END OF THE WORLD: HOW I BECAME A FLEET STREET CASUALTY AT 25

Why is it that I ever thought I wanted to be that person, chasing around town for stories that in two days, everyone would have already forgotten?

It was a strange feeling to muse over as I instructed my new reporter to go on a door knock for The People. It was an X Factor job – the worst kind.

When you work on a Sunday newspaper, the TV and Showbiz editor find out what’s going to be televised the following night in advance, so you get a sneak preview of who is going to be good, and attract the attention of the viewers.

It’s usually on a Friday afternoon, when you’re exhausted from the non-stop events, idea pitching and copy writing, that you hear the dreaded words from your editor: “ I need you to do some digging.”

Let’s get this clear from the start. I love trying to find things out about people through social networking, door knocking, tracing phone numbers and all the other tools you use as a journalist.

But my god, you’ve got to be hungry for it. Nothing else matters when you work at a place like News of the World – your tiredness, the fact you’ve fallen out with your boyfriend, or the hand ticking slowly around the clock telling you there’s no way you’ll be in time to catch your mates at the pub.

“He’s going to be on the show tomorrow. Tulisa smiles at him. We’re doing a spread.”

Invariably it’s some little twerp from Milton Keynes, banging on about how he fell off his bicycle in Year One and has been a ‘fighter’ ever since (cut to shots of mum and dad, wiping away tears in the wings).

Then, after a tense silence during which Tulisa licks her lips and Kelly raises a quizzical eyebrow, he sings. It’s usually something whiney like ‘Ben’, to showcase his strange, pitch-perfect little voice. Audience is in raptures.

I, meanwhile, am in his nana’s house in Barking, a full 24 hours before any of you guys are even aware of who this person is.

I’ve been told to come away from the house with nothing less than:

A picture of him with the Queen – disco dancing

Text messages from Cheryl Cole, saying she thought he was cute

A tragic revelation, for example, X FACTOR STAR’S CANCER FEARS

But I loved it. I loved it all. I relished being sent out on jobs because it meant you’d been trusted. You could be your own boss too, and as long as your brought home the bacon, it didn’t matter how you went about it, strictly speaking.

So why do I no longer want to do those things? I love teaching promising young trainees how to do it, as I watch them blossom and grow in confidence. But when it comes to me? The girl who was once dubbed ‘the most tenacious terrier in Fleet Street’ has changed.

Ever since Rebekah stood in front of us that fateful day, after a very peculiar week and the most toxic, brewing atmosphere I have ever worked in, it is like a spark within me has fizzled out. Not even fizzled – it didn’t have chance to fizz. It was snuffed out, like a candle.

In one foul swoop, the course of my life changed forever. The utter trauma of having what was at times a very difficult (but always intensely private internally) work place beamed across the world alongside words like ‘criminal investigation’, ‘arrested’ and ‘jailed’ had a huge effect on me.

It’s a cliché, but my dreams were shattered. Expansively. As the number of people being arrested totted up like a bus queue, the fire in belly got cooler and cooler. I was angry. So the sacrifices I’d made – a social life, a job with decent money and any sort of work life balance, on top of the endless psychological torturing I inflicted upon myself that I was never good enough, I couldn’t rest until I had my first splash (a goal I never had the chance to achieve), had not, strictly speaking, been worth while.

Yes, yes, I KNOW I gained invaluable experience, met some wonderful people and had some incredibly exciting times.

But now, the whole world was talking about us. People I knew and liked very much were arrested in dawn swoops.

It was impossible (for me, anyway), to ignore the fury rising against us as a whole paper. As the days went on and I watched, horrified, the shambolic Select Committee and news of more arrests, I noticed my passion for the job shrinking.

Why?

I haven’t done anything wrong. I was a confident, exuberant journalist, full of ideas and ambition, who liked to get the stories the old fashioned way.

Just twelve months earlier, I was grinning from ear to ear after winning the Robert Warren scholarship. A two-year contract at the best paper in the world. “The nearest thing to job security there is these days,” I told my friends, smugly.

The daughter of a journalist, this was pretty much what I’d wanted my whole life.

It didn’t matter when people called you scum on the doorstep. “I’m from the News of the World,” you’d insist, knowing that this held major clout. At the very least, people were intrigued. Yes, that’s right. The paper that broke so many world exclusives, sold millions of copies and prided itself on agenda setting stories. Now are you going to let me in?

There was a sort of arrogant pride I felt working there. I must be alright at what I do – because otherwise they wouldn’t have hired me.

There were days when I felt I couldn’t do it. It was tough. Competing against everyone constantly is against my nature – bit of a problem at a paper like that, described as a ‘competitive yet collaborative’ environment.

Yes, I wanted to be the best. But I also wanted to be content and happy, and if I’m honest, a lot of the time I was knotted up in nerves, running on empty and chasing a dream that soon became labelled as dirty.

It was confusing. For months I’d told myself on the rough days: Get a grip. You’re a trainee. This is supposed to be hard.

But it’ll all be worth it one day.

This phrase hung in my mind all the time. It didn’t matter if I lost a front page because I didn’t manage to sneak into Cheryl Cole’s birthday party. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t quite established myself yet, and was firmly at the bottom of the food chain.

As long as I kept trying, and learning, one day I would have my front page, exclusives coming out of my ears and a contact book to make Piers Morgan weep.

Fast forward a year: OH NO YOU WON’T!

When Rebekah (whose hair, on another note, is simply massive. She’s like a ginger Diana Ross. These are the trivial things you find yourself noticing when you’re being hit by the news that a 168-year-old institution is being closed) closed the paper, I realised that I felt horribly cheated.

Some journalists have something to prove. There’s got to be something deep down that makes you mad enough to sit outside Gary Barlow’s house in the rain, crouch in bins while following people and stay up all night, so exhausted after writing 2,000 words, you grab power naps in your car on your lunch break.

I certainly had something to prove. My dad was on the Daily Express by the time he was 20 (it was good back then), and journalism was a deep bond we shared.

If I was on a doorknock, I’d call him for advice while sitting in the car outside. How should I approach this? What’s the best way to get this woman to talk?

Every Sunday, we’d go through the paper. He would always say my piece was the best – totally biased, but it made me glow with pride. I was following my dad’s legacy and working on the stories that everyone was talking about.

When it closed, this was gone. I didn’t want to talk about it any more. I think I’ve been on one doorknock since. Quite simply, I feel like I can’t do it any more. And I have no idea why.

Talking to ex colleagues has been interesting. One said she felt like a ‘massive twat’ – and I agreed. It’s totally illogical, as no-one is accusing me of hacking phones or doing anything criminal.

But it was my home, my family for 10 months. So it was inevitable that as a trainee on the paper, the fact that we became the world’s most wanted left me feeling like a vulnerable kid who’s the victim of a nasty divorce.

I want to know where my passion has gone. It’s not totally dead – I’m now running the press agency where I used to work, and hiring my own team. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing young reporters sell a story on my instruction, grow in confidence and improve in their writing.

But the desire to prove I’m the best, get more contacts and knock on people’s doors has vanished.

It’s a strange feeling, one I never expected. I was totally ‘mad fer it’ when I started, and would have jumped in the fire if there was a scoop to be found.

But the scale of the revelations, and the fact that the story rumbled on all summer, more layers emerging every day, infected me with a sense of shame and sadness. This wasn’t what I signed up for.

I suppose I was chasing a golden age that I’d heard my dad talking about. But suddenly, all that remained of my dreams were a stack of unused business cards and some yellowing cuttings.

Slowly, I’m picking up the pieces and creating new dreams – ones where I’m a successful manager/editor, and I share with my new staff the invaluable lessons I learnt there.

But my old dreams? I left them under my desk, before marching outside wearing a dreadful T-shirt to cover my comfort eating paunch and facing the world’s press.

RIP @scoop20

Cheryl, Ashley and the rise of the sexual opportunist

I tried, I really did. I breathed deeply, I ate a chocolate bar, I concentrated on my work.

But I couldn’t help it. The anger simmering away for the past few months since Tiger Woods crashed his car in the middle of the night finally exploded – and I have to write about it.

The catalyst was this:

There’s a nice lady, Jenny, who works on Reception at the Famous Features office.

I was asking her to change a fiver for me – a seemingly banal task, and an insignificant part of my day.

But as she fumbled around for pound coins, I happened to ask her opinion on Colegate – as yesterday, Cheryl Cole issued a statement formally announcing the split from Ashley.

‘Oh, my husband brought some of his friends over from the golf club last night,’ she said breezily. ‘They were all saying she deserves it.’

I stopped in my tracks, puzzled. Surely I’d misheard her?

‘Why is it Cheryl’s fault?’ I enquired, incredulously.

She shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, she was never at home, she was always off promoting her album everywhere, doing the X-Factor stuff…’

Smoke billowing out of my ears, I interrupted: ‘So, hang on a minute. He’s allowed to kick a ball around the globe, but because she’s not barefoot, pregnant and chained to the sink, and she’s actually carving out a successful career, that makes this whole sorry mess inevitable?

‘Like it’s some sort of PUNISHMENT for being ambitious?’

Those of you who know me are aware that I am an ardent feminist, and this particular argument made my toes curl with wrath.

How many women have to throw themselves under horses, juggle bottle feeding with board meetings and generally stretch themselves to a ridiculous capacity before it will be OK for women to reach for the stars, without worrying that this will provoke our male counterparts into cheating with a Dollybird?

Jenny added lamely: ‘The younger lads in their twenties were all saying ‘Good on him.’

That, for me, compounded what has been nearly a week’s worth of fury over:

THE RISE OF THE SEXUAL OPPORTUNIST.

Famous ones include Tiger Woods, John Terry, Ashley Cole, and even Our Vern.

But they’re everywhere. Blokes who will shag as many women as they possibly can, irrespective of what they have with each particular girl (be it marriage, a full-blown relationship, or a casual yet promising fling).

Of course, girls are guilty of that too. I’m hardly a nun, but what I would never do is have my cake, eat it and betray people I cared about – all because I thought I could get away with it as long as no questions were asked.

Sexual opportunists have always existed. But it seems that during the last couple of weeks, they’ve been everywhere, peopling my nightmares and shattering any illusions I had about finding someone decent to share my life with.

What Ashley, Tiger, John and EVEN VERNON KAY have done is particularly odious, because they are all married.

They stood in front of family, friends, and OK!’s cameramen, and solemnly declared to forsake all others and be faithful.

While Vernon may not have actually penetrated anyone (although it wouldn’t surprise me if that was tomorrow’s headline in The Sun, my faith has been so badly damaged), his is a betrayal as much as the others’.

He was sexually suggestive to a woman who wasn’t his wife – his wife who has just given birth to their second daughter.

As if a woman isn’t vulnerable enough when she has a child (hormones, stretch marks, post-natal depression, sleepless nights, etc), her ‘Family man’ husband is busy texting a buxom blonde about how nice her tits look on Page 3.

I find this incredibly upsetting. Perhaps I’ve been idealistic, but until recently I’ve always had hope that there are good guys out there.

But the flurry of stories about all the dirty business that’s been done, in the arrogant faith that they won’t be found out and that silence can be purchased, has smashed this hope.

I’m reading a brilliant book at the moment by best-selling novelist Dorothy Koomson, ‘The Ice Cream Girls.’

I won’t give too much away, because you should all go out and buy it. But I read a line last night that made me cry, because it resonated so sharply:

"'Thank you,’ I say to him, meaning every letter of those words.

He stares at me, bemused and bewildered.

‘I…nope, that’s it, thank you.’

‘For?’

‘For reminding me that I can trust no one. I’d actually allowed myself to forget that for one sorry moment.'"

What I hate about all this dirty laundry in the news is that it’s making me feel exactly like the sentiments in that quote – like I can’t trust anyone, and am foolish to let my guard down even for a minute and hope, just hope, that someone might be different.

But the excuses that (mostly) men are now coming up with in Ashley’s defence are doing worse than that. They’re making me so angry I could cry:

‘Men like sex with females – women are more emotional.’ (Leigh Thompson)

‘The reality is men think with their penis, naturally, and bar a few, this will never stop.’ (Leigh Thompson)

‘He’s a bloke and likes to sample the bitches, like that caveman did in the cave after a hard day’s sabre tooth fighting.’ (Leigh Thompson)

Leigh, by the way, is a particularly erudite, intelligent Crawley gentleman who was kind enough to offer these pearls of wisdom when I mentioned this blog on Facebook.

I’ll always be grateful for his, ahem, input.

WHY is it OK to use biology as an excuse for these people (and yes, yes, I know women cheat too, before you say it)?

That’s like saying ‘Oops, I just shit on the floor, but Cavemen used to do it, so that’s why.’

And just because ‘That’s the way it’s always been,’ does that mean it’s OK?

Surely the point of being a human, as opposed to a rutting dog on heat, is that we have evolved and are supposedly more sophisticated because we are able to think and process information, as opposed to acting purely on instinct.

So what stopped Ashley Cole from thinking, when that rancid pug-dog Aimee Walton agreed to go to bed with him, (I assume this was before he vomited over her) that it was time to do the right thing – because we AREN’T dogs?

Using biology to excuse this behaviour is mightily convenient, and I used to do it myself, all the time.

It was a way of taking the control out of the bloke’s hands, and excusing what they did as something they couldn’t help.

‘They think with their crotch, and if they truly believe they can get sex with different women without being found out, they’ll do it,’ I chirped merrily, trying to convince myself more than the people I was talking to.

‘They just can’t help themselves, biology takes over.’

‘We shouldn’t expect anything more, because that’s just how they’re programmed to behave.’

But you know what? It’s not OK. I’m not making excuses for them any more.

But it goes for both sexes. Betrayal is not OK, whatever sex, colour or creed you are. And by the way, being economical with the truth is just as bad as lying, and hurts the same.

So whether it’s texting, sexting, or whatever – it’s a shitty thing to do.

Ashley, I hope you realise what you’ve lost. And for any other guy or girl reading this who has squirmed because I’ve described their behaviour?

Sort it out. You’re pathetic.

Bye for now...

So, I've got to stop blogging. Gutted.

It was the perfect way to reach out to people and say 'Hey. I can write. Someone employ me. Please!'

But now I have a job, I have to think more long-term.

Say I want a job on one of the nationals in the next year or so. When you work for a big paper, you're part of that brand.

I've been advised that my blog is a little too honest, a little too opinionated...and a bit self-indulgent.

Which was fine when I didn't have a job. I had nothing to lose.

But in a year or so, when I'm looking for another job, a future employer could look at my blog and think 'Hmmm. This girl is a bit too honest/out there/liberal/gobby/in your face' (any or all of the above).

Sometimes as a journalist, the less information you have about yourself online, the better. So that's why this is my farewell blog. It's time to hide myself away - until I'm a national columnist. Then I'll have the right to be out there, flaunting my views about this, that and the other.

Thanks to everyone who's read my blog so far...I really appreciated your support in my days of unemployment and low self-esteem.

Fear not, though. I'll be back! x

Why staring silently ahead on public transport is in, and finger kissing is OUT

I'm a very tactile, loving person. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my emotions are constantly bubbling underneath the surface.

I feel things very deeply. If I like you, I love you. If you bore me or are a bit of a twerp, you may as well be dead to me. Harsh but true.

I cry quite a few times a week, sometimes for no apparent reason, just a bit of an emotional aerobics, I suppose. If my friends are going through bad times, I'll often cry on my own thinking about them.

Or, that bit at the end of Little Mermaid when King Triton paints Ariel a rainbow and she says softly: "I love you Daddy." Cue Alex in bits on the floor, mascara rivers stylishly ingrained on my blotchy face.

My point is this: I am not your typically uptight, emotionally retarded Brit. I feel extremely at home in the company of fiery, unpredictable people driven by instinct and emotion - for I understand it.

But lately, travelling on the London Underground has led me to question myself. Am I really that comfortable with emotion when it's being demonstrated in a public manner? Or are my miniature disasters only acceptable if it's me, on my own, snivelling into a bag of pretzels?

I was prompted to ask these questions after the last few times I've travelled on the tube. I've been working in Crawley, West Sussex since I started my fabulous new job as a feature writer two weeks ago, but often use the tube to go in and out of London to meet friends.

I went armed with all the usual pre-conceptions northerners hold about travelling on the underground - in fact, about 'that there London' more generally.

"You could fall over in t'street and no-one would look twice at yer..."

"Don't make eye contact with anyone; just bury yer 'ed in t'paper..."

"Not very friendly them Londoners, are they?"

But astonishingly, I found myself to be the frigid, stony faced traveller, while everyone else on the tube journeys I made indulged in my ultimate pet hate...PDA (Public Displays of Affection).

This is not because I'm bitter and single. I've been in plenty of relationships, and I've also been single for over a year now. I know how it is when you first fall in love and feel the need to lick each other's face every now and again.

But DON'T do it in public! It's sooooo cliched and embarrassing for everyone else! Love is definitely a kind of madness, and this becomes clear when you look at people biting each other's noses playfully, kissing each other's fingers, nibbling earlobes and - I kid you not - central line mid July - ADMINISTERING LOVEBITES.

Keep it to yourself, please! Surely these things will be more special and intimate if you do them behind closed doors, away from my horrified eyes and gossipy blog.

So please, everyone. Do what you want between the sheets. But spare me the sight of your foreplay. It's very unclassy.

Off to Marbella for four days now. Bye! x

Welcome to the Oestrogen Lounge

If you're a bloke, look away now. This is strictly a women only zone.

The most bizarre, wonderful and yet erratic day prompts me to write this blog, just as I'm back from the gym where I've been trying to burn out some of my PMT.

Yes, lads, that's right. I AM going to go there. Premenstrual tension. I have it in abundance.

I'm quite lucky with my 'monthly miseries', as periods go. I don't really get stomach cramps or sickness, which some of my friends do. How they stagger out of bed to work each month is a wonder.

However, although I don't get pains in my stomach, I get them pretty much everywhere else.

My skin erupts into a volcanic, pizza-esque fury that no amount of Touche Eclat can cover up.I feel plump and bloated - there's a picture on some Tube lines of a woman wearing a rubber ring, with the implication that she is suffering from water retention. I can confirm that it feels horrible.

I also develop a sort of waddle when I'm due on - kind of how pregnant women walk, except I'm not pregnant (that's the whole point). Periods are a cruel reminder that you are, for now, a million miles away from being in a position to bring a child into the world.

Not that I want a child yet. In fact, at this point in my life, it's probably my worst nightmare. But every month, I just think: "Ah, yes. Not only am I only just able to look after my neurotic, twenty-something self. But this is nature's way of saying I'm barren, too. I'll never find a bloke. I'm fat, ugly and despicable. AAAAAGH!"

Every little negative thing seems worse. Not just worse, but DREADFUL. I tend to lose perspective, and get panicky about things that really do not matter (like whether you packed a spoon to eat your yoghurt with at lunchtime. Who gives a toss? you wonder. Me, when I turn into a walking hormone).

Sometimes, when you're single, alone in a bedsit, with nothing but Sunday's issue of Fabulous to keep you company and a heady mix of hormones racing round your body, this is enough to tip you over the edge.

EVERYTHING seems worse when you're due on. The slightest thing can set you on edge and make you want to weep/punch things. Any man who thinks I'm over-exaggerating quite simply does not know what he's talking about. You have never been through it; therefore, you will shut up and listen.

Once, when approaching that delightful time of the month, I was in the shower and the curtain kept wrapping round my leg. I was furious, and close to tears. Why couldn't it just leave me alone? Normally it would only be vaguely annoying, or even funny, but I honestly felt defeated and on the verge of snapping. Scary.

Or you'll have your iPod on shuffle, and the haunting strains of Sinead O'Connors 'Nothing Compares 2U' seep into your consciousness before you have time to quickly flick to another track. You're in bits, and it hasn't even got to the "It's been seven hours...." opening wail. It's pitiful.

The final straw for me was when my lovely boss and editor, Sally, bought her scrumptious daughter Ruby into the office last week to show her where Mummy worked.

Ruby got upset because it was a strange place/she'd just woken up/she was developing toothache. Sally was so lovely with her, cuddling her closely and playing see-saw, Marjorie Door, across the table until Ruby's little face lit up with love and happiness.

You guessed it. The tears were pricking behind my eyelids, and I had to give myself a QUICK talking to.

Why was I crying? Well, it's anything that touches any sort of emotion in you. When you're approaching 'that time', these emotions are felt with a peculiar, white-heat sort of intensity - well, they are with me, anyway.

My tummy like a rubber ring, my skin red and blotchy and my hormones causing me to weep at love scenes between Roy and Hayley, I'm a bit of a liability around the 10th of each month. Tears, tantrums, yes. Teasing, no. If you make fun of Alex while she is like this, Alex will cry. At you. Ardently.

By the end of the whole thing, I'm usually musing two things quite strongly. 1) All this to have children? And 2) They'd better be worth it!

Sally assures me they are. I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Ah, Sally. That brings me to the next part of the blog. The oestrogen lounge that was the Famous Features office today. That's right, I have a job, working permanently for Sally, who used to be my freelance editor. So far, I am absolutely loving it. Yes, I love the work I do, which always helps. But the people I work with really make it special.

The new Famous Features office consists of three people: Sally, Gareth and I. It's a fabulous, close-knit environment, and I sort of feel like Sally and Gareth are my older brother and sister. They look out for me, help me - and I pester Gareth for help with computer stuff in a little-sister sort of way. It's loads of fun, and I am delighted that this is the job I have ended up with.

Today, though, it was just Sally and I in the office, as Gareth was having his car MOT'd. And guess what. Both of us were premenstrual. Not only that, but we realised after invasive questioning on both sides that we both took our last Pill yesterday, and both take the same kind of Pill.

Do you understand what this means? Basically, today we merged into the same nightmare hormone. Our cycles are synchronised - this is augmented by the fact that we even take the same Pill.

Well, what a day we had! We talked and talked (in between writing and selling hard-hitting features, of course), about loves, hates, laughter, disappointments and difficult times.

It was a no-holds barred, inherently feminine atmosphere. We were, as Sally later text me (we both reflected on the day with incredulity) like two balls of cosmic hormonal energy bouncing off each other.

She'd fill up with tears, and just about get a hold of it. Then I would. Then we both would. Somehow we each managed to hold back from actually sitting on the floor, doing some PMT busting yoga and scoffing Maltesers. We held it together. We held each other together.

I'm pretty sure that had I been successful in any of the other jobs I'd applied for up to now, my day would have been a lot different. I would have done a lot of face-scrunching, swift trips to the loo to have a quick, cleansing sob (it's hormones, I can't help it, a pox on anyone who says otherwise) and eaten a hell of a lot more chocolate.

But I was at least comforted by the fact that Sally was going through the same thing. She, in turn, was marvellously supportive.

We both traversed each other's highs and lows. I bemoaned my complexion, she bemoaned hers. I clung to her during my blood sugar's see-sawing - she was comforted by my proffering of chocolate during a difficult and sensitive phone call she took.

No matter how feminism has changed over the decades, I think there's something about women helping other women through a process that's as old as the hills (this doesn't make it any easier) that truly captures what feminism is about.

It's that shared experience thing, where you know implicitly that the other person just gets what you are going through.

And that's where we were today. Two women, both single, barren, both spotty, both demented. At least in a few days we'll be back to normal. We keep telling ourselves this, anyway.

Thanks, Sal. Oh, for fuck's sake. I'm filling up again.

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...