'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!