Hired! Sort of.

I know, I know, it’s been ages again and I’m sorry. But I’ve been very busy attempting to seem like I know a thing about style (i.e. disguising Primark/charity shop/ boarding-on-antique-they-are-so-old purchases as high-end fashion), learning to wear my hair in a very high chignon and desperately trying to not get caught eating cake or chocolate in the presence of eternal dieters. Women’s magazines are exhausting places to be sometimes. The pressure to wear augmented shoulders and bejewelled ballet flats was immense, I can tell you.

Anyway, that stint over, I have decided that the only way to get myself back into this godforsaken game of life is to employ myself. So I have and am now officially my own boss! I’ll spend three days a week in an office and two working from my own kitchen, and will be endeavouring to write a huge variety of articles on subjects ranging from dairy farms and legends of rural churches to the latest hire at a really obscure law firm in Uzbekistan. No, really.

But fret not! Under no circumstances does this mean the end of Employ-a-Bull, goodness no, what blasphemy! It will keep going just as long as this impious recession is around plaguing our lives, and who knows, maybe even beyond. Because recession or not, maximising skills, considering different options and learning new talents in order to further our careers will always be relevant – and that’s pretty much where this blog finds it heart.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I just have to go and give myself a health and safety briefing and not tell myself off for checking Facebook during office hours.

Blogging it about a bit

Below is a link to a little something I knocked up for a bloomin' great blog-style website called The London Word. Apologies in advance for always ranting about employment. Must try to diversify.

Click on me please!

Back to school

Ok, no more excuses. The schools have gone back, green batches of freshers are about to embark on a year of testing their livers to the limit, and WHSmith’s has slashed 50% off its stationary prices. All the signs are there; we’re in September.
As a consequence, I must accept that my summer recess has come to an end. Such is the reason behind my blogging hiatus – well, that and an abundant dollop of anxiety caused by a serious state of employment limbo (what else?), but there’ll be time to go into that later.
For now, how about some News in Briefs chronicling my first week of term.

Seeing Red
There are plenty of people who would kill to be in my position, I know. A month’s placement with the features team on Red magazine is nothing to be sniffed at. But Oh. My. God. I am so over sorting post and photocopying. It’s my first day, so I know I’ll have to bide my time before I get to do any of the juicier stuff, but let me ask you this. Is it wrong that I want to stick a big fat sign to my head that reads I’M 27, HAVE HAD SEVERAL FULL-TIME JOBS AND AM A GOOD WRITER! Is it?

A lifeline
Waaahoooo! The day the workie got a by-line in a national newspaper! How often do people get to say that? I must say this brightened up the daily cuttings task no end. Because on page 22 of the Daily Mail was none other than the article I’d written on, well, on urine actually! To be more precise, it’s about a website called RunPee, that can conveniently tell you exactly when the best moments are in a movie to go to the loo. Genius. The piece was published as part of a regular slot called Lifelines. Apt. But I only discovered just how much the following day.

An aptly timed rejection
This morning brought a call I had been dreading for approximately three weeks. The terrifying rejection from a job I honestly, dangerously, believed was mine. I was shaking terrifically when I took the call – is this the end of my frugal months of job hunting? I knew instantly from the tone of voice on the other end that it was not. But instead of collapsing in uncontrollable despair, I was actually ok. This came as such a shock to me, that it made me feel even better about the whole situation, to the point where I decided I had something to celebrate and spent the evening drinking fizzy wine with a good friend. Why? It may seem like nonsense to so many of you who have been telling me this for the past few months, but I simply realised that the situation I find myself in has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a crap journalist. On the contrary; it’s because of our crap economy. So I made a decision. I’m going to carry on. I’m going to manage this situation the best I can and one day, maybe next month, maybe next year, I’ll be back in the job I really want. Until then, look out nationals – here I come!

How to have a giggle and be a bit naughty at a wedding

I love weddings. Free booze, free food, everyone's happy (well, after the speeches are over) and you get to admire a lot of nice shoes. Such occasions do, however, invariably include a certain amount of hanging around, waiting for the bride to appear after being papped for the millionth time or metamorphosing into "Evening Bride", waiting for the speeches to be over, etc.

Anyway, it is at these junctures that you can indulge in what I like to refer to as 'fake careering'. The clue is in the name.

This is an especially fun pursuit if you hate your job (or indeed, wish you had one). Some people might call it lying. I prefer to think of it as creative research and an excellent tool of self-amusement.

To illustrate: More often than not, the seating plan will reveal you have been placed between two complete strangers, and it is very unlikely your paths will cross ever again. The champers is flowing and before you know it you're a make-up artist to the cast of Madame Butterfly at London's Coliseum theatre.

This is exactly what happened to me last Saturday at a friend's wedding where I knew precisely 1% of the other guests.

But I didn't stay a make-up artist all night - mais non! During the course of the evening I was a midwife, a set designer and a bonsai tree surgeon. Granted, the latter was at the height of inebriation, and whether the guy I was harping on to believed me, I doubt it, but at least it was a tad more interesting than answering “I’m unemployed” to the “so what do you do?” opening gambit, which inevitably sparks furious chatter about the severity of the recession. And honestly, who wants to talk about that at a wedding?

Weddings are meant to be dreamy occasions, so I reckon using them for a bit of personal escapism is allowed.

NB: Practice caution if it is a small gathering, or if you know over 6% of the other guests.

Will somebody please press play?

The blasted birthday. Just typical of it to have the audacity to fall right slap bang in the middle of my personal career crisis, now made all the more poignant by a new digit smirking away at me.

Why are we so hung up on age? Is it a female thing? Us being inherently programmed, thanks to our biological gift of bearing children, to constantly review where we’ve got to and whether we’ve ticked all the boxes on our life lists we made at the ripe age of 16.

I'm not too worried about not owning a house yet or being nowhere near walking down the isle. What I find hard is being in some kind of career limbo, and feeling like everyone else I know is whizzing past me on their respective career ladders while I stay rooted to the spot.

To illustrate: when I found out that former Apprentice candidate Deborah Barr is 23, I literally fell off the sofa. Whether it was the TV camera’s influence or not, she does look older, but regardless, to be so confident and to have arrived at such a point in her career that she was in the final three, incited in me pure panic. What have I done in the last four years? I ended up questioning my past decisions and doubting my ability to succeed as a journalist.

Admittedly, the Deborah debacle was short-lived, but what I can’t seem to shake off is this feeling that I’m on standby. That the recession has hit the pause button on my career and I’m incessantly fighting to get it back on play.