the size of a ten-year and could probably be stepped on fairly easily.

Hardly in the spirit of night, but it's all in the name of research, right?

Intern Eats Free: Guerilla Burgers

Ok, so technically my blog should be work-experience-related, but as I am an undeniable foodie, and as I have had an experience interesting enough to blog, I thought, "What the hey." It's my blog, so I get to make up the rules.

Working for no pay, I clearly have no money. Neither did most of the friends who came with me last night to the launch of Guerilla Burgers in Marylebone, who included 1 law student, 1 MA student and 1 Mphil student. Hence, the free tit bits offered to us were like manna from Heaven.

And the place wasn't too bad either.

Let me start by saying that I am not a fan of burgers. I don't eat red meat. Just the thought of McDonalds brings me out in hives. I don't do fries.

But, in the interest of all things new and shiny, I decided to give Guerilla Burgers a go. And reader, I'm glad I did.

Having spoken to the lovely Vikki via Twitter, I secured a place for my nearest and dearest at 8pm. I know, I know, what has the world come to when we meet people online before face-to-face (indeed, this was how my father ended up having an affair, but that's another story for another time).

As soon as we opened the doors to Guerilla Burgers, we were hit with a blast of atmosphere. The red, white and blue graffiti-d decor was fun and so new you could smell the paint, and the 'choons were so loud you could barely hear yourself think. In a good way. In true burger-shack style, much of the seating was booth style, and the tables were set with cute condiment-filled buckets. I felt like I'd been transported to some beach-side dive in Southern California, and kept expecting to see surfers coming in covered in sand, which is an indication of how good the "theme" was, as I was in the middle of London and it was pissing it down outside.

Indeed, our waiter seemed like he'd swallowed a good few mouthfulls of seawater in his life time - an ageing hippie type with a top knot and bushy ginger beard. And of course the requisite surfer dude accent (I'm hoping this wasn't just put on to fulfil my fantasy). We were immediately offered drinks - a fair choice of beers, cider, wine and soft drinks which I was more than happy with, having expected it just to be beer, and I still can't get over the fact that beer tastes like wee.

On to what I'm sure the bit you're all waiting for: The Food. I had been prepared not to be able to eat anything due to my fries and red meat aversion, so was pleasently surprised to be offered a turkey burger alternative, as well as the choice of both sweet potato and crinkly fries.

For the meat eaters at the table, a plate of "skaters" arrived: mini burgers with a choice of spicy tomato or tarragon dressing. I personally think skaters are a fab idea and a unique selling point: they go with the fun, laid back attitude of Guerilla Burgers, as well making the experience very interactive. The crinkly fries arrived, fat and piping hot, and I was assured by all that both they and the burgers were "eeexcellent" (said in Bill and Ted voice).

Obviously, I can't vouch for these, but what I can tell you about is the turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. Served in a little metal dish, the burger meat was juicy and tender, and I loved the seeded-ness of the bun (I'm sure that makes it healthier, right?). But oh my goodness, the sweet potato fries! I think they were on our table for about 5 seconds before the table devoured the entire bowl and begged Surfer-Waiter for seconds. They were un-greasy, well salted and thick, with just the right amount of crunchiness to them. Just thinking about them is making me hungry, which is surprising, as I've just had breakfast. The salad that came with the burgers didn't go down as well as the others, possibly due to the conncotion of ingredients: beetroot, tangerine, apple and walnuts seemed an odd combo. If we were paying, I probably would have sent it back, but then I probably wouldn't have ordered it in the first place, so no harm no foul.

The whole experience was fun: we definitely outstayed our welcome and were in danger of eating them out of house and kitchen, as we kept ordering more food until we were gently and politely told by Mr Surfer that it wouldn't be fair to the other customers if they gave us more than anyone else.

The best thing about Guerilla Burgers, aside from the food, is its strong brand identity, which is full-on without becoming gimmicky. Everything fits from the menu to the decor to the music, which is so important in a market so saturated with mundanity. The one comment I would say is that not all of us were big fans of the "House Rules":

Obviously just a bit of fun, but one friend pointed out that it's not great to have negatives like this on a menu.

Having said that, we left feeling sated and happy, with the definite promise to come again to try their whole menu, and this, I can safely say, makes Guerilla Burgers a success in my books. Maybe now I'll be a burger convert...

Run Rabbit, Run Rabbit, run run run...

So, for the last week I have been running for a film company. Probably one of my least favourite jobs. And when I say "job" a place I turn up to from 10 - 6, for which I am given travel and lunch expenses.

See, media companies are very savvy, especially in "these credit crunched times" (I had to get that expression in somewhere, it's like a global tick, along with "the state of the economy"). What they have realised, is that (a) young people need a way into the industry, (b) if they are told that the only way to get this "in" is by schleping around and doing the jobs no one else will do, they are happy to this for no money. Factor (c) is that these companies like to waste as little time and money as possible, and so a runner is a cost-effective way of having someone for free to post letters / get their lunches / wipe their arses.

I find the Indian expression "Chai wallah" a succinct sumation of this role. It means "tea-bringer." See The Ancient Art of Tea Making.

Runners, like their Olympic equivalents, must be in peak physical condition: a lazy runner is an oxymoron. So, here are my top tips for runner success (cue theme tune from Rocky):

1. Always have breakfast

This may be the only meal of the day you have until you collapse, quivering, back home. Runners don't get lunch-breaks. They are too busy getting everyone else's lunch. So in case it's one of those days where it's 4 o'clock before you get the chance to sit down, it's important to prepare yourself properly for the day.

It's an old adage, but my personal choice is always porridge: so stodgy that it is sure to coat your stomach and prevent any rumbling tummies. And tea. Good to get the caffeine in early, and plus by the end of the day you will have made so many cups of the stuff you'll be sick of the sight of it.

2. Vitamins

Along with breakfast, I like to start the day with a potent cocktail of Reddoxon Vitamin C and Berocca. It makes your pee bright orange, which I think makes you part super hero. If that's not enough, I like to chomp my way through a packet of Lucozade or Dextro tablets. If you don't like the feeling of you heart beating so fast you think it'll pull an Alien, I find Red Kooga a more gentle solution. However, if this is the case, I would like to add that you are a pussy, and should probably just quit while you're ahead. And no, I am not being endorsed by Boots, they just happen to stock all the good shit.

3. Weight Training

Yes, you may laugh, especially if you know that I am particularly small for my age (i.e. an adult), but I like to think that I have guns of steel (the operative words here being, "I like to think"). You will be asked to carry things you have never considered carrying in your life. I was once asked to carry a television from the depths of Holborn to Covent Garden; at the time I had to decline, knowing that even I didn't have the upper body strength to do this, but if I had upped the weight training, I could have totally done it (she says, looking in optimistic hindsight). If you don't have time to go to the gym, here's my solution: at some point in the day, you will be burdened with a load of plastic bags, filled with goodies for the execs: use these to your advantage, my friend. Simply places the handles across your hands, palms facing down, bags towards the floor, and there you have it, an instant biceps crucnch. And lift, and down, and lift, and down. People may look at you funny, but hey, you're serving a higher purpose.

4. A Fully Charged Ipod

It goes with the territory (and the name), that as a runner you will spend a large part of your day walking around. This can get boring. The music helps. Plus, if you put on some loud, obnoxious music you can (a) drown out the pain of your feet, (b) walk faster and get the job done quickly (c) pretend you're in the movie of your life, and this is your soundtrack. At least that's what I do.

5. Clothing

Dress in layers. You know that feeling when you've been wrapped up against the cold, and then you get inside and the frostbite suddenly makes you feel like it's a hundred degrees? You're going to get that a lot. Dressing in layers can alleviate this problem. I always like to wear a t-shirt or top of some variety (or dress, I do like dresses) with a thin layer like a cardigan for inside, but always have a hoodie to put on under my coat when going on a run. If it's cold, a scarf and some kind of hat can help, and plus if it suddenly starts snowing (no joke with the weather at the moment), more of your body is protected. Ditto for gloves, and plus they shield you from the cutting pain of plastic bags. And girls, don't bother with nail polish, your nails will be a mess by mid-week, either from the endless washing up, or from the habit you will develop of biting them down to the nail-bed with nervous energy (see Vitamins)

I hope some of this helps any potential breakers-into-the-industry. If this puts you off, I'd say don't do it: the only way to get through being a runner is to keep your head down, rise above, and look forward to that glorious day when you have your very own runners to feed and water you.

Only joking. I will never do that.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Internships wouldn't be internships without the good, the bad and the ugly of experiences. You know the ones: the good normally involve something free, or a positive comment on your work, the ugly leave you feeling demoralised, angry at the world and sometimes just a little bit dirty.

Okay, maybe not Christian Bale angry, but then, who is?

I have had my share of the good: I have worked in some lovely places, and, working within the industry I do, have been priveleged to attend press screenings, press nights, see fantastic shows, read some amazing scripts, and even get the occassional free DVD.

But there have also been times that I haven't enjoyed so much.

Top of my list comes the "Mango Medley Drama," experienced when I was in the mere salad days of unpaid emplyment, with work experience in a film production company.

The call came through to the runners' office at about lunch-time: "Un-named Executive Producer's" son is in hospital, and Un-named E.P. would like someone to go out and retrieve mango related products as a get-well present for him.

Yes that's right, I said "mango related products."

Why, exactly, it had to be mango I never learned, but the next thing I knew I was shipped off down Oxford Street with a wad of cash in my pocket, and a list of such natural candy as "mango juice," "dried mango," "diced mango," and of course that old favourite: whole mango.

There was one frightening moment when I returned with the wrong kind of mango juice: who knew there even WAS more than one kind of mango juice? Suffice it to say, I had to turn right around and get the right type of mango juice. It was Rubicon, if you're wondering.

Actually, screw the mango mania, at the top of my list has got to come the entire month I spent interning on an online fashion magazine/online directory/bitch fest. Now I am trying my best to be subtle here, so let's say it goes by the name of "beersuks.com."

I'm sure you can picture the place: run out of an office in the glamorous world of fulham, right next door to a swanky club. The actual office was until recently Moon Pig Headquarters. Yes that's right, the pig in the space mask. Hilarious. 

The office was a lesson in Sloaney hierachy. At the top, there was the editor-in-chief, a perpetually bronzed and blonde rake with a double-barrelled surname and an actual dog that she would bring into the office. Now I love dogs, I even have two of my own, but I personally think it was just cruel to make it sit there all day whilst she lounged at her desk, contemplating the last time she ate carbs. Plus the bloody thing yapped like a trooper every time a leaf fell outside.

Vacuous Editor once wrote a blog about having her house decorated, on which was featured a picture of her new bed, complete with three initialed pillows: one for her, one for her husband...and one for her dog.

Excuse me while I throw up.

Oh, and talking of her husband! Mr Vacuous Husband was so sidelined his marriage that his wife refused to take his name over own magnanimous double-barralled one. Can you imagine the conversation? "Darling, will you marry me?" "Why of course, but mind I shan't be taking your surname - why settle for one surname when you could have two? Plus mine has a hyphen."

To add insult to injury, Vacuous Husband was then forced to brandish his inferiority by being referred to forevermore by just his surname, cutesied up by the addition of a "y". "Oh look at you with your silly single barrelled name, aren't you a lamb?"

And this was just the editor. Next in line there was Underwench, a woman I am sure was perenially on her period, and wore a pained expression which could only be described as constipated. My theory is that Underwench was perpetually aware of her "second in command" status, the pain of which she alleviated by become a mini-dictator to anyone she was actually superior to. The best was when she went into an absolute skitz about trying to get the "christmas gift guide" finished faster, using the phrase "Last year I managed to do the whole thing all by my self " more times than was necessary. Well, it probably wasn't very good, was it? She also performed the Classic Sloaney Eyeroll everyone time she was asked a question by one of her slaves  interns. Or maybe she was just gassy.

Surrounding them was "Older Pregnant Brunette" who talked about such exciting things as the Farrow&Ball catalogue (the expression "watching pain dry" fits aptly) and who must have realised that she was the only staff member who wasn't young and blonde. Her own personal underling was Ultimate Skinny Ditz, a girl who was so blonde and vacuous I feared that if she went near something sharp her empty head would pop. The poor girl was suffering her own personal crisis whilst I was there: which type of Abercrombie jeans should she buy? I hear she's still deciding...

One of my two saving graces were Writer Girl, giving this eponymous nickname because she was the only member of staff who actually knew how to form a sentence, and consequently seemed to be the only one who actual did any of the writing. Wait a minute, wasn't this an online magazine, you ask? Yup, that's what I thought too. Saving Grace 2 was Other Intern, who started middway through my placement, and thankfully made me realise that the world hadn't been taken over by an arm of aliens masquerading as Sloaney Fembots.

Or maybe it has, and they found out that Other Intern was one of the few surviving humans left (they were obviously going to anal probe me at the end of the placement) I say this because at the end of her second week, they rang her after she left to say that they "needed to hire temps to finish the xmas work," so could she not come back, thank you please. Hmm, really, or are you worried that she'll leak your fembot mind tricks to the world?

Bearing in mind that they treated both Other Intern and I like crap, I don't think she was too non-plussed about leaving, especially when most of what we were doing was writing the html codes for silver engraved hip-flasks cum bookends, coffee makers slash hair dryers and a host of other things every Sloane needs.

For once, I'm thankful it was just an internship. 

The Ancient Art of Tea Making

Not to be confused with the Japanese Art of Tea Ceremony, the Ancient Art of Tea Making is a highly ritualistic and political act, practised by interns and their bosses the world over.

Fact: It's never really about the tea.

Because, come on, practically anybody can make tea: it only has a maximum of 4 ingredients, one of which is hot water. No no my friend, when an intern is asked to make tea, they are engaging themselves in the far more subtle scenario that I like to refer to as "Power vs. Pleb"

Picture the scene: you've just come in from running an errand; in one hand you're holding the sack of bananas the boss has requested, and in the other an errant budgeriegard you've been requested to catch by an exec. It's been raining and so you're slightly damp, sporting "yanked through a hedge" chic. You finally sit down and beginning peeling the bananas and cutting them into bite-sized chunks as per request, when your supervisor turns to you and asks in a sickeningly sweet voice "Would you mind putting the kettle on, love?"

Why? Because they can.

Asking you to make tea reasserts the fact that, in the office chain of command, you are under their control. It reassures them that the work they are doing is so vital that only a cup of tea can save them, despite the fact that they are far too busy to make one for themselves. I mean, how necessary is a cup of tea that you can't find the time to switch the kettle on yourself?

Note that it is invariably the lower orders who make this request: usually the execs either have their own, specially hired "tea-making assistant," who's other duties including creating a human table on which to sign documents and checking their facebook, or are far enough removed from the power struggle not to waste their time quashing you.

Of course, it is perfectly acceptable to be asked to make tea for visitors, or meetings. These people are outsiders, you must create a good impression, and wouldn't it be awful to discover that they are one of the few people who actually don't know how to make tea?

Besides, how would they know where the kitchen is?

Likewise, if you're making tea for yourself, it looks pretty selfish not to at least offer to make a cup for those nearby and may even score you points within the office (I hear if you get 10 you actually get paid...or maybe just a gold star). Especially if you like the people you work with, offering a cup of tea is as much a sign of camaraderie as it is an acknowledgement that "jolly ho, we're British and always fancy a cuppa." Indeed, I worked with such wonderful people at the last development internship I did that I was always happy to make the mug, if not just to demonstrate how much I appreciated my position.

Being told to make tea is of course a very different kettle of fish from offering to do so, but either way the necessity to do so will probably come up at some point on a work placement, so I'm afraid the best thing to do is just grin and bear it, looking foward to the time when you will make it to the coveted position of "tea requestor."

Until that time, here are my three top tips for tea-making success:

1. Offer around to make tea as often as possible.

Firstly, as previously mentioned, you get far more kudos for offering to make tea: you appear kind, generous, and understanding of the fact that people in the work place need tea more than you previously thought possible. Even if you're actually a cold-hearted bitch, you can at least fool them with this simple trick.

2. When making large quantities of tea, go against the Debrett's School of Etiquette and go for Milk In First (otherwise known as being a MIF in polite tea-drinking circles)

This is for the simple, practical reason that it saves time. By putting milk in last, you have to wait for the kettle to boil, twiddling your thumbs and possibly engaging in awkward "ah yes, this kitchen is a bit small" banter with other coworkers. BUT if you put the milk in while the kettle is boiling, you are active whilst the kettle is boiling, plus saving the time you would have to spend adding the milk afterwards.

N.B. of course, if your work is really dull, you may want to waste time, in which case ingore my advice. Indeed, for maximum time-wasting, I recommending ignoring tip 2 and fulfilling tip 1 to the maximum: that way you may also get to use up supplies, thus gaining the added bonus of having to run to the shop to stock up.

3. Don't spit.

Ok do, a little. NO WAIT DON'T. I agree, when frustration reaches boiling point, just a tiny little spittle in the mug of that assistant you can't stand, or the manager who's just a little chippy can momentarily provide a wave of satisfaction. But take a look at yourself: what have you become? By turning into a spit-monster, you are merely reducing yourself to the level the you are always suspected to be by those in actual employment. Rise above it, my friend, and become the best damned tea-maker the world has ever known!

Happy drinking...!

 

What do you do with a BA in English?

Avenue Q got it so right. An English degree: simultaneously met with approval from parents, and complete frustration by a graduate. Law students, Medics, Archeology and Anthropology - even History of Art - all these degrees seem to have some end to them, leaving the English students behind as the ones scratching their heads in befuddlement and anxiously poring over the university careers website in the hope that they will discover The Perfect Career.

Some of us, like my best friend Livvy, have sensibily defected: she now resides at City Law School, and despite having minor heart attacks at the thought of actually having to go to lectures now, she is safe in the knowledge that she has an actual career at the end of it.

Others of us, like my dear boyfriend, have remained cosetted within the institutional walls doing an MA, but is still no closer to really knowing what he wants to do, apart from announcing hare-brained schemes on a regular basis, like "I think I'm going to go to Hong Kong for a year." He's gone from lawyer to academic to adveritising to lawyer to management consultancy. At the moment he's back to law. Next week, it could be fireman.

My other best friend, Daisy, has a job. Daisy is a lucky bitch.

And then there's me. Having decided (after work experience, aged 16, sorting out reality tv contestant's dirty underwear on Fame Academy) that I wanted to work in TV, Film,and theatre, I have set about whoring myself out to the business, and despite a brief stint interning at an online fashion magazine (the horrors of which still give me nightmares - more on that to come), this has (largely) been my result:

1. Reality TV work experience

2. Theatre work experience

3. Film Distribution work experience (this actually lasted about 2 days - explanations later)

4. Film Production work experience

5. Film Production Internship

6. Film Development Internship (in New York - cash back)

7. Publishing work experience (this was even worse - I lasted 1 day)

8. Online Fashion Magazine (oh god, the Sloaney horrors)

9. Film Development Internship (take 2)

10. Arts Administration Internship (In a theatre)

That's 10 different companies. 10 places that I have franked, couriered, done the mail, answered the phone, photocopied and made tea. The list almost looks like a perverted version of "A Partridge in a Pear Tree"...possibly titled "A Fuck Lot to Fill a CV."

But do I have a job? Do I heck.