Employment Opportunities

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have discovered a new vein of employment: “The Assistant Internship”

I have seen such positions crop up for a while now, most recently in the latest Arts Hub* newsletter, which advertised:

Research Assistant Internship
We are looking for a bright and enthusiastic individual to work at an exciting innovative media company for a 10 week 'research assistant' internship.

Project and Administrative Assistant - Internship
*** are recruiting for a Project and Administrative Assistant to join our small and busy team in South West London.

Now, surely, surely someone must realise the stonking great oxymoron staring them in the face?

Assistant, n:
1. someone who receives Actual Money
2. someone with privileges such as a desk, a working computer, holiday time, a name (other than “you”)
3. someone who is not kicked out of a company at the end of a set period

Intern, n:
None of the above.

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?

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.

“Assistant Internship”? What the hell does that even mean?

Well, I know what it means.

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”

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.”

What’s next? “Doctor – Internship”? “Prime Minister – Internship”? Is “Internship” just going to become a byword for “p.s. we pay you jack shit”?

I shudder to think on it.

*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.

It Sucker Punch-ed

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.

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.

I haven’t yet been forgiven for this. Sucker Punch, quite frankly, Sucked.

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:

FADE IN: A slightly murky looking American landscape with vaguely 1930’s overtones.

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.

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.

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.

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

EVIL HEAD DOCTOR greets Step Father and demands money from him in exchange for Browning’s eternal incarceration.

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.

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?

Teenage boy in the audience has a furtive wank in the back row, which totally justifies Synder’s claim that…oh, never mind…

HEAD EVIL DOCTOR: And now, I will give you a lobotomy, so that you are as mindless as the rest of this movie.

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.”

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.

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.

Kung Fu Panda has a furtive wank in the corner.

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 EVIL HEAD DOCTOR. They do some sexy dancing, taught to them by FOREIGN MATERNAL DOCTOR, who wants to look after them. There she meets SWEETPEA, ROCKET, AMBER and BLONDIE.

Teenage Boy swiftly leafs through his back issues of NUTS, to see if they've done any topless press.

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.

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.

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.

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?

ZACH SNYDER: Shut up and show some more leg, slut. In a totally empowered way.

He whips them all. Charlie Sheen wanders on set and mistakes Emily Browning for one of his Goddesses. He wanks furtively in a corner.

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.

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.

Teenage boys, Kung Fu Panda and Charlie Sheen suddenly feel guilty.

A Tory-d Affair

So, the Tories have been auctioning off internships...

I say: let 'em.

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?

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.
Neither does doing ten internships.

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.

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.

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.

Hate the game, not the players, people.

Always an Intern. Out.

Mash-Ups

I feel that I have been working in "Media" for a relatively long time now.

Apologies, that should have read "Working" in Media.

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.

The way I see it, TV is already scraping the bottom of the barrel (see My Monkey Baby), 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.

If there are any TV producers out there reading this, here are a few ideas to get the ball rolling:

Strictly Come Dine With Me On Ice

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.

The winner gets some money. And potentially an injury.

Glee-Stenders

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.

Super Sweet Sixteen and Pregnant

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…

Mock The Weakest Link

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.

Come on producers - these ideas don't just think themselves up - you want me on board, right?

Right?

I'm Back, Baby.

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.

BUT I'M BACK.

You missed me, right?

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:

Tea's Maid

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.

Vacuum Cleaner

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.

Human File Binder

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)

Intern-a-desk

Always misplacing your pens? Losing your papers? Is your chair never at a comfortable height for your deask?

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.

Know anyone requiring any of these pictures? Send them my direction - I'm back, baby.

Will work for money.

Last week I was on LBC talking to Jeni Barnett about growing awareness over the unfairness (and possible illegality) of unpaid internships.

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.

Anyone wishing to hear the show can download it here:
http://lbc.audioagain.com/
(although you have to pay to sign up, and I'm sure no-one is that eager to hear me wittering on...)

And yes, the podcast is entitled

"Charlotte Church talks about her new single 15th Sept"

Me and Charlotte. On the same show. Best buds.

Looks like I'm moving up in the world. 

Things That Ruin My Day 2: Phone Numbers

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.

I know - I live a riveting life.

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.

Let's take the humble London office number as a starting point:

Eleven digits. I.e. 02071234567

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.

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?

is it 020 7123 4567?

is it 0207 123 4567?

0207 1234567?

and don't get me started on the +44, 0044 or +44 (0).

No one is consistent and it makes me very, very upset.

Especially as I suspect I have discalculia.

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.

Is that asking so much?

Things That Ruin My Day 1

Apologies for the lack of recent posts - I have been away, recuperating before yet another cycle of internships (as there undoubtedly will be...).

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."

Enjoy...

1. Buffering

As a Highly Important Intern, I have the Highly Important Task of watching Highly Important Trailers.

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

*buffering*

A trailer lasts, what, 2 minutes? 3 at the most? 

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?

The annoying thing is that it inevitably looks like it's my fault:

"Intern, have you watched that trailer yet?"

[me, cursing at the screen as the percentage buffering sign increases millisecond by minuscule millisecond] "Trying to..." [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]

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.

But then it's always our fault.

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..."

I am only an intern after all, what would I need with a computer that works...

Sing When You're Winning

Places Where it is Acceptable to Sing Out Loud

1. Church

Or anywhere you happen to be holding a hymn book (see weddings, bar mitzvahs and school assemblies). If the spirit moves you...

2. In Your Car

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.

3. The Shower

Think of it as your own private Wembley Arena. One in which the sound of running water drowns out the actual noise emitted.

4. A Concert

Especially if whilst singing you are brandishing an oversized poster made at home using 6 sheets of A4 and a packet of glitter glue. Especially 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.

Places Where it is Not Acceptable to Sing Out Loud

1. The Theatre

Ok, good for you, person third row down from me at Dirty Dancing (guilty pleasure, don't judge). I'm really pleased that this was your favourite movie when you were a kid, and that you, like, totally had a thing for Patrick Swayzee (RIP). That does not give you permission to catarwhaul along. That's what the actors are for.

2. On the Pavement, Swinging the Arm of a Friend Whilst Skipping Simultaneously

Come on girls, you know you're guilty of this. It's not cute. You're in my way.

3. On The Tube

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.

4. In The Office

There is someone in my office who has taken it upon themselves to sing 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 and they alone are responsible for our lyrical salvation.

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, Les Miserables.


Shudder


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.


Nowhere is safe.

I don't know what this person expects us to do about their singing. Should we applaud them? Cry for an encore? Join in?


As a lowly intern, I am not in a position to react as I would ideally like: namely to shout, loudly and clearly, "WILL YOU KINDLY SHUT THE FUCK UP?" before re-acquanting them with the occasions it is and isn't acceptable to sing out loud.


So instead I have stilled my irritation by sharing it with you.


Enjoy.

Starbucks: The Sequel

It's official ladies and gentlemen: I'm a Starbucks VIP.

How do I know this?

I was queue-jumped. Twice.

Hell. Yeah.

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.

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.

He's wrong - I have ample amounts of both - but do you think I'm going to stop him?.

I may not have a job, but at least, in Starbucks, I'm a Somebody.

Isn't It Ironic?

Rule Number One about getting a job:

Don't write a blog about your potential employers.

Now, if only some had told me that before...

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.

Ah.

Yes, yes, yes, I know what you're going to say: "be careful what you write on the internet, it'll come back to haunt you": 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.

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.

But fate had other ideas.

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.

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."

Elder Brother, the Voice of Wisdom, has gone for the more succinct, "Fuck It."

And I think I will plum for somewhere in between.

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.

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.

I wait this day with bated breath...if not perhaps with my tail between my legs...

Bully Two Shoes

"Intern...I think I'm an office bully."

These words were said to me by a friend of mine who actually has a job...and look what has happened to them...

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: The Office Bully. 

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."

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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...". 

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.

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. 

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. 

So what does the lowly intern do, when faced with such sickly-sweet but obviously cutting remarks? 

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.

And then you can steal their job.

Consequences

Do you think TV producers play Consequences to create new shows?

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?

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.

But I digress.

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.

Picture the scene:

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...

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.

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.

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.

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:

My

Monkey

Baby

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.

What has this got to do with interning? Not a lot. But think about it: My. Monkey. Baby.

And these are the people who actually have a job...

NB: My Monkey Baby is an actual TV show. No kidding. Channel 4 if you please

No Monkey Babies were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

It's The Small Things

When you're an intern, surviving the daily grind of photocopying and phone-answering, there are few things in life to get excited about.

Which is why I like to look at the small things to brighten my day.

And today, that small thing is the Starbucks in Soho Sqaure.

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 like 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 like 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: I like Starbucks.

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.

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.

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 regular."

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 remembered. I'm somebody.

And that is what has made my day. A barrista in Starbucks remembering an order that isn't even for me.

Wow, I really need to get a job. 

To Lunch, or Not to Lunch

Ok, I'm not going to lie: I like my lunch break.

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.

I also like meeting up with Daisy and hypothesising what our friend's weddings will be like. 

We do this on a surprisingly regular basis.

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.

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 unthinkable 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.

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.

But I digress.

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.

But where does the lowly intern fit in to that picture?

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.

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?

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?

It's all about appearing inconspicuous, right?

I don't really know where I'm going with this - what do other interns think? To lunch, or not to lunch?

I shall ponder this on my walk to Pret. It's 1 o'clock after all, and I'm starving...

Reader, I Did His Expenses

Once 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 person, rather than just than chameleon-like being who changes appearences every month and is there to clean the kitchen.

As you may be able to tell, I started a new internship today, and the result is just...ah!

Words do not suffice.

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.

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.

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.

But in the meantime, I feel that all is right in the world.

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.

I am greeted each morning by the twinkling chatter of box office ratings and potential castings.

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.

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.

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.

I don't think I've ever been in an environment where I've heard the words "please" and "thank you" so much.

It's like being back in primary school.

And when one of the bosses asked me to pop to Starbucks for him, he even asked me if I wanted one too.

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?"

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.

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.

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. Not this."

Um...maybe you could try...I don't know...getting your own  lunch, if you must be so picky?

Many, many light years away from the Debretts Etiquette of New Internship.

And so, for the moment, I am happily toiling away in film-geekdome, still unpaid but less despairing to be so.

For the moment, that is.

So Long, Farewell...

I am in a nostalgic mood today.

Yesterday was my last day at yet another internship, and I found myself leaving it with a strange mix of pleasure and disquiet.

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.

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.

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.

It is almost easy to fool yourself into thinking you actually work 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.

It's rather like that point in a relationship when it's ok to start leaving your Nivea face wipes in the bathroom.

And then suddenly, that's it. It's over. You are ousted from your seat and thrown out with the recycled paper.

And no matter how much you convince yourself that "this one was special," "this time it was different," in reality come Monday morning some other tart will be sitting in your desk and using your Nivea face wipes.

Or something.

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.

You think you have it made - "hey, these guys are my friends! We like each other! We have a Connection!"

But in actual fact you end the internship and really, what have you got?

Of course there are the cheerful promises to Keep In Touch. "Do write and let us know what you're doing!"

But come, isn't it just a bit weird to be sending bi-monthly updates?

[Cue overly-keen voice]

"Hey guys. How's it going? Watcha up to?"

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 you are not really friends with these people. You are just one link in a long chain of people who make up the job title known as Intern.

But still.

Sigh.

They gave me a card.

A card.

I've never been given a card from an internship before...

I shall clutch it to my breast, and remember the good times...

An Open Letter To Employers

Dear Various Employers Who Have Recently Contacted Me,

No, thank you very much, I would not like to come in for interview for an internship.

If you recall, in my previous email, I quite clearly and legibly stated that I am looking for graduate and/or entry level positions.

Do you see the word "internship" anywhere in that phrase?

No, neither do I.

Now, maybe there has been a misunderstanding.

Maybe in these recent times, the word "graduate" immediately suggests to you "desperate young person willing to work for no pay."

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.

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.

It is rather like opening a box of Laduree macaroons to find that they have been replaced with KFC popcorn chicken.

Greasy, and smelling slightly of cheap labour.

Find someone else to make your tea.

Best,
Intern

I've been asked to take place in a case study about graduates and the impossibility of finding permanent jobs.

I'm being paid £50's worth of vouchers and a bottle of champagne.

Being paid to talk about not being paid?

What a funny old world we live in...

Ooh, It's Temp-ting

Did I mention that I'm an intern?

Oh right, you got that.
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.

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.

The first few times this occured, I found loads 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.

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.

And I started a new, healthy relationship: Temping.

Temping, I have discovered, is a Purgatory-esque land in between a permanent job and an internship.

The obviously benefit is that, shock horror, you're actually being paid. My, was I proud the first time I received the payment receipt - "you mean...I do work, and people give me money? What is this promised land?"

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 assume that you should know everyone off the bat.

"Intern (or, sorry, 'Temp'), could you pass this on to James please?"

"SURE!" [Bright smile.] "And he would be...?"

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...

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.

Sure, great, I can handle this - plonk some biscuits here, chuck some tea bags in there, and voila! I'm a temping mastermind.

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 office 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.

It's all about the process of elimination, right?

There were three meeting rooms.

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.

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.

Seriously, try it. It's temp-ting.