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

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.

This Is Just To Say

I have spat
in the tea
which you asked me
to make

and which
you were probably
expecting
by now

Forgive me
it was delightful
so hot
and so tempting

Question...

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.

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.

Now what I don't get is

What are they recruiting for?

How do we need that many recruiters?

Do they know there are no jobs?

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?

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?

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.

I'm sorry, but that is just ridonculous.

I have these visions of a recruitment office slowly become more and more crowded with employees until they start bursting out of the windows.

Imagine Lemmings, but replace the sea with an office. You get the picture.

And do you think they just sit there twiddling their thumbs on a monday morning going, "well now what?" "Um, hire more recruiters?"

It's really nice that they have such a "more the merry" attitude, but perhaps they aught to start broadening their horizons, non?

Cover Letters (Part 2)

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.

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.

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.”

FACT: The former makes you look sterile and devoid of personality. The latter just makes you look mental.

FACT NUMBER TWO: The elephant in the room is that everyone *knows* 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.

I was at an interview yesterday and mentioned that I was interning at another company. They asked how I’d managed to get it.

“Um, because I spent about 5 consecutive hours on Tuesday working through a list of companies, of which you were one?”

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.

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.

DISCLAIMER: 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)...

Or may that’s just me…

1. SPELL THE NAME OF THE COMPANY CORRECTLY.

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.

2. Make sure that the right cover letter is sent to the right company.

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?”

3. Don't forget to ATTACH YOUR CV

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.

Don't. Do. it.

4. No-one wants to hear your life story.

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.

5. But at the same time, make it personal.

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, DON’T PUT KISSES. These people aren't your friends. And they never will be now.

And finally:

6. Create a template

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.

Only four more to go!

Cover Letters (Part 1)

Delete As Applicable

Dear Insert Casual First Name Here  of Person I Badgered On Phone For Email Address / Human Resources Person at The Company I Google Searched

I graduated recently / far longer ago than I would like from Impressive High Tier University / (that I’m inserting here so that you’ll at least read the rest of my email) and am interested in hearing about your graduate opportunities and work placements / still don’t have a job but hope that I’ll get a reply if I at least mention working unpaid.

Since graduating, I have been gaining experience in the film, theatre and advertising industries / making tea throughout London, and now feel ready to take up the challenges of a more permanent position / can’t look my un-employed self in the face any longer.

My work experience has taught me invaluable time management skills / how to use my alarm, and I have built up a wealth of administration abilities / spent the last six months welded to the photocopier; skills which I feel would be beneficial to a position within your company / any idiot could do. I am comfortable using Word and Excel / not a retard, and have excellent written and oral communication skills / can spell and string a sentence together.

I feel I would be suited to a position within your company because I really value the ethos you uphold / you’re the last one on my list. I admired your work on (insert name of project) / Found the name of something I had vaguely heard of on your website and feel I could talk about it in an interview, and would value the opportunity to work for such a successful company / am running out of companies to email.

Please find my CV attached / don’t delete this email, and I look forward to hearing from you soon / will be checking my email / blackberry / Itouch every 5 minutes for the next 7 days.

All the best,

Intern

Extra! Extra!

What job involves sitting on your tuchus most of the day apart from the occasional walk back-and-forth, includes free meals and pays you 90 quid to boot?

That’s right people, I’ve become an Extra.

And when you read the specs you think, “Hey, why don’t I do this everyday?”

10 hours of doing nothing seems waaaay longer than that:

5:30 am: Wake up. Put clothes on inside out. Correct.

5:40 am: One word: Coffee.

6:30 am: Arrive on set. Shudder at smell of fried breakfast. Coffee.

7:30 am: Find inner peace. Get bored. Remember to take up knitting.

8:30 am: Get driven to “location” conveniently next to a MacDonald’s, which shall be our holding bay.

8:45 am: Extras are given a stash of money to do with what they wish. Porridge anyone?

9:00 am: Begin talking to other extras, including a batty old polish lady sporting a leopard print hat.

9:15 am: Conversation wanes. Coffee.

10:30 am: Strike up conversation with Australian runner. Gives me his hand-warmer. Score.

11:00 am: Mmm...book?

12:00 pm: First requirement of the job: Walk across the street.

12:05 pm: Reset.

12:10 pm: Walk across the street.

12:15 – 1:00 pm: Lather, rinse, repeat.

1:00 pm: Return to set for lunch.

1:30 pm: Lunch technically finished. No requirements. Mmm...sleep?

2:00 pm: Now where was that book...

3:00 pm: Sigh. Find phone. Check for wireless signal. Hmph.

4:00 pm: Get driven to a different location. Stand by roadside waiting for cue.

4:45 pm: False alarm. Return to set.

5:00 pm: Tea time.

5:30 pm: A mention we may be done for the day. Sit eagerly waiting by window.

6:30 pm: Free at last! And with overtime to prove it. Now, if only the extras agency didn’t take £70 out of your first fee...

Ah yes, so not exactly 90 quid this time round, but at least this time it was tea-drinking, rather than tea-making, that was at the forefront of my agenda.

Sigh...I’m practically a lady of leisure...

Ladies and gentlemen,

Please excuse the recent hiatus of blog posts - I have been in San Diego, where The Boy has been doing research for his dissertation.

Things I have learned from my trip:

1. There is nothing to do in San Diego
2. You can definitely eat too much Mexican food
3. Sun burn is a bitch.

New post soon!

TV Drama: The intern revolts

"We need you to pick up a tv and carry it back to the office."

"I'm sorry, a what now?"

"A television. We need one. To furnish a flat. For the actors."

"Er...would that be a big one?"

[Hands motioning]

"Um, I'm not being funny, but that's bigger than I am."

...

"So that's a 'no' then?"

Can I Have The Receipt, Please?

Last week I was getting lunch in Leon’s when I saw a familiar sight.

A boy was standing at the counter, slightly out of breath, frantically rustling through different pieces of paper and calling out a long and complicated order, punctuated with that tell-tell phrase:

“Can I have the receipt please?”

My ‘tern-dar was instantly on alert: he was definitely one of us.

Asking for the receipt is an all-too-familiar request for interns. Hey, don’t mock it: compared to vacuuming floors and getting lunches, it’s one of the most taxing jobs you’ll do.

Receipts are, after all, an integral part of the work place: they make sure that the company is billed for all the little luxuries that employees are unwilling to pay for themselves (lunch at the Ivy: expense it! ; Packet of Marlboros: work stress, expense it!), and specifically in a film company ensure that the right project is made to fork out for the right exec.

Also, it proves that the intern hasn’t been embezzling the sandwich fund to pay their rent.

You’ll soon notice the familiar chant when sent on your merry way to Tesco’s: “Don’t forget the receipt”, either simply barked at your retreating back by one of the ‘high-ups,’ or murmured by an assistant, trembling slightly at the memory of when they, too, were and intern and had mixed up Mr Producer’s M&S receipt for their own one for Vagisil.

Now, I have to admit that I am not great at keeping my own receipts in order, let alone having to deal with ones for a whole company. I am also notoriously bad at maths, to the point of which the Boyf has labelled me ‘numerically dyslexic.’

Imagine my perturbation, dear readers, when the battle cry goes out. My palms start to sweat, my heart races, I can’t tell my right from my left: whose receipt is who? Is that my five pence or theirs? I forgot the biscuits!

Thus, I have come up with this simple solution, and you will be pleased to learn that all you need is an envelope and sharpie: easy enough to come by in any humble stationery cupboard.

1. Take Sharpie.

2. Write on hand: DO NOT FORGET THE RECEIPT.

3. Take Envelope.

4. Place petty cash in envelope.

5. Go to shop. Collect mango/tea bags/the account director’s itch cream.

6. Hand over petty cash.

7. Glance at hand with cash in – WAIT A MINUTE –

8. See writing on hand - “Can I have the receipt with that please?”

9. Deposit the winning ticket and change into envelope, specially secured to hold all cash separate from own wallet along with correct receipt.

10. Return to office, delicately sweating and safe in the knowledge that cash and receipt are snug in their envelope.

11. Make tea.

See? Simple. Any unpaid idiot could do it.

Oh wait...

It's a Jungle Out There

Well, it's official. I'm not alone. As the article in today's Daily Mail demonstrates, the (often) poor and unregulated conditions of interships are affecting graduates up and down the country.

I was fascinated to discover Interns Anonymous from this article: a website created by two graduates which is hoping to bring to light graduates' stories of the internship market.

As the Daily Mail article points out, the moment an intern is asked to do any sort of "work" they should officially be paid minumum wage. The problem is, "internships" seem to fall into this no-man's land where it's somehow ok to expect intelligent, hard working graduates to swallow their pride and spend 8 hours a day photocopying and making tea, and all for no pay.

I called a company I worked for as an undergraduate to ask if they had any work. The guy I spoke to told me that he had had to fire his assistant, so he was relying on his intern, i.e. the intern was doing the same duties as his assistant, but without being paid.

As I have said in past posts, employers are in a very jammy position: slap the euphemistic term "internship" onto a job, and suddenly they get a host of applicants who are willing/forced to take up the post as a way into the industry, without having to pay them.

And with another wave of graduates who are going to be seeking employment in just a few months, the government really needs to step up and sort this out. It's a jungle out there.

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...

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.

Always an Itern...

...Never a boss.

Well, I have officially been a graduate for nearly six months. I was be-gowned, photographed, handed a piece of paper verifying that, yes, I did manage to spend 3 more years in education, and wished on my merry way by supervisors, directors of study and professors whose lectures I rarely turned up to.

Now what.

After a decadent Summer sunning myself on the Tuscan coast and holding my boyfriend's hand through food poisoning in Palma, I came back to earth with a bump when I realised I should probably get my act together. Being comfortably ensconced in my familial home was certainly a relief from the years of washing up my teacups in the sink at Uni, but it gets old. And besides, I was starting to get bed sores from spending all day watching tv.

6 months on, and I am still no closer to finding proper employment, but, reader, fear not - for in come The Internships. Having begun the faithful process of work experience and internships at the tender age of 16, I felt certain that I could master the skill of making tea and running errands, and would therefore like to share my musings and advice with the world. Or whoever wants to read my blog (Hi Mum).

Join me on my weary search for employment as I coast from unpaid menial labour to unpaid menial labour, and welcome the slow realisation that maybe I will forever be "always an intern."