The day I got down on all fours to earn a living

It's happened. I've done it. I reached the point of no return today. And it felt great. I feel I've turned a corner at long last.

If you read my last-but-one blog post, you will no doubt agree with me that I came across as a snivelling, self-absorbed wreck with no sense of perspective. I was whinging about the fact that I am now temping at the Co-operative head office in Manchester.

What really knocked me for six about this job when I started it was the additional 'housekeeping' elements. It's a bit of light reception work, which I'm well used to, but I was also warned there would be some other stuff. Keeping the meeting rooms tidy, making tea and coffee for the execs, that sort of thing.

I brightened as the woman at the temping agency described the post to me, immediately visualising myself in a tight black dress, strutting round a boardroom full of gorgeous, Ian Hislop-like men, singing Tina Turner's 'Typical Male.' Frustrated? Not I.

Anyway. Daydreams aside, I thought it would be quite fun to play hostess for a week or two. It would be a break from all the stressing I do about being unemployed skint, yah de yah dee yah.

Then I started the job, and I realised that a) there is absolutely nothing glamorous about making industrial sized vats of tea and coffee and b) there is actually quite a lot of cleaning involved.

Oh dear. I've never cleaned at home. Yes, I am mollycoddled, but it was also part of mum's wider philosophy which is: you spend long enough as an adult doing these boring domestic chores, so you might as well enjoy being a kid while you can.

This outlook has both served me well and screwed me over. I had an idyllic, carefree childhood. But I have no idea how to do anything remotely domesticated.

I was pretty depressed about what lay ahead. No nice office clothes - they'd be wasted. I was Cinderella, but there'd be no ball for me, that's for sure. I moaned about it all weekend. Then today I had a word with myself.

I have a million and one things to be joyful about. My health, family and friends for a start. I have realised that if you have these things, the rest will figure itself out in its own good time.

There are British soldiers dying in Afghanistan almost every day. There are wonderful people being taken from us because of diseases that no-one understands. Quietly reflecting upon these things makes me feel ashamed of the song and dance I've kicked up because I haven't found the job of my dreams yet. I needed to get real.

So this morning, that's exactly what I did. I had to prepare the boardroom for a big meeting. Tea, coffee, biscuits, clean tables - and hoover everywhere.

I pulled Henry the Hoover out (he's a little box with a maniacal face painted on it - sort of like housework made fun, if slightly trippy/Clockwork Orange-esque), and set to work.

Who invented these things? I'd have been better off pointing a hairdryer at the dust and hoping it blew out of the window. They are PATHETIC. All the power of a sparrow's whistle. I was getting nowhere fast. All that was happening was the hoover kept sticking to the floor, so I would sharply yank it up and nearly fall backwards when the suction released from the carpet.

Then the unthinkable happened. The hoover stopped working.

I didn't think much of it. Toddled back to reception to tell my boss, who would of course sort it all out. No.

"You'll have to pick the bits up by hand," she said, fixing me with a hard stare. "It needs to be immaculate for the meeting."

So there I was. Crawling down the executive corridor on all fours, back hunched over, picking up shreds of paper and crumbs from last week's meeting. I crawled up the whole corridor, cursing filthily about reaching my lowest point. Henry grinned at me terrifyingly. He'd planned it all along, of course.

I suddenly stopped and saw the situation objectively. Here was I, one of those really annoying graduates who constantly says "But I have a degree! I didn't go through all that hard work to get down on all fours and shuffle down a corridor like a curiously cosmopolitan leper!". I was on my knees picking up rubbish, and really working for my £6.50 an hour. And I burst out laughing.

It's wonderful when you have moments like that, when you see yourself for what you really are. Just another ridiculous human being, completely fallible, and above all - someone who has learnt not to take herself quite so seriously ;-)

What in the name of Twiggy is the point?!

I check Hold the Front Page diligently. It is every journalist's best friend when it comes to getting a job.

Yesterday I spotted something that looked right up my street. A trainee reporter's role on the Kent and Sussex Courier. A beginner's role on a decent paper. But oh, no. It wasn't to be.

Having applied to them (putting my heart and soul into doing so), I receive an email from the editor. Apparently they've 're-examined' their recruitment needs and have decided to close the vacancy.

Why put the bloody thing on HTFP then? Honestly, how I am I supposed to stay determined to get a job if FALSE ones are being advertised?

Grrrrrrrr...

As I lay here yawning...

So, I'm temping at The Co-Operative.

Yes, indeed. After going to school, college, university and doing a post-grad, not to mention hours of unpaid work experience, here I am. Cleaning and doing a bit of reception work in a building that has meeting rooms in it.

I need to stay positive. I've been applying for jobs, I'm earning a bit of cash, I'm freelancing, I'm back in Manchester, where at least people talk to you.

I'm thinking that soon my luck will change. It must do. Things have been so rubbish for so long. I'm trying to stay upbeat, I really am. But it's tough sometimes when so many things go wrong.

However: list of short term goals: earn money from temping. Buy clothes! Generally splurge on self. Don't listen to anyone who criticises my CV (most people don't understand the specifics of applying to a newspaper). Generally stay happy.

Woooooooo! *smile on face

The bitch is back

Oh dear. I look like a fair weather blogger because my last post was nearly a month ago.

I have neglected my blog, this is true. But it just so happens that I've had a crazy month. An interview, temping at a car garage, two weeks in London on The Independent - and now I'm back.

I got the job I interviewed for. It was a reporter's job on the Halifax Courier. Foolishly, I turned it down. It came at the same time I was offered a couple of weeks at The Indy, and I was kind of rushed into making a decision because I didn't want to mess them about. So I called them and let them know all was going well in London.

But it wasn't.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed my two weeks there and got a few by-lines. But I suddenly became aware of how inexperienced I am, and how perfect a job like the one I turned down would be in terms of a good grounding in news reporting. But by now it was too late. The Halifax job had gone, and I was at that familiar place, Unemployment Street.

The Independent is a great paper. But there were loads of work experience people there at the same time I was trying to get a few shifts. There was nowhere for me to sit on the newsdesk, so I wasn't able to constantly pester them to send me out and give me things to do.

I've since learnt from a reliable source that a good way to establish yourself in situations like this is to re-write stories off the Press Association wire to show them that you're 'solid' (ie, that you can string a sentence together on paper). But I only found this out at the end of the two weeks. My source must have forgotten to tell me any earlier.

And you know what? If that's how you start in London, then I'd rather begin my long, illustrious career on a well established regional, where you can do all the things you've been trained to do straightaway - scouting round for local gossip, wheedling stories out of councillors, deathknocks - that's what I've gone into this business for. You're in the middle of people's lives, getting paid for having a genuine interest in people.

So, that's where I'm at. I'm going to learn my craft on a regional paper (if they'll have me), and move to London in a couple of years when I'm in a position to be respected. Hopefully, by that point, I'll be able to bring the exclusives in and hit the ground running. Doing it this way, I get to be right at the centre of a newsroom, actively contributing every single day. I'd rather do that than re-write wire copy, hoping that someone will notice my talent for rehashing someone else's story.

The other factor in my decision? Money. Or lack of it in London. God, it's expensive. I want to live there when I'm in a position to command a good wage, which isn't yet. But give me time. You've not seen the last of me.

'A week in the life of a struggling hack' or, 'Alex's nervous breakdown: Part I'

So, the novelty of job hunting has officially worn off. I'm good at what I do, I want a job. Simple, you would think. I deserve a job.

Result? A rude awakening every single day that life is not fair. I have obviously led a very sheltered life. I was taught that if you work hard, you get where you deserve to be. But at the moment, I feel like my A grades at A-Level and first class honours degree are worth nowt.

I'm still not giving up. My failure to secure a job at the Daily Mail or the News of the World was hard to deal with, but I am now OK and ready to get back on the horse, so to speak.

It's certainly an educational experience. You learn so much about yourself. I have learnt that rejection and failure make me furious. This fury is good. It makes me stronger, and even more determined. Or, as my dad says, "Throw enough shit at a wall, and some of it will stick." He means: if I send enough applications out, one kindly editor will surely give me a chance and say yes. Won't they?

There are bad moments. I get so frustrated at not being able to use my newly acquired skills and being absolutely skint that sometimes, it all gets too much.

I refer in particular to Saturday night, when after guzzling two bottles of cheap wine before going out (a recession friendly tactic - means you don't have to spend much at the bar because you're already pissed), I ended up bursting into tears in the middle of Wilmslow and storming out of Revolution.

Thank goodness I have wonderful friends, one of whom, Emily, bundled me into a cab and sorted me out. To my other friends who witnessed this ghastly display and offered much needed support: I don't deserve you. My mum had no sympathy.

I got upset because this job seeking lark is no joke, and I'm fed up with it already (and I'd drunk my wine too quickly).

When you're told (sometimes numerous times in one day) that you've not been successful, you're not what they're looking for, you're not quite good enough, you need more experience...only the most resilient and perhaps emotionally retarded person would not start to feel pangs of self-doubt.

In my case, I take it to the limit and am far too dramatic. Tears, foot stamping, shouting at my mum/dad/sister/brother/German shepherd - it's very fiery in our house at the moment. Everyone's skint because of the dreaded 'R' word, and Alex is on a short fuse. A lethal combination.

If it wasn't for my no-nonsense parents, I'd have been ruined as a child. I am a diva; if I don't get my own way, I don't like it. And I don't like it LOUDLY. Being told 'no' by all these editors is a Freudian nightmare - I'm being rejected and abandoned left, right and centre. My neuroses are nourished on a daily basis.

But today, I pulled myself together. I am northern, of Irish descent, and therefore tough as old boots. My ancestors survived the potato famine, therefore I can survive being unemployed for a few weeks. Months at the most. That's all it will be. I am making it my business to get a job ASAP.

I have support, thank God. My friends, family and postgraduate tutors have all been brilliant, especially on the days when not dressing, washing or eating seemed appealing.

Then comes the business of work experience, widely recognised as the journalist's way into getting a job. Only problem: it's unpaid.

I have absolutely no problem with this whatsoever, in terms of: I love my job, I never clock watch and genuinely believe this is what I am meant to do with my life. If things paid for themselves, I wouldn't mind being a journo for free. It is the best job ever and, wanky though this is, I feel privileged to do it.

But. The harsh fact is, work experience isn't only unpaid (this I could cope with). It costs money to do, especially in London. Even though I'm lucky enough to have family to stay with, there's still travel, food, phone bills and a bit of cheeky socialising (I'm not going to London and living like a hermit, some of my dearest friends live there and it would be daft not to see them).

Even if I behaved myself and didn't go out at all, you're still looking at £200 a week (and if you include the cost of getting there in the first place, it's probably more). Add the fact that you have to do a couple of weeks for it to be worthwhile (for you or the publication), and you start to see my dilemma. I need money before I can work for free.

It's OK though, because today something fantastic happened: I secured a temp job. This may sound like 'yeah, big deal', but to me it's a massive relief. The sooner I earn some fast cash, the sooner I can save up for a month or two in the big smoke.

So, starting next week, I will be a receptionist at a car garage near Old Trafford. "It'll be a pain for you to get to," warned the girl at the employment agency. It's far more of a pain being in my overdraft and not being able to follow my dreams without racking up bank charges, I thought.

Politely, through gritted teeth, I said to her: "You don't understand how much I need this job. Please can I have it." My desperation worked. Think of me at 9am next Monday.

Before anyone helpfully suggests that my parents help me out, forget it. They helped me substantially all the way through university, both undergraduate and postgraduate. I couldn't have asked for more supportive parents. But enough is enough. My brother, sister and I have bled them dry.

My sister is about to start driving lessons (which are her 17th birthday present), I've had a couple of expensive days to London for interviews (which they paid for without question) and they help me out all the time anyway. I know they are skint like the rest of the country. Plus, I'm doing this myself.

On the positive side: I passed my two NCTJ public affairs exams and have been doing some freelance work for a lovely lady in Brighton, which I'm really enjoying. That's something else I need to do; go to Brighton and meet her properly, and hopefully do some shifts. Roll on, next week. Then I can do all these things, instead of sitting blogging about them.

And: Jimmy Choo have collaborated with H&M, bringing us heaven for as little as £30. Goddamn, when I've paid for the essentials, I am getting a pair of those babies. I think I deserve them!

What is this word 'slag'?

One word. Numerous meanings.

It seems to me there's a lot of people defining this word with no real basis or grounding. It's bandied about wily-nily, which annoys me as it's a word steeped in misjudgement and repression.

'Slag' is often used as the ultimate weapon against a woman. Even in jest, it has a strength and bitter quality intended to wound.

I think it's time we set some things straight as to what constitutes 'slag' – if, indeed, you could ever pin the word down to having a neatly defined meaning.

A single girl with no commitments, financial or otherwise, has the right to sexual pleasure with another who consents and is not in a relationship with others. If two people are having responsible, adult fun, then what is the problem?

You'll note that I said responsible. There is never an excuse for not using a condom or other contraceptives, for example, the Pill. If you are above a certain age and it is possible that you could have a child, you should take steps to prevent this.

But for simply enjoying yourself and being (here's another word laced with sin) promiscuous? Why does this make you a slag? That suggests that something so bad has taken place, the woman should be condemned.

What I do find morally questionable, however, is when people who know they could have an STI have sex without a condom anyway. That's just unfair and cruel. But men do this as well as women – but what do you call a male slag? Oh yes. 'Geezer'.

Double standards have existed for as long as humans, especially where females' sexual morality is concerned. But I'm fed up of hearing the word slag directed at anyone who is liberated and pursuing no strings fun. Men have done it for years. People need to stop freaking out when women do it.

If you're not hurting anyone mentally or physically, then what's the problem?

Open your minds. Think twice before you call someone a slag. Or at least, don't call her a slag, then wank over her because that's the closest you'll get to touching her. That's just hypocrisy.

'Laugh, oh how we would laugh at anything': a tribute to my comrades and commanders in Preston

There will be a distinct Last Supper atmosphere at uni this week. After the NCTJ exams (joy, joy, JOY), that's it. End of story. We all go back to where we come from. I'm sure we'll keep in touch - we're all each others' first contacts after all. But it won't be the same as travelling on the rollercoaster journey we've been on.

These are the people I have spent an unhealthy amount of time with over the last nine months - and I will miss them very much. This blog post is a tribute to the guys, gals and teachers who have made my time in Preston a hoot.

For those of you who aren't aware, I've nearly completed my postgraduate diploma in newspaper journalism at the University of Central Lancashire. Like most postgrad courses, it's been extremely intense. Sort of like being shot from a cannon. The first few weeks, I didn't know what had hit me.

In theory, it looked like it was going to be a ghastly year. Up at six every morning, leave the house at quarter past seven, arrive in Preston at half eight. 15 minute walk from the station to the campus into a room where Delwyn Swingewood made each of us believe at some point or another that we had chosen the wrong career path.

"What the fuck's this?"

"I don't understand what this means."

"'While', not 'Whilst'! How many more times?"

"Exclamation marks. We call them dogs' dicks."

"Who do you think you're working for, the FT? What have we said about sloppy copy?"

"There are journalists who drink and journalists who get drunk. Make sure you're not the latter."

"You're not Jane Austen. Just get on with it."

I now realise this was part of the psychology of the course's structure. Delwyn and Mike Williams (our other teacher - more about him later) had to knock the corners off us and reshape us into efficient news reporters.

We quickly learnt to become word Nazis - adjectives, council bullshit terms and jargon were public enemies one, two and three. I think I speak for all of us on the course when I say there were some pretty dark moments. Copy was returned looking like a road traffic accident, Delwyn's furious scribbles obscuring sentences you had so lovingly (and successfully, you hoped) constructed.

But god, it did us good. By Christmas, I knew instinctively what made a snappy intro and was learning all the time where words could be dropped or substituted for something more succinct. I still have a lot to learn. In fact, I don't think you can ever stop learning in this job because you're dealing with different people and different stories every day. That's one of the reasons I feel privileged to do it for a living. (note to self: that statement may work better when I actually have a job).

Delwyn took us through the ropes most of the time, complete with 'as an actor said the bishop' jokes and witty repartee with members of the class. It's no surprise that Delwyn worked on Private Eye. Satire reigns wherever he goes. From day one, despite it being a really tough course, I've laughed a lot. It's one of the things that kept me going.

Mike Williams taught us every Monday. His approach was slightly different - classes were more informal, and a welcome change from Delwyn's constant bollockings (these lessened as the year went on, thankfully).

Mike is a Fleet Street veteran - he's had executive roles on The Sunday Times, The Independent and The Independent on Sunday and writes for the Daily Mail. He also worked on Today with Colin Myler. His contact book includes His Majesty Paxman. Enough said.

Despite his busy schedule, Mike visited us northern monkeys at the beginning of every week and did all he could to help with advice he's picked up over the years, writing tips and what was, for me, a reminder of what I'm in this for: to get to London as soon as possible and hit the big time.

Hearing Mike's stories of insane news rooms and the buzz of the capital made me keep going during hard times when I felt like packing it in and getting a part-time job as a dinnerlady instead. Who said the best things are ever the easiest?

This blog post would not be complete without a tribute to Pat Brand, our shorthand teacher. She is a nag. She is relentless. She is wonderful.

I passed my 100 words a minute exam almost exactly five months to the day that I started the course because Pat was, and I say this with the greatest respect and gratitude, a slave driver, setting us ridiculous amounts of homework and publicly humiliating anyone who didn't do it.

I don't care that she worked us ridiculously hard - we weren't there to socialise. In fact, one of her party lines is "Come on, you're not here to enjoy yourselves." Although surprisingly, once she had beaten us into submission, we did have a laugh and a joke with her. She's ace.

Here are my tributes to my coursemates. Guys, it's been emotional. I've enjoyed working with you all and will genuinely miss your company. Thanks for putting up with me during production - I know I can be an over-emotional diva sometimes, but you all coped marvellously. I wish you every success in the future. Keep in touch!

In alphabetical order:

Aidan Hanratty

A perfectionist with a constantly enquiring, analytical mind. Whoever came up with the saying 'The Devil is in the detail' must have had Aidan in mind - he'll correct anyone on anything. Extremely knowledgeable about his music (does his own mixes) and a whizz on computers. He's helped me with IT related matters many a time, for which I'm very grateful. Cheers Chief.

Alison Stacey

I knew I loved this girl when she dressed up as a skeleton - and pulled it off. She works hard and plays hard - it's always fun to see what post-weekend injuries she'll roll in with on Monday morning (the latest involved falling into a bush, for which she had two tribal scratches to show). Came up with some cracking exclusives on The Courant, and will definitely go far in the national press. She also let me stay at her place during placement, which was jolly nice of her.

Alma Stewart-Burgess

Possibly the only person on the course who can make me laugh so much I run the risk of crying and/or incontinence. Alma is not only, in my opinion, one of the best journalists in the class (put her down in a strange town, she'll have five stories an hour later) but a comedienne and holistic therapist, which makes her fascinating company. She's done the course with two kiddywinkles at home - god knows how, I've struggled and I only have myself to look after. I really respect her for that and thoroughly enjoyed working with her on placement at the Lancashire Evening Post.

Beth Taylor

One of my closest friends on the course, I will miss Beth very much. Pretty much from day one we've been good pals, dissecting the events of the day on the walk to the train station and, more recently, spending many hours in contented silence revising. She's a bloody good mate, always there when you need her, and, I am delighted to say, the first in the class to get a job! So pleased for her - very much deserved. Stay in touch, douche bag. x

Callum D'Souza

Callum has dealt very well with being the only Southern Fairy (he hails from Southampton) among us clog wearing lot. It's a wonder he can understand what any of us are ever saying! A tenacious, determined journalist, I'm sure he'll get where he deserves to be.

Chris Terris-Taylor

So laid back, he's almost horizontal. Not much ruffles Chris's feathers, and he made a welcome contrast in the newsroom to mine and Alma's manic energy. A genuinely nice guy who will talk to anyone about anything. Into his gangsta rap - which I'm not, but I was grateful for your advice about that profile on Eminem back in October! Good luck in whatever you do.

Dave Mercer

The best editor you could hope for, Dave will always be remembered as a 'chilled out entertainer'. He ran The Courant with military precison, but somehow managed to more or less keep us all on an even keel, guiding us through tough times, deadlines that seemed impossible and giving us motivational talks just when we needed them. He did all this without ever being annoying (something I would never have managed). He worked damn hard too, staying until 4am some nights when we'd long gone. Much appreciated, Mercenary.

Emma Shahsvar

Is it a hurricane? Is it a foghorn? No. It's Emma Shahsvar and her hundreds of opinions, questions and polemic (complete with Jerry Springer indignant hand gestures). Whatever Emma does, she does it with the force of an outboard motor, powering along until before you know it, she's taken over and is running the show. Her controversial comments have been the source of much entertainment this year, and I think with that amount of vigour, Emma could probably do anything she set her mind to - and still be home in time to feed Winston, her beloved moggy.

Hannah Bargery

Barge, Barge Face, Argy-Bargy - Hannah's taken her fair share of nicknames this year. A couple of the lads have also taken to calling her 'Easter Egg head' - something I've still not quite got my own head round, but regardless, Hannah takes it all in good humour. You won't find a more down-to-earth, friendly, sunny soul - or a more dedicated Everton fan. She also shares my love for River Island clothes, which is always the mark of quality in a person's character. I didn't work with her during production, but my sources tell me she was excellent, and I can believe it.

James Illingworth

James and I have shared many a morning joke as early birds on the stupidly early trains that get in early from Ormskirk and Manchester respectively. James is very calming in a crisis - his deadpan, dry humour always makes me chuckle, and cheers me up about whatever I happen to be wringing my hands over. We've had good natured debates about feminism (he attemped to read The Female Eunuch, but gave up when it went into female anatomy. Persist, James! Germaine has much to teach you.) A great journalist, whether it's local tales about golliwogs (for which he has the copyright) or sport stories. A ruddy lad who I will miss.

Jamie Field

Take a few ill-timed jokes, a scatter-gun approach to subbing and throw in some innuendoes, and you are a step closer to understanding what it is like to work with this legend. Mr Field, I will miss your war stories about hitchhiking to Preston from Chesterfield. A source of wonderment and intrigue to us all. Have fun in Shanghai - via Blackpool Pleasure Beach, you mentalist!

Jenny Foulds

This girl is great at what she does - if only she'd believe it and big herself up more often. She fretted she had no stories for our last edition, then nailed the splash. Confidence, girl! You can and will succeed. Jenny has the patience of a saint, and has calmed me down on many an occasion when I've gone off on a rant. More importantly, she is an excellent listener; something every good journalist needs to be. She's off to bigger and better things in bonny Scotland, and I wish her all the best.

John Henry Robinson

Sarcastic, witty and fantastic at coming up with hilarious headlines. I'm very jealous of John's ability to coast along doing very little, pulling results out of the bag nonetheless. He has a rebellious streak which will stand him in good stead in this job - questioning authority and holding people to account are a big part of what it's all about. I'll never forget your trademark Dennis the Menace hoodie. Think you've worn it every day except possibly when we went to court.

Kev Rawlinson

'Le Kev', so called because of his love for all things Frog, will be on the nationals before you can say Byker Grove. He is possibly the most ambitious person on the course, applying for jobs while most of us were still finishing Easter eggs. A word of advice, though. Don't go to Kev if you want a yes or no answer. This guy can talk! All joking aside, I'm fond of Kev and his rambling explanations, where you forget the original question you asked him. Definitely one to watch - my guess is that he will go far.

Lisa Storey

The 'mother hen' of the class with a wicked sense of humour behind the seemingly quiet reserve. A few glasses of vino and all sorts of wonderfully smutty jokes emerge. An excellent journalist, although I bet if I said that to her she'd go all modest. She's been very kind to me when I've had down days, and I always appreciate her no-nonsense approach to problems. She's not afraid to defend the under-dog, which in a class of unmitigated egos is a rare quality to have.

Matt Monaghan

The Brent Meister General Extraordinaire. He has me in hysterics on the train journeys home (which I've most enjoyed and will dearly miss), as well as being a really good friend when I need advice about professional or personal matters. He does all this with the most waspish, witty sense of humour and I thoroughly enjoy his company. Oh yes, and he's a brilliant journalist. Nosy, persistent and an excellent nose for hard news. He's going to be tremendous wherever he goes.

Philippa West

I could definitely learn a thing or two from Philippa. She is confident, assertive and talented, but goes about her business unconcerned with what anyone else says or does with an air of self-assuredness that is far more effective than my stormy Mediterranean outbursts. A journalist who will not give up until she finds her next story, Philippa worked really hard for The Courant and was a valuable member of the team as someone we knew would just 'get on with it.'

Tom Collins

I boast the title of 'Tom Collins Expert' when it comes to this man, as I had to write a profile about him in the first week of the course. If only I knew then what I know now! A real team player, he put in some killer shifts as Chief Sub on The Courant. And he accompanied me to speed dating, something he wanted to do about as much as I would play football. Still, he did it, and was the perfect gentleman. Didn't we have a laugh in that dive of a casino? He cracks me up with his dismissive comments regarding my girly frivolities - a typical Yorkshire man with a deadpan sense of humour that I will miss.

Victoria Clayton

Victoria is one cool customer. I've never once seen her flapping or panicking - she just seems to coast through a day at a time without worrying too much. I would love to know how this is done, as it would do wonders for my blood pressure. Victoria has many different sides and voices, which make her an intriguing, humourous presence in the newsroom. I see her wearing fabulous cashmere suits and writing artistic reviews for The Observer.

ENDS