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...

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

Love and the marriage hearse

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 ;-)

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.

Beauty from the outside in

This evening I'm thinking about beauty.

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.

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

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.

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.

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...

Love, relationships...CONTROL

Hi folks. Haven't blogged for a long time because I didn't know what to say.

But having listened to Simon Kelner's fabulous lecture last week about newspapers needing to find a new niche in the market, I've given this blog business a rethink.

I always agonised over how to mash up a news story in a 'blog-savvy' way - then realised there was no point.

I am never going to beat the BBC or Sky news in terms of breaking news - neither are most newspapers. So I've decided to create my own brand of blogging, consisting of discursive opinion, comment and debate. If you like it, great. If it's not 'hard news' enough, allow me to direct you to the BBC homepage. That's not what this is about.

Kelner reckons (and he's editor-in-chief of The Independent, so I'd listen to what he has to say), that newspapers are increasingly going to become 'viewspapers' - based more on analysis of news, rather than the news itself. This way it gets round the problem of the internet always pipping us to it when it comes to scoops.

So I thought I'd blog about something that interests me, and gives me room for exploring. You guessed it - it's a rip-off of Carrie Bradshaw's musings about sex, love and relationships. It's not particularly aimed at specifically men or women - it's aimed at those who are interested in relationship politics in a changing world. And other stuff I have to say, obviously.

Love, relationships and control? My point is this, and I'd be interested to hear what people think. Basically, it's widely believed that even in a very even-handed, democratic relationship, there is one party who has the upper hand, even if this is slightly.

Who asked who out? Who said the 'L' word first? Who is more needy? These are the markers that decide who is more into who. It sounds trivial, but it's true.

The games played in the early days are a perfect example. Both parties are trying to establish who is in charge. Timed interludes between texts, not returning calls, not having sex on a first date - it's nothing to do with morality, it's to do with feeling in control.

The trouble is, you can't have your cake and eat it. Having control means you have power with nothing to show for it. Not returning a text means you won't get one back. Not having sex with someone (not necesarily because it's a first date, perhaps that was a bad example) but because you want to feel in control and the one with all the cards is fine, but you don't get to experience the intimacy, pleasure and fun of having sex with someone you are attracted to/in love with.

Yet - if you ask a guy out first, make the first move in the bedroom, ask him to marry you, and all those other things that turn the traditional male/female roles on their head, it is exciting, but you have potentially lost 'the control', or the power that comes from knowing someone is pursuing you relentlessly.

But why should this be? Why can't women make the first move without suddenly feeling vulnerable and 'out of control'?

Society has drummed it into us that men are hunter gatherers, while women are passive and sit in towers waiting to be rescued. They put this down to biology, using the examples of male and female reproductive data. Sperm are active, pursuing the egg and swimming furiously towards it, while the egg is passive and sits there waiting to be fertilised. Believe it or not, this has been the blueprint for defining gender relations for a long time.

I think a lot of women have got themselves into a pickle because of these firmly defined roles. They hang onto the 'control' in a relationship for dear life. "I'm not texting him. He can call me. And I'm making him wait for sex." But surely these small victories are fruitless because you are then depriving yourself as well?

However, give in to instinctual feelings or urges and very quickly the man has tired of you because there's no 'challenge', or because somebody openly pursuing him threatens his masculinity and makes him feel emasculated.

So what the hell, as liberated 21st century girls, are we supposed to do? Sit in the tower twiddling our thumbs while we wait to be rescued? Or text him saying 'Pls cum n rescu me' only to get no response because you were too 'available'?

Sod that lot. I'm having a cuppa soup.