An opaque reference to William Blake's poem 'London' in the title, in case some of you were wondering. (I hope you were - it's a great poem).
I know some of you are married. My folks are married. Maybe I'll get married. But I'm starting to wonder why.
It strikes me that love affairs, infatuations, dalliances, physical attractions - whatever other terms the urban dictionary has introduced to refer to 21st century relationship politics - are predictable only in their unpredictabilities.
It's a strange mixture of chemicals, circumstances and often alcoholic or hallucinogenic drugs that first attract you to someone. Similarly, what is it that repels you from certain people? A nasal twang, a thin top lip, particularly pungent body odour, a tendency to talk only about oneself most selfishly and a tad pompously - some of the top turn offs, wouldn't you agree, ma' sisters?
But when you meet the One (well, you'd give him one), it all makes sense. He smells of lavender and lemons. He is gorgeous. He is interesting, and INTERESTED in you. He is clever, but not boringly so. He is funny, but doesn't mind that you are funny too. He's ideally about 35, over all his little lad hangups. If we're talking wish lists, he is an Ulsterman working in the media. Perfect. You got the job.
And this is where the problem starts. Before the boundaries are imposed on your relationship by the two of you, it's great. The excitement of uncertainty. The phone rings, you feel sick with nerves and giddiness. He takes you out (a vague memory - I seem to remember enjoying that kind of thing, but lately I've been skipping the small talk). You enjoy his company, and don't drift off when he starts talking. At you.
Slowly, frighteningly, the humdrum sets in. Before you know it, you're doing his washing with yours and making those frightful lists in your head...'What shall we do for tea tonight?' - what sends me under with this question is that you NEVER STOP ASKING IT! At least on your own you can eat something random like a pot noodle panini and no questions are asked.
Where did the fun go? All of a sudden, the things you found quirky and exciting are getting on your nerves - it's become part of the ordinary. I don't see how any relationship can escape this dilemma, and it scares me.
Yes indeed, the beauty of love is its mutability. It answers to no-one, except perhaps illogic and nonsense. Everyone's addicted to the first six months for this reason. The constant ups and downs and the wonderfully tolerable feeling of being 'out of control' are a tonic. The effects of falling in love have even been clinically linked to that of cocaine.
Marriage would, you would think, be the pinnacle of this. It's a public declaration of your love and commitment to each other. And a silent promise to confine love and all its nonsense, surprises and spontaneity to a rectangular box, neatly labelled 'The Mundane'.
Most couples settle into a comfortable life. It's inevitable that routines, baby names and favourite holiday destinations are the result of spending a lot of time together.
However. What does your romantic love life no favours is predictability and routine. The ironic thing is, marriage, children and 'security' represent the very things that quash eroticism and excitement - they rein these things in, impose boundaries and make spontaneity a thing of the past.
I'm not sure we're programmed to be monogamous. But marriage is a useful institution to the economy, and supposedly acts as a moral safeguard - 'forsaking all others' and all that. Hmmm. I know at least half a dozen people who have broken their vows, and could probably think of a lot more.
We'd all do well to learn that 'security' in relationships is non-existent. The only stability about human feelings is that they change all the time.
Therefore: I propose to remain a Flibbertygibbet for a good while longer. I'm not ready to confine all that intoxication on the ride of an emotional rollercoaster to a trip to Sainsbury's in a clapped out Fiesta. These be the wild times ;-)
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Monday, 11 May 2009
Why I can't forgive people who smell
Sorry. But unless you get down to Tesco quick sharp and buy some Sure, I can't associate with you.
I'd like to start off by saying this is not a discriminatory post against people who have a genuine problem. Uncontrollable glands or whatever. If there's nothing you can do about the fact that you sweat a lot, then I feel sorry for you - it's not your fault. It must be really embarrassing to have a problem like that and I'm certainly not holding it against you.
What I am talking about is the pong that hits me, very often on public transport, sometimes in a supermarket or even in a club. The smell fills my nostril and I immediately grimace, whirling round to glare at you. Thanks for just ruining my day!
Smells are very important to me, and I'm sure they are to a lot of people. They can hold and trigger so many powerful memories, and they have a powerful hold on our consciousness. I might not remember every guy's name, but take me to Boots and I'll give you a chronology of my love life from the age of 14 at the aftershave counter.
If I smell Angel by Thierry Mugler, it reminds me of when I was 14, just starting out, blossoming (some would say) into yet another teenage girl in love.
If I smell pipe tobacco and spaghetti bolognese, it smells of home. In fact, anything with garlic (my mum cooks a lot of Italian food) reminds me of security and childhood.
Hairspray takes me back to the hundreds of dance competitions and shows I took part in when I was growing up. Coffee and kebabs make me think of uni - messy nights out and hungovers I luxuriated in the morning after.
But STALE BODY ODOUR? I'm in hell.
I'm furious at anyone who offends my olfactory senses. I take it personally to the core. I make the effort every day to allow ten minutes for a shower (and one at night if I've been working out or dancing). Everyone else should. I have a wash basket. I fill it with clothes. When it's full, I put it in the washing machine with lashings of lavender fabric softener. And the whole thing starts again. But it's something you have to do regularly.
Some people in this world seem to think that washing at birthdays and Christmas is enough. And again, I'm not persecuting those who genuinely have problems getting to a wash basin (the homeless, for example).
But people who have a roof over their heads and access to clean running water have no excuse. A bar of soap costs very little, recession or not. Even if you have to stand there shivering while you strip wash, by God do it! Don't think you'll skip till next week - or longer.
Because it stinks. Quite literally. We're all human. Everyone sweats. I sweat very easily, and often have sweaty palms whether I'm nervous or not (I'm hoping to pass this off as a rather charming idiosyncrasy). If you've just had a coffee, cigarette or eaten something a bit whiffy then of course, there will be evidence in the way you smell.
I'm not saying let's be obsessive about it. A few germs and bacteria (within reason) never did anyone any harm. I am determined not to be one of those mums when I have kids that doesn't let them play in the soil and swallow the occasional mouthful. My mum let us and we're (arguably) OK. But that's not really what I'm talking about.
If you're an adult and you start the day clean, but then sweat a little, carry some deodrant in your bag. Quick spritz during the day, then clothes go in the wash at home.
But judging by some of the delightful wafts I've been getting the last few weeks, a lot of people don't think like that. They seem to leave their clothes for weeks, months on end - and washing their bodies is also kept to a minimum.
WHY???
I've been sweaty in my life. Who hasn't? But after a few hours of feeling like that, I can't wait to get in the shower and get rid of a day's dirt and grime. We've all worked with the Office Stink Bomb. No-one wants to sit with them or talk to them, and you wonder how the hell they hold down a mutually fulfilling sexual relationship. UGH!
If the person I am describing is you, get down to the shops. They've got some ridiculously cheap offers on shower gel and deodrant. Then maybe we can talk.
I'd like to start off by saying this is not a discriminatory post against people who have a genuine problem. Uncontrollable glands or whatever. If there's nothing you can do about the fact that you sweat a lot, then I feel sorry for you - it's not your fault. It must be really embarrassing to have a problem like that and I'm certainly not holding it against you.
What I am talking about is the pong that hits me, very often on public transport, sometimes in a supermarket or even in a club. The smell fills my nostril and I immediately grimace, whirling round to glare at you. Thanks for just ruining my day!
Smells are very important to me, and I'm sure they are to a lot of people. They can hold and trigger so many powerful memories, and they have a powerful hold on our consciousness. I might not remember every guy's name, but take me to Boots and I'll give you a chronology of my love life from the age of 14 at the aftershave counter.
If I smell Angel by Thierry Mugler, it reminds me of when I was 14, just starting out, blossoming (some would say) into yet another teenage girl in love.
If I smell pipe tobacco and spaghetti bolognese, it smells of home. In fact, anything with garlic (my mum cooks a lot of Italian food) reminds me of security and childhood.
Hairspray takes me back to the hundreds of dance competitions and shows I took part in when I was growing up. Coffee and kebabs make me think of uni - messy nights out and hungovers I luxuriated in the morning after.
But STALE BODY ODOUR? I'm in hell.
I'm furious at anyone who offends my olfactory senses. I take it personally to the core. I make the effort every day to allow ten minutes for a shower (and one at night if I've been working out or dancing). Everyone else should. I have a wash basket. I fill it with clothes. When it's full, I put it in the washing machine with lashings of lavender fabric softener. And the whole thing starts again. But it's something you have to do regularly.
Some people in this world seem to think that washing at birthdays and Christmas is enough. And again, I'm not persecuting those who genuinely have problems getting to a wash basin (the homeless, for example).
But people who have a roof over their heads and access to clean running water have no excuse. A bar of soap costs very little, recession or not. Even if you have to stand there shivering while you strip wash, by God do it! Don't think you'll skip till next week - or longer.
Because it stinks. Quite literally. We're all human. Everyone sweats. I sweat very easily, and often have sweaty palms whether I'm nervous or not (I'm hoping to pass this off as a rather charming idiosyncrasy). If you've just had a coffee, cigarette or eaten something a bit whiffy then of course, there will be evidence in the way you smell.
I'm not saying let's be obsessive about it. A few germs and bacteria (within reason) never did anyone any harm. I am determined not to be one of those mums when I have kids that doesn't let them play in the soil and swallow the occasional mouthful. My mum let us and we're (arguably) OK. But that's not really what I'm talking about.
If you're an adult and you start the day clean, but then sweat a little, carry some deodrant in your bag. Quick spritz during the day, then clothes go in the wash at home.
But judging by some of the delightful wafts I've been getting the last few weeks, a lot of people don't think like that. They seem to leave their clothes for weeks, months on end - and washing their bodies is also kept to a minimum.
WHY???
I've been sweaty in my life. Who hasn't? But after a few hours of feeling like that, I can't wait to get in the shower and get rid of a day's dirt and grime. We've all worked with the Office Stink Bomb. No-one wants to sit with them or talk to them, and you wonder how the hell they hold down a mutually fulfilling sexual relationship. UGH!
If the person I am describing is you, get down to the shops. They've got some ridiculously cheap offers on shower gel and deodrant. Then maybe we can talk.
Monday, 4 May 2009
Beauty from the outside in
This evening I'm thinking about beauty.
When the hair started to grow back, things rapidly went downhill. The black hair dye grew out and I was reminded that my natural colour is an unremarkable dirty brown. It grew back at different angles, and I quickly started to resemble a scrubbing brush.
We are taught that it's what's on the inside that counts. If you're a good person with golden insides, it doesn't matter what's on the outside. When people get to know you, they learn what sort of person you are, and how you look is merely superficial.
It's a nice philosophy. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the first judgement we made about someone was based on the person inside, rather than the clothes they wore and outside appearance they assumed?
But what this line of thinking fails to take into account is what superficial creatures human beings fundamentally are.
You see somone before you have a chance to get to know them. By that I mean you clap eyes on a person's appearance and there it is - a judgement is made.
It's not necessarily always a bad judgement. But it's there nonetheless, and is not based on what a philanthropist you are, or your high moral standards, or whatever else gives you your golden insides. It's based on how you look.
I think that instead of railing against this, we should just accept that this is how human beings function. And look our best.
When you look good, you feel good. You work better and feel better about yourself. I have learnt this through experience.
While I was travelling in Australia, I slummed it appearance wise, to put it mildly. I gained about two stone in weight and I shaved my head because I was so sick of sweating.
It was so liberating to do this. I'd recommend doing it at least once before you die.
Anyway, it looked OK when I had my slap on and went to town with the eyeliner. However, during the day when I was spotty, sweaty and bloated I basically looked like a convict.When the hair started to grow back, things rapidly went downhill. The black hair dye grew out and I was reminded that my natural colour is an unremarkable dirty brown. It grew back at different angles, and I quickly started to resemble a scrubbing brush.
My weight soon ballooned and I became more and more fed up with my appearance. I was having a great time travelling. But looking back, feeling rubbish about my appearance changed the way I felt and acted.
I lost a lot of confidence because I just didn't feel pretty or sexy (and let's face it, I didn't look it, either). My boyfriend at the time, Mark, was really supportive and reassured me that I was still attractive to him. But I just felt like someone else. Every time I looked in the mirror, I thought "Ugh. Who is that minger?"
This makes me sound very shallow. But human beings are. The way I looked was making me feel low because I wasn't happy with it.
I was sick of never glamming up, not being able to wear make-up because of the sweltering heat and covering my belly by tying my hoodie round it.
As soon as I got back from my travels, I started eating healthily and working out every day. I dyed my hair black the day we arrived back on UK soil and rejoiced as I smudged kohl pencil round my eyes and smeared my chops in gloss.
God, did I feel better almost straightaway. The impact of my appearance on how I felt about myself was brought home to me when I started work (I temped over the summer in various offices).
There's something about getting up in the morning, having a shower and putting on make-up that sets me up for the day. I feel refreshed and ready to face the world.
It's nothing to do with putting on a 'front'. Well, maybe it is - but it's not a lie about who I am. It's just making myself look the best I can and feeling a whole lot better for it.
Going into the office every day made up, losing weight and in smart clothes, I quickly started to feel more like my old self - confident, bubbly and happy with who I am.
There are some who regard looking good without make-up as the benchmark for whether you are 'genuinely' attractive or not. I think this is tosh. It's nothing to do with how genuine it is - it's how good the final product looks. I wear make-up not because I think I look hideous without it (actually, it depends on the night before) but because I look better with it.
Baudelaire said in one of his essays that rather than making do with what nature gives you, make-up is brilliant for women because it allows you to improve and enhance what you were born with. I couldn't agree more.
I'm not saying you have to wear make-up to look your best. I know lots of women who genuinely prefer the bare-faced look, and wear it very well. But I'm talking about the whole package: what you wear, how your shoes make you walk with a stride in your step and the confidence the whole thing brought together produces.
These days, if I'm working from home, say revising, I always work better if I get up and put a reasonably decent outfit on and, of course, my war paint. If I roll out of bed and work in my pyjamas, I feel grotty and don't work as well. Maybe it's just me. But I think we should all come off it when we say beauty's only skin-deep.
Of course, if you're a horrible person, it becomes clear to others, no matter what you look like. Similarly, if you are simply lovely this also shines through. But my point is this: looking better helps you feel better. And whatever sort of person you are becomes a little better because you have confidence and self-esteem.
I'm off to powder my nose.
Monday, 27 April 2009
Don't settle for second best. Ever.
I heard a fascinating conversation the other day on the train. Two girls, both about 15 or 16, discussing their love lives. Naturally, I listened in.
One of them hadn't spoken to her boyfriend for days, and was concerned that he had not been in touch. "He just doesn't seem bothered," she lamented. Hmmm.
The other had text hers and he hadn't responded. So they were discussing how and when they would next be in touch with their chaps.
One said: "Text him, and if he doesn't text you back by 11, ring him."
The other responded: "OK. Text (whatever his name was) again and see if he replies."
Sitting behind them, craning to hear every word, I felt very old fashioned. For my first thoughts were: "If you have to work that hard to get in touch with him and he's not willingly calling or texting you back, then surely he can't be that arsed about you or the relationship." Anyone disagree?
It's all very well, this "women are the same as men when it comes to relationships" malarkey. NOT to be confused with feminism, which involves entirely different concerns. The thing is, I don't think we are the same.
Women text and ring not just because they want to, but because they are generally better than men at communicating and keeping up with texts. They make and return phonecalls out of courtesy, manners and being good proactive communicators - as well as wanting to. Men, on the other hand? My opinion is that they only call and text people - indeed, they only speak - when they have something they feel is worth saying, and to someone they genuinely want to speak to.
Men don't tend to ring their mates for a chat. Phonecalls and texts are on a strictly 'only-what's-necessary' basis. So when they have a girlfriend they're only half-arsed about, why would he text or ring? He isn't that bothered.
On the other hand, it's quite obvious when a guy likes you because he does text and call - matching and exceeding your efforts. They're quite simple creatures, really. If he likes you, he shows it. If he isn't fussed, it's also quite obvious: you won't hear from him.
I've done all the cryptic philosophy: "Maybe he's shy," "He's doing this so he feels in control," and "He can't bring himself to show that he likes me." After 23 years, I now embrace the lessons I have learnt: if he doesn't call or text, it's because he does not particularly want to speak to you. For whatever reason. It doesn't matter. Move on!
The girls on the train would have done well to realise this. From listening to their conversation for a mere 10 minutes, it was quite obvious that they did all the chasing in their relationships, not cottoning on to the fact that they were being ignored and basically treated quite badly. I'm not blaming the guys. The girls let them do it!
This has nothing to do with mind games or being a scary control freak. This is about being with someone who likes you and values your presence in their life enough to MAKE AN EFFORT. If they don't, it's one of two things. 1). They don't like you enough to make the effort. 2). They are lazy.
Would you really want someone with either of these problems in your life? You'd end up running around after them, arranging dates, calling them, initiating sex, looking for a house, arranging the wedding....need I go on? How someone acts in the early days is often indicative of how they'll be long term (in fact, whatever their faults are will probably get worse with time).
So if you're with someone with no gumption and you feel like being in your relationship is like having another job (he never texts, he never calls, he never arranges anything, he never makes the first move)...you're flogging a dead horse. Get out while you still can and don't settle until you've found someone who is willing to make the effort.
We're not in an age where we have to 'make do' with our life partners anymore. So don't settle for someone who isn't bothered about you. It's pointless, and you'll only come out of it feeling worse.
I feel a 'Single life is great' hymn coming on! I'll save that for next week.
Ciao x
One of them hadn't spoken to her boyfriend for days, and was concerned that he had not been in touch. "He just doesn't seem bothered," she lamented. Hmmm.
The other had text hers and he hadn't responded. So they were discussing how and when they would next be in touch with their chaps.
One said: "Text him, and if he doesn't text you back by 11, ring him."
The other responded: "OK. Text (whatever his name was) again and see if he replies."
Sitting behind them, craning to hear every word, I felt very old fashioned. For my first thoughts were: "If you have to work that hard to get in touch with him and he's not willingly calling or texting you back, then surely he can't be that arsed about you or the relationship." Anyone disagree?
It's all very well, this "women are the same as men when it comes to relationships" malarkey. NOT to be confused with feminism, which involves entirely different concerns. The thing is, I don't think we are the same.
Women text and ring not just because they want to, but because they are generally better than men at communicating and keeping up with texts. They make and return phonecalls out of courtesy, manners and being good proactive communicators - as well as wanting to. Men, on the other hand? My opinion is that they only call and text people - indeed, they only speak - when they have something they feel is worth saying, and to someone they genuinely want to speak to.
Men don't tend to ring their mates for a chat. Phonecalls and texts are on a strictly 'only-what's-necessary' basis. So when they have a girlfriend they're only half-arsed about, why would he text or ring? He isn't that bothered.
On the other hand, it's quite obvious when a guy likes you because he does text and call - matching and exceeding your efforts. They're quite simple creatures, really. If he likes you, he shows it. If he isn't fussed, it's also quite obvious: you won't hear from him.
I've done all the cryptic philosophy: "Maybe he's shy," "He's doing this so he feels in control," and "He can't bring himself to show that he likes me." After 23 years, I now embrace the lessons I have learnt: if he doesn't call or text, it's because he does not particularly want to speak to you. For whatever reason. It doesn't matter. Move on!
The girls on the train would have done well to realise this. From listening to their conversation for a mere 10 minutes, it was quite obvious that they did all the chasing in their relationships, not cottoning on to the fact that they were being ignored and basically treated quite badly. I'm not blaming the guys. The girls let them do it!
This has nothing to do with mind games or being a scary control freak. This is about being with someone who likes you and values your presence in their life enough to MAKE AN EFFORT. If they don't, it's one of two things. 1). They don't like you enough to make the effort. 2). They are lazy.
Would you really want someone with either of these problems in your life? You'd end up running around after them, arranging dates, calling them, initiating sex, looking for a house, arranging the wedding....need I go on? How someone acts in the early days is often indicative of how they'll be long term (in fact, whatever their faults are will probably get worse with time).
So if you're with someone with no gumption and you feel like being in your relationship is like having another job (he never texts, he never calls, he never arranges anything, he never makes the first move)...you're flogging a dead horse. Get out while you still can and don't settle until you've found someone who is willing to make the effort.
We're not in an age where we have to 'make do' with our life partners anymore. So don't settle for someone who isn't bothered about you. It's pointless, and you'll only come out of it feeling worse.
I feel a 'Single life is great' hymn coming on! I'll save that for next week.
Ciao x
Monday, 20 April 2009
She's got it bad: How I got over being turned down by the Daily Mail, and why I'm not giving up on newspapers.
Evening folks. If you're feeling suicidal, it's probably a good idea to stop reading right now. Because I am counting my blessings and being annoyingly chirply.
It's been one hell of a four weeks. While on the Lancashire Evening Post on a work placement (which I really enjoyed - what a warm, fun bunch of people - damn the recruitment freeze, I would love to work there), I was invited to an interview at the Daily Mail for a traineeship. My first proper job interview, let alone on a newspaper.
Exciting times. I tried to prepare the best I could, reading the publication from cover to cover and making notes on major themes, concerns and campaigns. But working all day, living away from home (which I'm not used to - yes, I am cossetted), and then trying to prepare for such a big interview wasn't easy. I think I could have prepared more effectively had I had a little more time.
For example, although I read the paper diligently, I failed to research in any great depth the history of the publication, or make a comprehensive list of 'Who's who' in the world of the Mail. These things seem so obvious now, but at the time everything seemed like such a whirlwind and before I knew it, it was the day of my interview.
This in itself was an insane 24 hours. By this time, I was on placement at the Liverpool Daily Post and Echo. So I had one day there, (I stayed at my cousin's just outside Liverpool), had to travel to London and back in one day, and during this time experienced every emotion from sheer panic to giddy excitement. It was surreal, and to be honest I didn't really know what had hit me.
The interview? Well, I didn't get the job, I may as well tell you that now. But I don't think it's because I interviewed particularly badly. They seemed (fairly) impressed with the answers I gave. But I also had to do a general knowledge test, in which I got some pretty fundamental questions wrong. For example, 'Who is the editor of the Mail on Sunday?'
Ladies and gentleman, it just hadn't crossed my mind to look this up. This shows my inexperience, and I definitely now feel more equipped in preparing for a newspaper interview. KNOW YOUR PRODUCT! Don't just read it, but read ABOUT it. The history, past players and so on. Absorb yourself in it. I was only half immersed.
In my haste and chaotic lifestyle in the weeks leading up to my interview, I should have made a simple list of who writes what on what day of the paper, and learnt it. But I didn't - I just expected that reading the paper every day would be sufficient, and that cramming information into my brain would work.
Anyway, friends were very kind and assured me that if I didn't get the job, it wouldn't be because of my poor score on the general knowledge test. Well, I don't know if it was because of that or not. I probably should ask for feedback but I'm not ready to do that just yet. The point is, I'm quite relieved the whole thing's over because it gave me a valuable learning curve (yet another one - boy, they're character building, I'll be down the mines next) and made me reflect on the direction my professional life is taking.
Is this really what I want, I thought to myself as tears streamed down my face while I was trying to find my way back to Euston. I'm obviously so stupid, I'll never be good enough for the nationals...blah blah blah. I realised, once out of the cosy confines of my Preston classroom, that the world of newspapers really is tough. To know that is one thing. But it's another thing being in an interview, and the interviewers asking you why you don't know the answer to something simple - and having nothing to say for yourself.
For a few days I was a bit deflated. It's easy when you've secured an interview for something massive like that to be a bit complacent in your research. I was stupid to be like that, but I won't do it again.
Now I'm applying for other jobs. It's tough. There's nothing out there. No newspaper groups are recruiting as far as I can see, and training schemes are even being cancelled in some cases. It's so easy to throw the towel in. Glossy PR jobs beckon seductively, and people keep asking me what my 'Plan B' is.
The answer is: I haven't got one.
I love newspapers: nationals, regionals, dailies or weeklies. They are my Plans A, B and C. It's sad but true: they are my personal life, and I eat, sleep and breathe them. They take up a substantial portion of my life - reading them, thinking about them, talking about them with my dad (an ex hack) and my mum, for that matter (she met my dad when she worked in advertising on the same paper).
So you see, it's a big part of our household and family life, and although I am as scared as anyone else about what the future holds (or doesn't, it would seem), I am not giving up. This is a love affair we're talking about, and I ain't walking out just yet.
It drives me mad, and on paper (no pun intended) there's a lot to moan about as a trainee reporter. The hours, the pay, the stress, the general madness of it all. It's fiercely competitive, and if you're not good enough then you know about it pretty quickly.
Except - there is nothing else I was put on this earth to do. Yes, that is an extremely wanky thing to say, but it's the truth. I love the back ache I get from being hunched over a computer pinning a complicated event down to a snappy, 20-word intro. I love searching for stories - it's terrifying when you can't find one, but when you dig a little deeper and find something good, it's a high second to none.
I love finding out how far I can push my sleep deprived body using caffeine, Red Bull and pure adrenaline to get the next twist on the story, the killer quote, the picture that says a thousand words. I don't care what hours I do - if I'm onto a story, I stay until it gets done. I can quite easily understand why they say reporters shouldn't marry.
I cherish my finger bunions from scribbling shorthand. I have pieces of paper pinned up all over the house written in Teeline, a non verbal 'tee hee' to anyone who looks at them because it's the language of newspapers, and they can't read it.
I feel strangely at home in a newsroom. The more shouting, hair tearing and demands for stories 'NOW' there are, the more I realise: I have the bug. I want to be the one who unfurls the editor's brow, I want to be the kid who gets the scoop because I was that bit more persistent - I want to get there, and I believe that I will one day. Recession or not.
I refuse to stop believing. For my next interview, whenever and wherever that may be, I know what I've got to do.
I realise that after my Mail interview, I was whining and making excuses about why it didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I've since given myself a good talking to. There's no room for whingers in this job. You accept responsibility for your actions, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and go for the next challenge. No time for feeling sorry for myself.
It was hard to embrace this philosophy a couple of weeks ago, but ironically, it's that no-nonsense part of the job that I love so much: it's tough, and you need the hide of a rhino to survive. I'm proud of myself for bouncing back from rejection. I will learn from it, and be even stronger for the next obstacle.
Bring it on, says I.
It's been one hell of a four weeks. While on the Lancashire Evening Post on a work placement (which I really enjoyed - what a warm, fun bunch of people - damn the recruitment freeze, I would love to work there), I was invited to an interview at the Daily Mail for a traineeship. My first proper job interview, let alone on a newspaper.
Exciting times. I tried to prepare the best I could, reading the publication from cover to cover and making notes on major themes, concerns and campaigns. But working all day, living away from home (which I'm not used to - yes, I am cossetted), and then trying to prepare for such a big interview wasn't easy. I think I could have prepared more effectively had I had a little more time.
For example, although I read the paper diligently, I failed to research in any great depth the history of the publication, or make a comprehensive list of 'Who's who' in the world of the Mail. These things seem so obvious now, but at the time everything seemed like such a whirlwind and before I knew it, it was the day of my interview.
This in itself was an insane 24 hours. By this time, I was on placement at the Liverpool Daily Post and Echo. So I had one day there, (I stayed at my cousin's just outside Liverpool), had to travel to London and back in one day, and during this time experienced every emotion from sheer panic to giddy excitement. It was surreal, and to be honest I didn't really know what had hit me.
The interview? Well, I didn't get the job, I may as well tell you that now. But I don't think it's because I interviewed particularly badly. They seemed (fairly) impressed with the answers I gave. But I also had to do a general knowledge test, in which I got some pretty fundamental questions wrong. For example, 'Who is the editor of the Mail on Sunday?'
Ladies and gentleman, it just hadn't crossed my mind to look this up. This shows my inexperience, and I definitely now feel more equipped in preparing for a newspaper interview. KNOW YOUR PRODUCT! Don't just read it, but read ABOUT it. The history, past players and so on. Absorb yourself in it. I was only half immersed.
In my haste and chaotic lifestyle in the weeks leading up to my interview, I should have made a simple list of who writes what on what day of the paper, and learnt it. But I didn't - I just expected that reading the paper every day would be sufficient, and that cramming information into my brain would work.
Anyway, friends were very kind and assured me that if I didn't get the job, it wouldn't be because of my poor score on the general knowledge test. Well, I don't know if it was because of that or not. I probably should ask for feedback but I'm not ready to do that just yet. The point is, I'm quite relieved the whole thing's over because it gave me a valuable learning curve (yet another one - boy, they're character building, I'll be down the mines next) and made me reflect on the direction my professional life is taking.
Is this really what I want, I thought to myself as tears streamed down my face while I was trying to find my way back to Euston. I'm obviously so stupid, I'll never be good enough for the nationals...blah blah blah. I realised, once out of the cosy confines of my Preston classroom, that the world of newspapers really is tough. To know that is one thing. But it's another thing being in an interview, and the interviewers asking you why you don't know the answer to something simple - and having nothing to say for yourself.
For a few days I was a bit deflated. It's easy when you've secured an interview for something massive like that to be a bit complacent in your research. I was stupid to be like that, but I won't do it again.
Now I'm applying for other jobs. It's tough. There's nothing out there. No newspaper groups are recruiting as far as I can see, and training schemes are even being cancelled in some cases. It's so easy to throw the towel in. Glossy PR jobs beckon seductively, and people keep asking me what my 'Plan B' is.
The answer is: I haven't got one.
I love newspapers: nationals, regionals, dailies or weeklies. They are my Plans A, B and C. It's sad but true: they are my personal life, and I eat, sleep and breathe them. They take up a substantial portion of my life - reading them, thinking about them, talking about them with my dad (an ex hack) and my mum, for that matter (she met my dad when she worked in advertising on the same paper).
So you see, it's a big part of our household and family life, and although I am as scared as anyone else about what the future holds (or doesn't, it would seem), I am not giving up. This is a love affair we're talking about, and I ain't walking out just yet.
It drives me mad, and on paper (no pun intended) there's a lot to moan about as a trainee reporter. The hours, the pay, the stress, the general madness of it all. It's fiercely competitive, and if you're not good enough then you know about it pretty quickly.
Except - there is nothing else I was put on this earth to do. Yes, that is an extremely wanky thing to say, but it's the truth. I love the back ache I get from being hunched over a computer pinning a complicated event down to a snappy, 20-word intro. I love searching for stories - it's terrifying when you can't find one, but when you dig a little deeper and find something good, it's a high second to none.
I love finding out how far I can push my sleep deprived body using caffeine, Red Bull and pure adrenaline to get the next twist on the story, the killer quote, the picture that says a thousand words. I don't care what hours I do - if I'm onto a story, I stay until it gets done. I can quite easily understand why they say reporters shouldn't marry.
I cherish my finger bunions from scribbling shorthand. I have pieces of paper pinned up all over the house written in Teeline, a non verbal 'tee hee' to anyone who looks at them because it's the language of newspapers, and they can't read it.
I feel strangely at home in a newsroom. The more shouting, hair tearing and demands for stories 'NOW' there are, the more I realise: I have the bug. I want to be the one who unfurls the editor's brow, I want to be the kid who gets the scoop because I was that bit more persistent - I want to get there, and I believe that I will one day. Recession or not.
I refuse to stop believing. For my next interview, whenever and wherever that may be, I know what I've got to do.
I realise that after my Mail interview, I was whining and making excuses about why it didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I've since given myself a good talking to. There's no room for whingers in this job. You accept responsibility for your actions, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and go for the next challenge. No time for feeling sorry for myself.
It was hard to embrace this philosophy a couple of weeks ago, but ironically, it's that no-nonsense part of the job that I love so much: it's tough, and you need the hide of a rhino to survive. I'm proud of myself for bouncing back from rejection. I will learn from it, and be even stronger for the next obstacle.
Bring it on, says I.
Monday, 13 April 2009
Fearne Cotton, anorexics and a TV car crash
I caught the beginning of 'The Truth About Online Anorexia' on ITV1 the other night as I was getting ready to go out. Much as I think there should be far more investigative, hard-hitting documentaries such as this, it made me cringe.
I didn't really have an opinion of Fearne Cotton before I saw her on this, and still don't really because I don't listen to her Radio 1 show. But I found her treatment of the subject very insensitive, portraying her to be a bit of an airhead.
From the start of the documentary when she was looking at the online anorexia sites, the approach was all wrong. She was very 'shock horror' about the whole thing, but either she's insincere or genuinely didn't know much about the illness.
What on earth was to be gained from wide eyed 'oohs' and 'ahs' about how young the people visiting these sites were, or what some of the side effects of anorexia are?
At one point she read some of these effects out, which included body hair and pooing pus. She looked disgusted and freaked out, and kept saying "I just can't believe it" and other pointless, neither-here-nor-there statements.
No, the effects of anorexia aren't pleasant, but surely it would have been more useful and effective to try and understand why anyone could feel so low they felt the need to starve themselves, rather than just dwelling on how foreign the concept was to Fearne.
I admit, I didn't watch the whole thing. Maybe the 'psychology bit' came later. But I saw a good half hour of Fearne in various 'oh-my-god-I'd-never-do-that-how-come-everyone-doesn't-wolf-down-their-food-like-me?' stages of polemic. The result? A fairly gratuitous piece of television that offered little insight into the disorder.
I'm no doctor or psychologist, but I know that anorexia is connected to deep-seated emotional issues of control and self-loathing. Sufferers don't need to be told that 'it's weird' or that Fearne (hardly curvaceous herself; ironically the show was a springboard for anorexics posting her image on the very websites she sought to condemn) just can't understand anyone who doesn't love their food.
I'm very happy for Fearne - her life is clearly so peachy that she finds it difficult to identify with anyone who is suffering from the mental anguish that causes and and is a result of anorexia. But watching her raised eyebrows and constant head shaking did not shed any new light on the subject.
Finally - it annoyed me that she was up in arms about the fact the young girls she spoke to from a school think about their body shapes. Yes, the issues that lead to anorexia can start as young as 10, but at the same time, let's not freak out every time a schoolgirl says she thinks she is fat.
When you are a little girl, your body starts changing from the age of about 9. It is gradually cranking up to starting puberty and periods, and there are some pretty drastic alterations that have to take place.
I remember being aghast at lumps and bumps appearing that weren't sexy or womanly at the time - just lumpy and bumpy. I remember going through a stage thinking I was fat, but it was just getting to grips with my changing body. I got over it, and realised I was not fat, just changing.
A lot of girls thankfully also reach the same conclusion, through being guided by their mums/sisters/friends, or just growing up. Fearne went completely OTT about the fact that some of the girls said they were concerned about their body image (she pretty much talked them into saying this!)
Every girl has an evaluative, sometimes critical relationship with her body, but it does not necessarily mean we have to start crying 'anorexia' or 'bulimia' in every single case. We are wrapping today's kids in cotton wool.
It's a shame, because Fearne could have shown herself in a positive light, trying to empathise with the anorexia sufferers rather than making it the 'I don't starve myself, therefore why would anyone else?' show.
At one point she read out in a horrified-verging-on-mocking tone that someone on the website was urging fellow sufferers to do 90 sit-ups after eating a cucumber. Yes, this is alien to anyone without anorexia. But wringing hands and screwing up noses was surely a wholly unhelpful approach to take.
Fearne goes running for miles several times a week. So are we to conclude that she has a body problem? Surely she's skinny enough without doing that? The whole thing just didn't come together and I didn't really see what the crux of the matter was - to offer valuable insight into the dangers of online support groups for anorexics? Or to show Fearne as a golden girl who would never dream of entertaining such a silly eating fad?
A golden investigative journalism opportunity missed.
I didn't really have an opinion of Fearne Cotton before I saw her on this, and still don't really because I don't listen to her Radio 1 show. But I found her treatment of the subject very insensitive, portraying her to be a bit of an airhead.
From the start of the documentary when she was looking at the online anorexia sites, the approach was all wrong. She was very 'shock horror' about the whole thing, but either she's insincere or genuinely didn't know much about the illness.
What on earth was to be gained from wide eyed 'oohs' and 'ahs' about how young the people visiting these sites were, or what some of the side effects of anorexia are?
At one point she read some of these effects out, which included body hair and pooing pus. She looked disgusted and freaked out, and kept saying "I just can't believe it" and other pointless, neither-here-nor-there statements.
No, the effects of anorexia aren't pleasant, but surely it would have been more useful and effective to try and understand why anyone could feel so low they felt the need to starve themselves, rather than just dwelling on how foreign the concept was to Fearne.
I admit, I didn't watch the whole thing. Maybe the 'psychology bit' came later. But I saw a good half hour of Fearne in various 'oh-my-god-I'd-never-do-that-how-come-everyone-doesn't-wolf-down-their-food-like-me?' stages of polemic. The result? A fairly gratuitous piece of television that offered little insight into the disorder.
I'm no doctor or psychologist, but I know that anorexia is connected to deep-seated emotional issues of control and self-loathing. Sufferers don't need to be told that 'it's weird' or that Fearne (hardly curvaceous herself; ironically the show was a springboard for anorexics posting her image on the very websites she sought to condemn) just can't understand anyone who doesn't love their food.
I'm very happy for Fearne - her life is clearly so peachy that she finds it difficult to identify with anyone who is suffering from the mental anguish that causes and and is a result of anorexia. But watching her raised eyebrows and constant head shaking did not shed any new light on the subject.
Finally - it annoyed me that she was up in arms about the fact the young girls she spoke to from a school think about their body shapes. Yes, the issues that lead to anorexia can start as young as 10, but at the same time, let's not freak out every time a schoolgirl says she thinks she is fat.
When you are a little girl, your body starts changing from the age of about 9. It is gradually cranking up to starting puberty and periods, and there are some pretty drastic alterations that have to take place.
I remember being aghast at lumps and bumps appearing that weren't sexy or womanly at the time - just lumpy and bumpy. I remember going through a stage thinking I was fat, but it was just getting to grips with my changing body. I got over it, and realised I was not fat, just changing.
A lot of girls thankfully also reach the same conclusion, through being guided by their mums/sisters/friends, or just growing up. Fearne went completely OTT about the fact that some of the girls said they were concerned about their body image (she pretty much talked them into saying this!)
Every girl has an evaluative, sometimes critical relationship with her body, but it does not necessarily mean we have to start crying 'anorexia' or 'bulimia' in every single case. We are wrapping today's kids in cotton wool.
It's a shame, because Fearne could have shown herself in a positive light, trying to empathise with the anorexia sufferers rather than making it the 'I don't starve myself, therefore why would anyone else?' show.
At one point she read out in a horrified-verging-on-mocking tone that someone on the website was urging fellow sufferers to do 90 sit-ups after eating a cucumber. Yes, this is alien to anyone without anorexia. But wringing hands and screwing up noses was surely a wholly unhelpful approach to take.
Fearne goes running for miles several times a week. So are we to conclude that she has a body problem? Surely she's skinny enough without doing that? The whole thing just didn't come together and I didn't really see what the crux of the matter was - to offer valuable insight into the dangers of online support groups for anorexics? Or to show Fearne as a golden girl who would never dream of entertaining such a silly eating fad?
A golden investigative journalism opportunity missed.
Monday, 6 April 2009
Why I'm giving up crack cocaine
I went to uni and discovered feminism. And now I've got a dilemma.
Simone de Beauvoir, Helene Cixous, Luce Irigaray and countless others taught me that women could play any man's game - in fact, they could play it better than him. Previously, it was a man's world, written about by men, painted by men, run by men, reported by men. We were at home breeding (because biology stated that that was our purpose, remember?)
I absorbed this stuff like a sponge. Suddenly everything became clear - and very frustrating. Why was it OK for men to have one night stands but women were 'slags'? Why was a man slapped encouragingly if he had a string of conquests, while the woman was avoided in the street or left holding the baby?
Biology dealt us a lousy hand, and society was following suit. Men followed one rule (which they created), while women were under pressure to be the obedient little wives and mothers they needed us to be.
Young and idealistic, I internalised all these philosophies (which, you understand, are only summarised very briefly above). The more I learnt, the more I saw women were treated differently. Generally, men liked women who didn't threaten their egos, make them feel emasculated by knowing more than they did or being funnier than they were (have you noticed men often shy away from women who are surrounded by people laughing at her jokes as opposed to her bloke's?). Women who had the most success with men
1) didn't answer back.
2) didn't challenge their blokes.
3) basically looked nice and shut up.
Take my own love life. I have been the most attractive to members of the opposite sex when I've sat there looking pretty and laughed louder than anyone at his jokes.
But if you say what you really think, like 'that was a stupid thing to say,' or make a joke that's funnier than his, or outsmart him, you're breaking the 'women should be seen and not heard' rule that dates back to the Bible and is still deeply ingrained in our culture. And very quietly the admirers slip away. "She's hard work,' they think. And it's true, a lot of them would rather have a yes woman. Which I can't be.
So I did what every 21st century liberated woman would do. I opted for the fuck buddy. We've all done it. And sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. But it just seemed like an easy answer to sex without the problem of a relationship - where the fact that you say 'Oy, mate. Don't speak to me like that. A bit of respect wouldn't go amiss. Neither would a haircut...' and generally challenge his behaviour scares him, threatens his ego and sends him running into the arms of a petite blonde (or the opposite of whatever you are).
Friends, for a while I was addicted. Fuck buddies were the new crack cocaine. Anticipation, fun, instant high, but with none of the come down or work involved in a relationship. Except now I've come down.
Us 21st century tough cookies had to be just that - really tough. It was like wearing an iron mask of liberation. It doesn't matter if he doesn't call. Who cares if he's using you, you're using him!
But I'm tired of being tough. I'm going to admit my vulnerability and say that it does matter. It would be nice to have someone who cared. It would be nice to meet my softer side again and care about someone else's feelings. I'm tired of being so strong all the time, because underneath it all, I'm no Women's Lib radical. And I'm not sure it is even being 'strong'. It's merely avoiding the compromises you need to make for a relationship to work.
Single, yes. Single and happy? Yes. But virulently against the idea of a relationship? No. In fact, quite looking forward to meeting someone appropriate to break down my oh-so-liberated walls.
He'd better not expect me to do the washing up...
Simone de Beauvoir, Helene Cixous, Luce Irigaray and countless others taught me that women could play any man's game - in fact, they could play it better than him. Previously, it was a man's world, written about by men, painted by men, run by men, reported by men. We were at home breeding (because biology stated that that was our purpose, remember?)
I absorbed this stuff like a sponge. Suddenly everything became clear - and very frustrating. Why was it OK for men to have one night stands but women were 'slags'? Why was a man slapped encouragingly if he had a string of conquests, while the woman was avoided in the street or left holding the baby?
Biology dealt us a lousy hand, and society was following suit. Men followed one rule (which they created), while women were under pressure to be the obedient little wives and mothers they needed us to be.
Young and idealistic, I internalised all these philosophies (which, you understand, are only summarised very briefly above). The more I learnt, the more I saw women were treated differently. Generally, men liked women who didn't threaten their egos, make them feel emasculated by knowing more than they did or being funnier than they were (have you noticed men often shy away from women who are surrounded by people laughing at her jokes as opposed to her bloke's?). Women who had the most success with men
1) didn't answer back.
2) didn't challenge their blokes.
3) basically looked nice and shut up.
Take my own love life. I have been the most attractive to members of the opposite sex when I've sat there looking pretty and laughed louder than anyone at his jokes.
But if you say what you really think, like 'that was a stupid thing to say,' or make a joke that's funnier than his, or outsmart him, you're breaking the 'women should be seen and not heard' rule that dates back to the Bible and is still deeply ingrained in our culture. And very quietly the admirers slip away. "She's hard work,' they think. And it's true, a lot of them would rather have a yes woman. Which I can't be.
So I did what every 21st century liberated woman would do. I opted for the fuck buddy. We've all done it. And sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. But it just seemed like an easy answer to sex without the problem of a relationship - where the fact that you say 'Oy, mate. Don't speak to me like that. A bit of respect wouldn't go amiss. Neither would a haircut...' and generally challenge his behaviour scares him, threatens his ego and sends him running into the arms of a petite blonde (or the opposite of whatever you are).
Friends, for a while I was addicted. Fuck buddies were the new crack cocaine. Anticipation, fun, instant high, but with none of the come down or work involved in a relationship. Except now I've come down.
Us 21st century tough cookies had to be just that - really tough. It was like wearing an iron mask of liberation. It doesn't matter if he doesn't call. Who cares if he's using you, you're using him!
But I'm tired of being tough. I'm going to admit my vulnerability and say that it does matter. It would be nice to have someone who cared. It would be nice to meet my softer side again and care about someone else's feelings. I'm tired of being so strong all the time, because underneath it all, I'm no Women's Lib radical. And I'm not sure it is even being 'strong'. It's merely avoiding the compromises you need to make for a relationship to work.
Single, yes. Single and happy? Yes. But virulently against the idea of a relationship? No. In fact, quite looking forward to meeting someone appropriate to break down my oh-so-liberated walls.
He'd better not expect me to do the washing up...
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