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.