The Weight Debate

Having been mute for quite a while, I read something earlier that intrigued me and I decided to pipe up.

TOPSHOP was earlier forced to remove a particular photograph of one of their models from their website, after backlash from eating disorder groups.

I have to say, after learning this model was a size 8 I was fairly shocked. Either my idea of shapes and clothes sizes is warped, this photograph has been severely photo-shopped or the angle of the camera has captured the model in the wrong lighting. Having been taken by a pro for a widely-visited website, however, I'm of the opinion it has been photo-shopped. But why? What is it that Topshop are trying to promote with that image, exactly?

Before I go any further, I would just like to state that despite being a size 12 with the desire to being a size 10 again, I will not be sitting here slandering the slimmer models. People are quick to slag off campaigns with 'skinny models', and I am not naive to the fact that there are some pretty ill-looking girls on the catwalks, but what about when we're talking about naturally thin girls with a healthy appetite and an interesting look to her? Should she be ostracized for her size and cast aside, for fear of healthy groups going mad? I know some beautiful, slim girls, one of whom is fondly termed as the 'human dustbin' and if she's reading this now I hope she'll smile, who have just as much right to live their lives in piece without being scrutinized and publicly lashed. Eliminating the percentage of people who simply have no empathy or common decency, you wouldn't publicly criticize a plus-size model for shedding her clothes.(Beth Ditto, the voice behind The Gossip, was praised for her decision to pose naked for a magazine for 'shedding her weight-issues and leading the way for all plus-size women'. Go her.) People tend to embrace it, regardless of whether they avert their eyes or push away their forks at the mere sight, they do at least accept it. You wouldn't find it fair or courteous to brand a person fat for all to see, so how can it be any less hurtful for those who are branded 'skinny'?

It's the media's ability to make everybody appear slimmer, thus the public want to BE slimmer, thus sympathy for those who are branded 'too skinny', however untrue or hurtful, is few and far between.

I have a younger sister who is nineteen. She has a beautiful, slender figure. She has a stomach as flat as a pancake, yet she has hips and she has shape. Growing up, as the sister slowest to develop, she was often called (not by me, I should add) names such as 'scrawny' and 'skinny-ring-ting' and so on and so forth. She still harbours insecurities about her slim figure to this day, while I continue to envy her for it. On the other hand, I have a brother who was 'a bit on the chubby side' growing up, yet nobody 'had the heart' to tell him so. It was deemed 'rude' and 'unkind' to state the obvious in this particular case.

The girl from this particular photo is a size 8. That is not too skinny at all. I daresay she sits at the table with her family most Sundays and gorges on a plate of roast potatoes and lamb.

Groups have slammed Topshop further for simply changing the image, and not the model. This is an absolute outrage. How dare they speak out so negatively about a girl whose only 'fault' is that she is slim? How many of our friends do we hang around with the same size that we do not question or interrogate about eating habits?

Topshop's crime was to photoshop this image to within an inch of its life, distorting this model's features and making her appear skeletal. The newer image Topshop released in its place depicts a much fresher-faced, healthier looking girl...regardless of her being slim.

I do understand the importance of taking responsibility for the influence models, advertising, retailers, etc has on young girls and women everywhere, but I fear people are beginning to lose sight of the line and are now querying every naturally-slim woman in the public eye.

There are enough insecure girls in this world, whether they be slim or plus-size, without groups and campaigns sticking their ore in.

Naomi's latest disgrace.

In my eyes, Naomi Campbell has always been a spoilt brat, whose ego far exceeds her actual 'talent'. Having been clouded with bad coverage over the years, ranging from diva tantrums, public brawls to physical attacks on her staff,and her possession of blood diamonds that she claimed, falsely, she had no idea about, I thought Naomi could sink no lower.

I then read about Naomi's apparent fury about Cadbury's newest advert, branding them racist.

The 39 year-old supermodel is supposedly offended that the chocolate company used her name in an ad for their Dairy Milk Bliss bar.

Speaking directly to The Independent of her shock and upset to be 'described as chocolate, not just for herself but for all black women and black people', she is reportedly considering 'every option available' after Cadbury initially refused to block the ad.

Activist groups in the U.K are said to be calling for a boycott on the brand; a ludicrous attempt to exempt the long-standing chocolate company from the market.

Is it me, or does this just scream 'attention-seeking' and 'I haven't done any projects lately, what an easy way to make some cash'?

I can't condone racism, but I also can't stand it when the term is used for actions that clearly aren't racist.

It becomes a sad day when marketing groups have to pull good adverts or review projects, purely on the basis that somebody may cry 'racist'.

It's clearly not a racist or vindictive advert, merely highlighting a well-known fact that Naomi Campbell is a control-freak, over-paid diva, and using it to invoke humour and familiarity within an advertising campaign.

A spokesperson for Cadbury insists that even though the ad was a 'light-hearted take on the social pretensions of Cadbury Dairy Milk Bliss, the ad was no longer in circulation'.

Had the ad been based on white chocolate, Naomi would not have a leg to stand on and everybody would see it as a dig at her bad publicity and image, but instead of seeing the humour in it, she thought straight away of colour. Surely by making these ads, the company itself is reflecting the lack of thought they put into skin-tone and colour and more the idea of familiarising the hottest new snack to one of the world's hottest super-stars, and Naomi is being over-sensitive.

If Cadbury had any idea of the allegations that could have been made against them, I'm sure several of their officials wouldn't have given it the green light.

"Racism in the playground starts with black children being called 'chocolate bar'. At best, this is insensitive, and at worst it demonstrates Cadbury's utter disregard for causing offence," a member of the Operation Black Vote said. "Its lack of apology just adds insult to injury. The Eurocentric joke is not funny to black people."

I have run this storyline past black, white and asian friends, all of whom have sputtered at the sheer indignity of her reaction to what the majority of us see as another one of Cadbury's 'weird, yet wonderful' adverts.

In hind-sight, with so much political correctness flying around, it surprises me that Cadbury did not foresee this. Whether they were oblivious to the scandal it could cause, or indifferent to it due to the innocent view in which they were conducting it, it was clearly a mistake they must now deal with.

In other news, Lewis Hamilton has also apologised for his 'maybe it's because I'm black' quip, quoting a famous Ali-G slogan, when speaking of the stewards' decision to penalise him twice.

What's with all the sensitivity? It was clearly said in jest, and like Cadbury's, a foolish judgement on his part to make such a comment. Having cameras in your face, the adrenaline of just racing, not to mention the emotions he was feeling at the time, makes us all awkward at times, often resulting in saying the wrong thing.

If surrounded by friends, he would probably have been comfortable with joking about something similar to this, as many people of black origin do. It was naive of him to believe he could approach the public with the same light-hearted attitude, but that was his only crime.

The public can't critisize Naomi Campbell, which they have, for being 'too sensitive' and in the same breath condemn Lewis Hamilton for being the opposite.

Both Cadbury and Lewis Hamilton have acted foolishly, but it comes down to us as a society that issues like these are still raised.

Race Scandal

Celebrity hair-stylist James Brown yesterday apologised for a drunken, racist rant at a TV host.

James Brown had recently taken to the screen as mentor for E4's 'The Great British Hairdresser', but following his actions, E4 may want to review their decision to work with him in the future. In my opinion, his behaviour displays nothing relating to the words 'great' or 'British'.

Having seen his attitude and bitchy demeanor throughout the series, I had already decided that I wasn't keen on Brown. I understand that Fashion and Beauty is a cut-throat industry where opinions and facts are told brusquely everyday, but I think he put himself across as nothing short of ill-mannered and, to a point, relatively two-faced in numerous situations.

As well as being a celebrity Hair Stylist, he is also a 'close associate' of Kate Moss, and is clearly a second-rate celebrity eager to cling on to anybody famous.

On the night in question, Brown verbally attacked his then friend, Ben Douglas, by calling him a 'n****r's bitch'. He repeatedly used the N-word and drew attention to the fact that Ben was insulted by it.

The incident took place at the Bafta TV Awards, making this shameful act even more audacious; not only was this person able to use such vocabularly, he did it publicly, uncaring as to the ugly scene he had created.

After Ben refused to name the 'star' following the incident, Brown 'came clean' on Twitter, making a full apology for his actions.

He blamed his apparent 'issues with alcohol' for which he would seek immediate, professional help. He described the attack as an 'eye-opener' to his drinking problem and told how he was embarrassed and ashamed by his actions.

This is all bollocks, of course. Vocabulary as vile as that doesn't just appear from nowhere, intoxicated or not. I have been drunk on numerous occasions, and I have used language that I'm not proud of, but I have never been racist, sexist or discrimatory in any way. If you're not familiar with using racist terms, you will never 'accidentally' let slip racist terms when drunk. Simple as.

Typically, Brown immediately defended his actions by insisting that he had black friends, whom he referred to as 'brothers', a common slang term used for black men, and that members of his family had married into the black community.

So what? I am mixed-race but I know for a fact that certain family members are, if not racist towards the black and asian community, then down-right ignorant towards them and their culture. We all have associates or are connected to various races in some way or another, and to use these as an example of not being racist is ridiculous as well as insulting.

E4 should severe all ties with this loud-mouthed, ill-behaved racist, if only to put across the right message to viewers. The rules should be the same across the scope of Show Business and celebrity, and if Andy Gray can be sacked for his sexist comments live on air during a football match, then James Brown should be handed the same fate for publicly being racist at one of Television's most appraised and prestigious programmes.

It's just another display of selfish, irresponsible 'celebrities' with too many freebies and not enough reprimand.

As for his 'apology', I think somebody ought to show him the meaning of the word in the dictionary. Tweeting about how sorry he is, is not my idea of an apology and he should be focused on apologising directly to the only person who matters in this vindictive story-line- Ben Douglas.

His tweets tell me he is more concerned with saving face and his career, than the actual hurt and disgust he has caused many people who witnessed or read about the event afterwards.

Has the whole world gone mad?!

Apparently, Vin Diesel has announced on Facebook that a sequel to 'The Chronicles of Riddick' could shoot as early as this Summer. The only 'set-back' is that Diesel will have to accept a pay-cut.

He explained that in order to make a true R-rated film, he must work for scale upfront.

This means that he will receive minimum wage, as well as whatever profit share his agent is willing to negotiate. If the film's budget is over 1.3 million, which it is expected to be, the minimum wage for an actor is £1,200 a week. Diesel has been quick to complain that his new wage paled in comparison to his usual salary, £9 million per movie.

Critics are calling it a 'gamble' for the actor, who may not profit from the new movie at all, but those closest to him within the industry have urged him to focus on the success stories from those who have taken the same route in the past.

Vin Diesel posted on Facebook: 'Grrrrr.[David Twohy] the writer/director just landed in New York with the good news. We can start filming this summer. However, there is a catch...in order for us to make a true R-rated film, I must work for scale upfront.'

I don't know about you guys, but I personally could do without reading stories like these. His £1,200 a week salary PALED compared to his £9 million per movie basic? I can understand this is a huge drop for an established actor, but it pains me to see such advanced pay-cheques for actors, footballers and such when the rest of us have to struggle to work our way to the top.

It reminds me of a story by Ashley Cole, now famously known as Cashly Cole, who openly complained about being paid less than the rest of his team-mates. This was a big error. We all want to be paid the same as our colleagues, but in a world where a woman is paid considerably less for doing the same job as a man and a footballer can be paid millions for kicking a ball around when a nurse is paid a pittance in comparison, I'm afraid there is just no room for sympathy when it comes to these selfish, over-paid 'super-stars'.

Vin Diesel ought to feel ashamed of himself, not to mention down-right foolish, for believing he would receive good coverage by notifying the world of his 'pay-cut'. What did he aim to achieve, exactly? Those on his Facebook are either fellow show-business friends or world-wide fans. Did he really expect to gain sympathy from either? Did he think that by making a point of it he was putting himself across as self-less, happy to receive a cut in order to produce a good film? I admire his passion for the sequel, as few actors would subsequently halve their own pay-packets for the sake of a film, but I still disagree with his decision to broadcast it.

It's a slap in the face for those of us who can only ever dream of earning that much.

It's a slap in the face for me, particularly, who is having to work for free in order to get a step closer to my dream job. Who is having to cut back on my own hours at Pizza Express and be paid considerably less, just to get a sniff at the industry I am so desperate to work for, all the while paying out of my own pocket to travel to and from Richmond.

It's an insult to nurses who are working around the clock, after spending years specialising in their preferred subject, saving lives for just a percentage of what entertainers are paid.

It's a joke to anybody in public services who risk their own lives for the sake of ours, every single day.

It's all common knowledge that the system is wrong; that show-business will always pay more due to the consumer society that we are.

It's no revelation that the balance is wrong and unfair.

But then one day, you get one spoilt, over-paid super-star who is happy to whine about income to the rest of us and it will just unleash a kind of hatred you never knew you possessed.

Well, that's what happened to me anyway.

I did see a story that lightened my mood, though. Keanu Reeves, the protagonist in 'The Matrix', chose a profit-share payment for the sequels of the blockbuster hit. It apparently allowed for more of the budget to be invested into the special effects. That's what I call pure commitment and passion for a film. It was also alleged that after the film was made, Reeves donated £30.6 million of his £43 million pay-cheque to the special effects team and, as a result, each member earned an estimated £1 million for their involvement in the film.

That's the kind of story that I like to read.

Cheryl Cole Vs Simon Cowell

I hate to jump onto the band-wagon for this tedious story-line that has corrupted our tabloid newspapers for three days running, but with it being the talk of the office as well as, it would seem, the entire country, I find sharing my own opinion hard to resist.

Cheryl Cole shot to fame as part of the UK's biggest girl-band, Girls Aloud,and upon their withdrawal from the music scene, she was hand-picked to be a judge for one of the country's biggest television programmes, The X Factor. Nice timing, it would seem. From there, through her own actions, she has become the Nation's Sweetheart. The X Factor, and being famously cheated on by her footballer ex-husband, Ashley Cole, helped her to warm the hearts of those who tuned in to watch the show. She was, it was repeatedly said, a role model for those who came from an under-privilidged background and a young girl whom others could relate to. Having appeared on Piers Morgan's show, she gave a heart-felt rendition of the events that had turned her world upside down, further solidifying her image as the 'girl next door'.

Following her success on the screen, she was snapped up by Loreal and has since been seen in shampoo and make-up adverts.

Rumours of her insecurities surrounding being temporarily replaced by pop-sensation Nicole Sherzinger, while she battled with Malaria, also helped women everywhere to relate to this young woman. No matter how many lads-mags you pose for, or how many times you win beauty-polls etc, you will always have certain insecurities and you will never be immune to adultery.

Being snapped up by names such as Will.I.AM also indicate that yes, although having mediocre talent when it comes to singing, she is clearly able to form relationships with the right people. Looks go a long way, but her personality must have shone through to be picked out of the vast competition, and Simon Cowell saw something in her that he knew the public would love.

Her rocky relationship, her alleged spats with fellow band-mates and her tendancy to speak her mind, often resulting in well-known rivalries, provided a stronger, sassier side to her vulnerable, sweet-natured image.

I don't doubt her actions have been nothing short of honest, and from the appearances I have seen her in, I have thought her to be genuine. This is all relative, however, because I, like most people, have derived my opinion through the Media and through television appearances.

This 'X Factor Row' has been embellished considerably, with quotes from 'family friends' here, there and everywhere, and although Cheryl Cole has had a big impact on The X Factor, surely she shouldn't be worthy of such a big up-roar?

In the same week that Cheryl was 'dropped' by Simon, so was Danni Minogue. Just for the record, Danni was proven to be the public's favourite judge out of the four of them, and yet there has been hardly any coverage of her dismissal in comparison to Cheryl's.

Danni Minogue was at the centre of a similar 'X-Factor' storm some years back, when Simon opted for her over her predessor, Sharon Osbourne. Recently, the tables were turned when her status as a judge was threatened with the arrival of her younger, prettier fellow judge, Cheryl.

Now there are allegations that a feud has erupted between Cheryl and Danni, over rumours that Cheryl failed to alert Danni of her up-coming dismissal.

Newspapers everywhere are having a field-day.

Although Simon formed a 'friendship' with the Nation's Sweetheart, and had supposedly taken on the role as her 'mentor', Cheryl Cole is a big girl and can surely handle whatever comes her way. She was privilidged enough to have been selected for the US version of X Factor, having seen Dermot O'Leary snubbed in favour of a bigger name. Issues such as her accent were risks in Simon's eyes, but he decided to give her a chance anyway.

In earlier years, he publicly dropped his longest associate in the music business, Louis Walsh, for fear that he was 'losing touch' with the audience. Cheryl can hardly feel like a victim, when his actions mirror earlier decisions he has chosen to make for the sake of his own career.

The fact is, Cheryl Cole, although already established in the music scene, is where she is today because of Simon Cowell. He provided her with a stage to shine on, as an individual, which she did. But her talents, personality, shine, or whatever it was that the UK loved, couldn't stretch to as far as the US. Simple as.

Simon Cowell is a business-man, who sees pound signs in whatever talent he comes across. He is shrewd wherever nessecary, and he does what he has to in order to succeed and to keep his hard-earned assets and businesses going.

We all saw his hatred for Jedward, but he soon cottoned on to the amount of money they could make for him and towards the end of the show we saw him relenting from his usual critisism and warming towards the 'entertainment' they provided the nation.

In recent news, US X-Factor was still considered to have been a success, regardless of the press concerning Cherly's drop, so it's no wonder Simon hasn't been affected by it all.

And as for Cheryl Cole, I'm sure this coverage will further cement the UK's adoration for her. Once again, she has been depicted as the 'victim' and has reportedly flown home to be comforted by friends and family. The latest row tells how she may be refusing to join the UK panelist, but that would be foolish. Don't let emotions get in the way of business, in a cut-throat industry where 'friends' back-stab on a daily basis, and put on that much-loved smile for the UK, high-lighting that America's loss is our gain.

She should use this as a way to show that, yet again, she has 'bounced back' instead of staying behind closed doors.

If she's not careful, the public will tire of her 'victim' status and begin to wonder why these so-called bad things happen to her in the first place.

The 'Angry Londoners' Commute

Due to start work at 10.00am, I left the house at ten to nine to pursue my forty minute train journey to work. On the way there, I was confronted with what can only be described as 'the angry Londoner's commute'. Commuters jostled by me, not looking back as they barged me out of their paths, thrusting their tickets or slamming their Oyster cards on the scanner. I won't critisise; I too will be that angry commuter if, God willing, I get a job in London. Cramming together on the platform as the train snaked its way towards us, we were like a pack of hungry wolves awaiting our prey. I held back; it was my first day and I wasn't about to turn up half-dead and trampled by a percentage of the Capital's population.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't get a seat. I stood by the doors, leaning against the window, with my book in my hand. What sickened me, however, was the amount of suits, all pompous and self-important, sitting up straight and without shame as an elderly woman struggled to stand as the train shot towards Clapham Junction. Some ducked their heads behind The Metro, feigning ignorance at her existence. Her thin, wispy hands clung tightly to the rail in front of us, and I had an over-whelming desire to hold her up straight just so that she could relax her frail arms. I stopped her from falling as the train swayed and she lost her footing, and in doing so, I shot the filthiest glance I could muster at the nearest man sitting down, young and fit and more than able to stand.

I've seen a lot of things in my time, but I haven't felt loathing like that in a long time. The little old dear looked as though she may have collapsed at any moment and when she got off at Richmond, the same stop as me, I had to physically stand up straight around her, her protector if you will, to keep from others pushing into her. I left that train with no faith in humanity whatsoever, and I felt reluctant to turn in the opposite direction when she turned right and headed towards the suburban area of Richmond.

It has to be said that the daily commute brings out the devil inside all of us. I've seen people trample on children just to catch the train (slight exaggeration here, but still it's vaguely true). And the Tube. What the hell is that all about? People lunge themselves into those things as though another isn't due for at least four hours. I take one look at the sweaty, packed out train, people's cheeks pressed to the glass and their body parts all mangled and think, 'fuck this, I'll wait two minutes for the next one'. I don't iron my clothes in the morning just for some moron to come and sit on my lap or trample the bottoms of my trousers.

Today, on my way home from Richmond, I attempted to push my way towards the doors as the train approached Clapham Junction, my stop. The doors opened and nobody gave way. I made to squeeze through the shoulders and legs in front of me, but I became jammed, and the owners of these body parts continued to chew gum or listen to their i-pods, oblivious to my being stuck between them. I tried, in vain, to reach the doors before they closed once more and my protests went unnoticed until it was too late. The train began to move again, taking me further towards central London, effectively adding at least twenty minutes to my journey home. The fury omitting from me must have been evident; I failed to catch the eyes of the two imbociles who had held me back through their sheer incompetence, instead they chose to look away, unwilling to negotiate in confrontation. The lack of recognition for their actions infuriated me even more. Was an apology really that difficult to muster? I'm no amateur to it all; I've had my fair share of commuting via train to get to work and back, but I haven't lost the manners and the general good-will towards other human beings in doing so. Perhaps it takes a few years of doing so to harber this attribute, but it's something I hope I can hold off for as long as I can.
And that's another thing. What is so difficult about merely acknowledging somebody else's existence? When a commuter knocks a bag flying, why can't they spare two seconds to turn around and apologise?
If a lady in a wheelchair is being helped off of the train, as I witnessed on my way to work this morning, why would you gather around impatiently, checking your watches and making angry comments at those merely trying to get on with their lives with no intention of holding you up for the three moments of your life that they dare to exist.

Once, when I was in London, a train had been delayed due to somebody falling onto the tracks in front of in-coming train. The delay was forty-five minutes, and people all around me were angrily stomping around, complaining at the ticket-office and demanding refunds. I simply took out my phone, called my manager at work and explained the situation. I cannot condone or begin to comprehend the sheer obscenity of complaining at such a time. A man had fallen. FALLEN. Not jumped, but fallen. He, too, may have been trying to get to work. He, too, had a life and was on his way somewhere. But now he was dead. And somebody would have to inform his family, somewhere, that their son, husband or daddy was never coming home. Yet people on their way to work were acting as though the end of the world had presented itself, because of the loss of just forty-five minutes. Disgraceful.

Being impatient, irritable, or even down-right ratty after work is understandable, and I can vouch for this feeling when I'm heading back to Surbiton after a long day anywhere, let alone a nine-hour shift in front of a computer screen, but to be completely exempt of general courtesy and manners is inexcusable, and if you have to take it out on anybody, it should be somebody your own size. Not a girl who is half your age and size who is just trying to make it to her first day of placement. So if you happen to be the arsehole whose elbow caught me in the face this morning and you're reading this, I hope you managed to get to wherever you were in such a rush to get to, on time. I hope it wasn't work because you looked like shit and your shoes weren't even clean.

So yes. When you're travelling, do try to bear in mind that others exist around you.

And if there's a frail old lady who can't stand up, give her your bloody seat.

Rant Over.

The choices we make

While I have been flitting between placements and Pizza Express, my vain attempt at getting a job with my 'mickey-mouse' degree, my boyfriend's sister was clinching the step on the ladder to her own career. With exams due to be sat in June, and Graduation still looming, she has somehow managed to be one of the few graduates who can walk straight into a career upon leaving University.

Of course I was over the moon, and later on in the day when I was speaking to a friend,a fellow graduate, I told her.

'Lucky cow,' my friend said, genuinely annoyed at one person's success, due to the fact that she herself was still struggling to find a job.

I pondered this later; was my friend really justified to be this agitated or was it simply a case of 'better degree, better chance'?

Arti, Jaimin's sister, has dedicated three years of University to Optometry, a specific Medicine course specialising in eye-care. She teamed this with a Management course, with the ambition to one day own and run her own business. Clever girl.

This brings me back to my musings in an earlier Blog.

I wouldn't dream of slandering courses that the media term as 'mickey-mouse' or 'irrelevant', such as Media Studies or Fashion. What I will say, however, is that out of the hundreds of graduates unable to find a job, only a small percentage of these have a degree in Medicine.

I graduated almost a year ago in a course that I chose and that I loved. In High School I loved English and Science, both of which I excelled in, but my true calling was writing. I dreamt of being an Author. Later on I would decide that I wanted to be a Magazine Editor, with no idea of the cut-throat industry that Magazine Journalism is.

My parents have always supported everything I have ever wanted to do. When I told them I would be studying English instead of Science, they encouraged me. They saw a talent in me and they urged me to pursue my dream.

But is this support right? Or is it naive? I don't wish to judge or criticize my parents' decision or attitude towards my education, but as a woman with experience on her side, I can't help but feel I should have been pushed into studying a more 'specified' course, with a higher employment rate.

I won't blame anybody but myself for the choices I have made, and I don't regret the degree I chose to do, but I can't help but wish I opted for the easier choice.

Whenever I feel this way, however, I am confronted with somebody with a similar degree to my own who seems to be getting closer to their goal. This urges me to be positive.

My boyfriend's housemate, Charlotte, has a boyfriend who studied Journalism. After a long, agonizing wait, he is now set to do placements both in The Independent and in The Guardian. Just in case you hadn't cottoned on, this is a big deal and will more than likely help him get a job immediately afterwards.

So all is not lost for those of us who have chosen a less prestigious degree than Law or Medicine, I guess.

Then there is the case of my boyfriend who, infuriatingly, dropped out of University and gained no qualifications. He was able to display solid work experience on his CV and managed to get a good job as an Account Manager for an IT distribution firm in London; it raises the very good point that Education is not for everybody and that some people have the ability to work their way up rather than study. I chose to study and I am now having to work for free for a number of months before I can get a whiff of a good job.

Go figure.

But to end on a high note, I am still, regardless of my own situation, thrilled to pieces for Arti who has, through her own choices and actions, managed to grab her career by the reins before graduating from University. Hers should be something others aspire to and I hope my children, when the time comes, are able to look up to her and do the same thing.




For more about this topic find my earlier Blog, 'The Forgotten Generation'.

An Up-date

I left Surbiton a day earlier than planned today; my boyfriend and I seemed to be at breaking point and I took the initiative to give ourselves a bit of space before it all boiled over. I'm not sure my boyfriend has even noticed my absence, but anyway...bitch fit is over.

Upon arriving home, I took myself straight into the town centre with the intention to buy food for this evening's dinner. As soon as I entered the Arndale Centre, I felt as though I had been thrown unceremoniously into a loony-bin. I passed one woman with three children hanging around her ankles (yes, hanging), while she screamed obscenities at them. I was then approached by a man who was trying to convince me he needed ten pounds for a sausage roll from Greggs. Hmmm.

After my delightful visit to town, I was soon heading home, eager to see my brothers who both happened to have a day off. I arrived home with treats for both; two sausage rolls and two jam doughnuts received a very warm reception and they were consumed within seconds.

A few hours after my return, my sister made a visit with her newly acquired puppy, Rudy. I was ecstatic. I am your typical giddy female, whose knees go weak at the sight of a tiny bundle of fur, happy to receive my affection.

Isn't he an absolute cutie? I insisted on carrying him around like a small child and cooing in-cohesive noises incessantly into his tiny ears.

Tomorrow I start my shift back at Pizza Express, and I cannot wait. I think it's been a whole week (perhaps longer, actually) before I've worked there and I miss the buzz of running around after tables, adrenaline pumping and tips building before my eyes. I received two lovely texts from two of my favourites at work, both telling me how much they missed me *head goes big with appreciation* and I realised I couldn't wait to go back. This will be short-lived, I'm sure. All those I have worked with will vouch for the fact that within minutes of serving, I'm back at the dessert area bitching about the customers and generally complaining about the job.

After a catch-up weekend with Pizza Express, I start my second placement in Richmond. Having interviewed for a job role, as well as a paid placement with a different PR company, that for morality reasons I won't mention by name, I am balancing between the two companies, with a fairly certain idea of which I would rather work for.

Lucre, the company for which I begin work for on Tuesday, is a consumer based PR company, with offices based in Richmond and Leeds. Just from the image on their website, you can get a feel for the type of PR company they are.

The clients for which Lucre have worked with include Russell Hobbs, The Disney Store, Revolution and Jet2.com (apparently only people that live up north have heard of this airline, and being a southerner I can vouch for this).

The girl who interviewed me for the placement has been lovely, and has stayed in touch with me over the weeks via e-mail to let me know of the goings-ons within the latest company clients and keeping me up-to-date, so that I don't feel totally oblivious when I start. I have also been ordered a laptop and a telephone, and I will be working in a mini office in an open-plan space; to give the impression of working individually, without being cut off from the rest of the office.

I've also got the benefit of being able to plan my outfit, because having been to an interview already, I have seen the office attire. I am pleased to tell you that the ladies all wore skirts and shirts, or something relative to that, as well as wearing smart shoes. Yes!

It's nine o'clock now. I last saw my boyfriend at eight o'clock this morning and I miss him terribly. I'm dreading going to sleep alone already, so I'll be putting off bed-time for quite some time. Over the last few weeks, we have been going to bed at around half nine in the evening, exhaustion and the general desire to cuddle up together taking over fairly earlier than usual.

I'll be returning to my boyfriend's with yet more clothes and books, as this placement lasts six weeks and I'm beginning to tire of living without all of my possessions. Jaimin says he'll get me a book-case.

I might even try to sneak in my rug and scatter cushions from my bedroom back home.

And Rudy can hide in my bag until I proudly announce to the house that we have a new pet.

Lonely Train Home

No text.
No phone-call.
Nothing.

The shirts keep spinning.
Round and round.

The clock keeps ticking.
Tick. Tock. Tick.

Tock.

The rumbling stops.
The shirts drip drop.

Drip. Drop.

I hang his shirts on the line; my final chore.

Train is due to leave at half past ten.

Door slams. Feet scurry up the garden path. Gate clings shut behind me.

The train is half-empty.

I rest my head on the cool of the glass. The sun shines bright.

Still no text.

Still no phone-call.

Still nothing.

An Unfortunate Coincidence

After much sulking and complaining, I couldn't quite help buying the much-discussed 'Never Let Me Go' when I saw it nestled among the other books on the shelf.

Never Let Me Go, just in case you haven't heard of it, is a major motion picture, released in the Cinema a few months ago.

The genre is a hybrid between romance and speculative fiction, two of my favourite genres to read and to write.

'Masterly...A novel with piercing questions about humanity and humaneness' says the Sunday Times.

'A page-turner and a heartbreaker, a tour de force of knotted tension and buried anguish' says Time.

It has been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.

The author, Kazuo Ishiguro, is Japenese. His writing style is simple; his use of short sentences is effective and makes for easy reading.

Regardless of my opinion on the author's writing style, the book itself has been a huge success since it was reverted into a film, directed from the screenplay written by Alex Garland, author of 'The Beach', not long ago.

My only issue is that Kazuo Ishiguro got there first.

I had been writing a very similar story-line for my final year dissertation, and I was told it was a very 'promising' idea. Having discarded the idea for something else for my assignment, it stayed undeveloped for quite some time before I continued writing.

I learnt of the unfortunate coincidence of similarity between my story and Kazuo's through a friend on Facebook, who posted a link to it on my wall. To say I was gutted would be an understatement and when I tell you the storyline is literally the same it is no exaggeration. The only difference between the two, is that mine lacks a love-story. Go Kazuo.

I'm not suggesting that I should have been the only person brilliant enough to think up such a storyline, and I'm not suggesting that I could have had it published had I submitted it. Kuzuo's version has been out for quite some time, and I was unfortunate enough to believe I had touched upon a subject that had never before been written about.

I am saying, however, that with the right tools and guidance, had I managed to get it published, I'd be in a much better position that I am now.

I won't elaborate on the details of the book, as I wouldn't want to spoil it for those who haven't read the book or seen the film.

What I will say, however, is that I'll be nursing the wound of Kazuo's success for a very long time.

Settling in and Charity Shops

After considerable gentle probing on my part, my boyfriend finally ordered furniture for his room. He was content with his little walk-in cupboard, barely the size of a coat closet, but after taking in the heaps of clothes and books that were piling up in the corner of his room, he agreed to buy me a wardrobe. I was slowly getting closer to moving in, even if he wasn't aware of it at the time.

When the furniture arrived, I was like a child again, giddy for a much-awaited new toy. I filled the wardrobe with my clothes and shoes, and neatly folded both mine and Jaimin's T-shirts and underwear into a seperate chest of drawers.

The next day, having passed a family-run charity shop on my way to and from work, I decided to step inside and take a look around. Initially, I was going to buy a few books. I walked out of there an hour later, my arms filled with three books, a beautifully patterned throw for Jaimin's sofa, a vintage dress, a paisely printed scarf, four men's ties (for Jaimin), a casual waist-coat, a dark-brown, oak mirror, and a reading lamp, my purse only twenty-pounds lighter. I had to refrain from buying a rug and scatter cushions; although they were beautiful, I reminded myself that it was Jaimin's room and it would have been unkind to revert it into a feminine bedroom.

I absolutelty love charity-shops. I like the comfort of being able to sit and pore through books without being under the watchful eye of a shop-owner trying to sell you something. I like the idea of acquiring something that belonged to somebody else, and seeing the treasure in what may have been somebody else's junk.

The dress I bought was a vintage design; I intend to wear it to my Cousin's wedding next weekend. As soon as I tried it on, I saw the approval gleaming in Jaimin's eyes and it was a very nice fit on my frame. It only cost me £3 and I can pretty much guarentee nobody else will be wearing it, with it being vintage. Except perhaps somebody's Grandma...somebody's ultra-stylish Grandma that is.

Later that day, I hung Jaimin's mirror on the wall and placed the lamp stylishly beside his bed, next to the flowers I was bought from work. I added my new books to the growing pile on the window-sill. I was satisfied that I had finally left my mark on the bedroom. I haven't gotten around to getting a blown up photograph of myself to hang on his wall above the bed just yet, so I figured the mirror and the lamp was a good starting point.

Anybody that knows me will know that last sentence is said in jest.

The photo was the first thing I put in his room.

The Caterham Seven: A Short History (My final press release written for Performance PR)

Colin Chapman, the toast of British Racing in 1957, is renowned for the success of his minimalist and lightweight Lotus Cars that paved the way to his fame.

After half a century of European dominance, motor sport recognised a new breed of British drivers; one of these bright new talents was Colin Chapman. He debuted in 1948 with his light-weight Austin Seven-based trials car, which he had christened Lotus MK.VI

Construction on the first Lotus Seven, a development from his beloved original design, began 20th July in ’57. It followed a series of success; Chapman’s engineering prowess had resulted in his team’s debut victory in the British Grand Prix, influencing the desire to produce a newer model.

Heavily influenced by the designs and characteristics of the Lotus MK.VI, Chapman described the Lotus Seven as ‘the type of car he could dash off in, in a weekend’.
Within six weeks the Lotus Seven debuted in a competition at the Brighton Speed Trials. Equipped with a Coventry-Climax engine, disc brakes all round and advanced De-Dion rear suspension, the new car began to dominate the competition.

With the view to keeping the car accessible to all, the production that followed saw to it that the exotic racing kit was replaced in favour of more humble appliances. Chapman also, by finding a loop-hole in certain instructions, saw to it that customers were able to side-step British Purchase Tax requirements, implementing his desire to keep the car as affordable as possible.

Caterham acquired the rights to build the Seven from Colin Chapman himself, back in 1973, and has since been the custodian of the original concept of the light-weight, minimalist design. As well as enforcing this concept, over the years Caterham has improved and refined the design of the Seven.

Since Caterham’s involvement with motor-sport, their academy has taken more than 800 racers since its establishment in ’95, and has created more racing drivers than any other series in the UK.

The new owner-ship of Caterham (Team Lotus Enterprise and, owner of the Team Lotus F1 team, Tony Fernandes) will result in Caterham expanding its product family and becoming a truly global company.

Ode To His Shirt

It flows over me
Fabric like an autumn breeze
On my bare skin
A source of warmth on a chilly night

Aftershave and soap
Lingers
Remnants of Him, his person
I breathe him, even in his absense

Some sizes too big...it cascades around me
The walls around a castle
Flames lick, hot 
The end of his sleeves tucked tight underneath my fingers

Plain, Insignificant
Discarded, forgotton in a heap in his wardrobe
Wrapped tight around my bare flesh
Collars warm on the hollow of my neck, the lining hot between my thighs

My mouth rested just below the V-line
I sleep with a smile
I sleep with him with me

The Dress Code

I am pleased to report that my morning preparing for work was far less haphazard than yesterday's, and I left the house, optimistic, at a promising 9.00am sharp.

I have chosen to wear my new Chinese-style, wrap-around dress on my second day at work, having established the office attire and deciding that I looked far too formal on my first day. The other women around my age seemed to opt for the cardigan and leggings look, whereas the elder, more sophisticated women chose to wear skirts and simple blouses. My attire varied between a blouse teamed with a high-waisted skirt, to a polka-dot, flimsy waist coat with a plain top underneath and black trousers to, finally, a brightly coloured, predominately turquouise coloured dress.

I realise this blog is entirely focused on the clothes I have been wearing to my placement, and not my actual placement, but having already covered the tasks and events of said work experience in an earlier blog, I feel it necessary to highlight the outfits and accessories I wore each day.

You see, I'd never had the opportunity to shop for work before. Unless you counted a £6 black shirt from Primark for the restaurant, that is. So upon learning that I would be working pratically non-stop in professional environments, I took myself straight to the shopping centre and browsed for practical, yet stylish work clothes.

Women, and yes I will include the entire gender in this as I refuse to stand alone with this statement, see the working clothes they ought to wear as part of the job description. When offered a job, I guarentee, one of the solid questions that will be thought or asked is, 'what will I have to wear?'

A friend of mine from Uni , who studied law, was more excited about her wardrobe and what she could wear to the office than the actual work experience, I'm sure. And so she should have been. That girl had more clothes in one bedroom than I've ever seen or imagined possible. In fact, the girl has three rooms essentially as her clothes are scattered between her Uni bedroom, her boyfriend's bedroom and her bedroom back in her home-town. Anyway. I degress.

Although I realised I wasn't entering the world of fashion, where dress-sense is ultimately the make or break of one's career, I did expect to see a bit more glam when it came to the women's attire. The men all wore suits, and at the very least wore smart shirts with jeans. Not one of them ever wore casual shoes or trainers. The women, however, wore primark plimsoles with casual jeans and plain T-Shirts.

I earned myself a few scathing glances on my first day. My punishment, I suppose, for daring to make an effort. Even though this 'effort' was, simply, wearing a smart, ironed blouse and a simple black skirt. I can assure you I did not turn up to work looking like this:

Although I'm sure the men at the office would have been very appreciative, I wanted to ensure I was going in with the right attitude as well as the appropriate IQ Level.

I was still a tad disappointed, though, when it appeared that I may have had to tone down on the smart outfits to blend in with the rest of the office.

To hell with it. I only get to dress and look smart for the duration of two months before I will, no doubt, have to return to my job in Pizza Express, where I will have to wear a plain black shirt and a bum-bag on my waist.

On Monday I might wear a trouser suit.


And, shock horror, perhaps some heels to go with it.

That'll teach them.

Performance PR

This week has been a very intriguing week for me, in terms of discovering more about the PR world and my abilities as an aspiring Account Executive.

Having been set tasks such as writing press-releases, using the company's database, Cision, to seek out journalists' and editors' personal contact details (I sneakily wrote a fair few of these into my diary for later references), up-dating press coverage for several of the company's clients and writing journalistic features for our on-going Alpha-male articles, my hunger for this industry has intensified.

At the beginning of the week, after speaking on the phone to the editor of Men's Health (a fantastic opportunity for me to drop my name and build contacts), I was asked to write between six to ten questions for a guest who is set to appear in the Alpha-male article at the end of the following week. I was thrilled, especially when, after submitting my first draft, the colleague due to interview the guest suggested that I co-interview with him. Dom Jolly, the man from Trigger Happy TV, was the interviewee, I discovered, and I couln't accept the offer fast enough.

A guy I work closely with on the Automotive sector is set to embark on an upcoming project with Top Gear. I learnt that Top Gear and Dragon's Den have both regularly used the company for PR related services, and as a result most of the people on the team have met, and regularly see Peter Jones and Jeremy Clarkson.

For those of you wanting to know, the opinions in the office regarding Peter Jones and Jeremy Clarkson, are as follows: Peter Jones, one of the most efficient, pleasant and all-round nicest clients to deal with. Jeremy Clarkson? Complete arsehole.

Next week, I swap over to the Automotive team, where I shall be working on the press-coverage for a Sports and Racing Car client, Lotus. By way of starting, I had to listen to and write down quotes from a particular racer on a head-set, to help put together an article the team want to submit.

Need-less to say, I am lapping up as much experience as I can, eager to cram as much detail as I possibly can into my brain before moving along to my next placement. Before I left the office today, I offered my personal e-mail address to a colleague who was struggling to edit and cut a piece due to be approved by a client on Monday, and promised to have a draft ready to send to him by close of play Saturday. Cutting and editing may be one of the hardest elements of writing; keeping an article consise and cohesive, whilst remaining within a tight word-limit is often soul-destroying.

So, I feel I have settled rather nicely into the office, picking up tasks wherever I can and offering my skills wherever possible, and I'm already counting the hours before I can return on Monday.

Tomorrow night, I return to my life as a waitress.

So if you're reading this and you just so happen to be planning a visit to Pizza Express in Luton tomorrow night, please be nice to me.

Oh, and tip well. I'm not being paid for the above work experience. Thanks.

The 'class' system in terms of coffee.

The business-men sat at the front of the bus each clutched take-out coffee from Starbucks or Cafe Nero. The girls sat giggling, with sun-glasses perched on their heads and Paul's Boutique bags resting at their feet, were sipping prettily from Costa take-out cups. And at the rear of the bus congregated a group of school-kids, both male and female, drinking McDonalds coffee. Actually, as an afterthought, it was probably hot chocolate.

The 'class' system in terms of coffee, I thought to myself. I didn't have a coffee in my hand, unlike everyone else on the bus, so I don't know where that puts me.

There's a system in which many people live their lives, particularly those I've seen on my journey to work this week. People dashing across the street, literally risking their lives, on their mobiles and heading straight for a coffee-shop. Commuters can't function properly on their way to work without a coffee or a tea in their hand, this generation's answer to the familiarity of clutching a briefcase.

I'm never one to refuse a cup of tea when it's being offered, but I can't see myself dashing into the nearest Costa or Starbucks to pay three pounds something for what is essentially a tea-bag and some hot water.

And I refuse to be judged on the brand of coffee I drink.

Living Arrangements

'You're beautiful', my boyfriend whispered into my ear as I woke up this morning, our legs tangled and my head leveled with his torso.

I could get used to this.

It has been three days since I 'moved into' my boyfriend's place. What was once a sparse, modest room is now a cluttered haven for my clothes, shoes and books. During the first evening, while I was upstairs soaking in the bath, reveling in the notion that I was just meters away from my boyfriend, he was downstairs speaking to his house-mate, Charlotte.

'She's only been here one night and my room's already a tip'.

Oops.

He remained tight-lipped, unwilling to dash my high spirits, until he stood on my hair straighteners. Plugged in and on full-heat. My clothes have since been swiftly shoved back into my hold-all (Jaimin assures me it's because they won't all fit into his wardrobe, but I'm convinced it's so I'm already packed and ready to leave for when he tires of my being there) and my books have been lined up and hidden behind his curtains.

Yesterday we had a fight. A petty argument that escalated, due to the lack of patience that both of us possess. Having acquired the stubborn gene from my mother, I was capable of ignoring Jaimin afterwards for quite some time.

Later the same evening, having finished a delicious meal of grilled salmon on a bed of rocket, we were curled up in bed. I was checking a friend's essay over, and he was reading a sports related article on his phone.

By 10pm, I was getting to ready to fall asleep, feeling slightly disappointed that my romantic notions of living with my boyfriend hadn't been met. By far.

A tad insecure, I was expecting, or rather hoping, that my boyfriend would pull out all the stops to welcome me into his pad. I'm not quite sure, having said that, just what I expected him to do. Rose petals on the bed and wine on ice in the bath both seem too heavy a gesture.


The problem was that I was romanticizing the norm. I had been looking forward to greeting my boyfriend from work each night, doing a shop for dinner, and cooking together before falling asleep. Which is exactly what we have been doing each night, and many nights before-hand when I've come to visit.

It hit me just how content I had become. No longer satisfied with everyday gestures, and slightly repulsed by over-whelming gestures such as flowers, it seemed I was stuck.

But this morning, when I awoke to my boyfriend playing with my hair, I realised it was the simple things I had been looking forward to all along, and I had simply been too expectant to appreciate them when they had presented themselves to me. I let my disappointment melt away, as I nuzzled into his chest.

Before leaving me to go to work, my boyfriend handed me an Oyster card that he had bought for me. It would single-handedly erase my travel-costs to and from Kingston. I hadn't even considered buying one, so his thoughtfulness was duly noted.

A text came through on my phone earlier, while I was at work.

'Chicken salad tonight? Or sea-food pasta?'

I smile broadly to myself, no doubt looking like a goon to my colleagues sat around me, before replying, 'Sea-food pasta. With mussels and prawns.'

I'm exactly where I want to be, I think, as I swivel away from my phone and back to my laptop.

It's a shame I have to go back.

And as for my jewellery and books and creams and perfumes? Jaimin let me take over his window-sill, as well as letting me steal his only mirror.

I love this man.

The Beginning

Having packed several dresses, ranging from summery to business-like, as well as high heels, sandals and flip-flops, I felt fairly certain I had covered every look I was hoping to achieve. Smart, yet low-key. Professional, yet not up-tight. Bright and breezy, with an office touch to it. I crammed as much as I could into my hold-all, as well as various books I couldn't bear to leave behind, make-up, hair products and my entire custom jewellery collection, and got on the train to Surbiton.

At approximately 8:05am the next morning, I was in utter panic mode. I had all these clothes, I fumed, yet nothing to wear. My pre-chosen outfit, ironed and hung out, seemed too boring to wear on such a beautiful, sunny day, and my flat, black shoes did nothing to glamorise the effect.

At 8.20am, having been advised by my boyfriend to leave the house by 8.50, I was seriously considering ringing the company and cancelling. Excuses, sob-stories and wild-goose-chase stories were flashing before my eyes, and I had the number ready to dial on my phone. I took a moment to breathe. Was I really, after spending so long preparing and fretting, and all the usual gearing up one does to an exciting new chapter, going to jeopardise a potential life-line for the sake of a wardrobe malfunction?

I had several out-fit changes before, maddeningly, settling for the original clothes I had set out. A summery, colourful, sleeve-less shirt, teamed with a high-waisted, simple black skirt.

I needn't have fretted at all. Most of the people I went on to meet at the office were men, and therefore paid no mind to the attention to detail I had invested in my appearence, and the women that did work there looked as casual as those I passed in the street.

Before I got to the office, however, I was faced with an even bigger malfunction. The wrong address. After arriving in Kingston with only ten minutes to spare, my fiasco at the house having set me back considerably, I hurled myself into the nearest black cab, barking the address at the driver, and frantically running a brush through my already, no doubt stress-related, frizzy hair.

Five mintues later I was standing outside a nursery, the windows through which I could see dozens of tiny children running around, chewing on toys and generally being as inconspicious as they possibly could. I felt royally stiched up. My first thought being that the taxi driver had left me in the middle of nowhere; he had been a miserable bastard. Then I caught a glimpse of the street sign on the corner. 'Acre Road', the same address I had jotted down from my e-mail. Sorry Mr Taxi Driver.

So, with no internet access (insert instructions to get a blackberry immediately here) and with no saved contact number (insert insults for lack of organisation here), I was forced to walk numbly back into the town centre, with the very real fact that I had no idea where I was heading, or where I needed to be and that the company would be expecting me any minute.

Jaimin. Jaimin, Jaimin, Jaimin. I'm sorry I swore at you. And took my frustration out on you for being, as I put it, unhelpful in my self-inflicted time of need. And thank you for, once again, plucking me from another sticky spot and setting me in the right direction. This time, quite literally. Having recieved the correct address from my wonderful boyfriend, who had retreived it from my e-mail, I was soon standing outside the correct building with the feeling of dread forming in my stomach and my already well-rehearsed apology for being so late on my lips.

The day itself, having gotten off to a questionable start, improved drastically as I was settled down to work in a 'pod' (the term of endearment they used for what I saw as a just a room with alcoves in the sides) with a friendly team of three guys and one girl.

I was to work with the Sports' team, and would be setting to work immediately with one of the company's clients, Tescocup. I was soon rapidly up-dating scoreboards of eleven year old football players with gusto, more than relieved that I was working on a real project and not lumbered with the task of re-filling people's tea-cups. I have had plenty of experience making teas and coffees, from growing up with the family I was born into. Thank you very much.

When Matt, a guy who is set to be my mentor for the following two weeks, asked me if I would like to write a Press Release on a junior football match, due to be published the following week, I almost laughed. Would I like to? I was gagging to write a good piece, a relevant piece that could be used, at that. I was in the chair typing before he could change his mind, and when I told him I had finished, I expected him to be rigorous in his checking for grammar and spelling mistakes.

'Find some contacts and get calling,' Matt told me, urging me back to my seat. My bemused expression pressed him to continue,'it's got your name at the bottom of it. If you're happy to submit it, then go ahead.'

It was nerve-racking researching community newspapers across Britain, specifically those of the local teams who had won titles for Tescocup, to enquire as to whether the sports' desk would be interested in my press release, but after hanging up after speaking to the third journalist who was interested, I was feeling confident.

At 6 o'clock it was nice to be leaving work, as opposed to going to work, and looking forward to the prospect of spending the rest of the evening with my boyfriend.

It was nice to ask him how his day at work was, and to be able to tell him something new when he asked me the same in return.

And it was satisfying, for a change, to be exhausted not physically from the constant running around after six or seven tables at a time, but from the mentally stimulating tasks that had kept my brain working for a good nine hours straight.

When

When somebody cheats on you, it stays with you forever. It's there in the last moments before you close your eyes. It's there when you shower, in the very depths of your privacy. It's at the back of your mind every single day. 

It's in the pit of your stomach, threatening to swallow you whole, every time it sneaks into your mind.

Especially when you have almost forgotten about it. 

Developments in my life so far.

Having rapidly, and somewhat desperately, answered each and every one of the ads posted on Gumtree, Jobsite, JustLondonJobs, Totaljobs and many more since July of last year, I was lucky to even have recieved a rejection letter from a small percentage of those I applied to on a daily basis. 

Arriving back to my home-town, without a single penny saved up and no career lined up, I was lucky enough to find a job at Pizza Express. 

So there I was, a degree in my filing cabinet, serving pizza to what can only be desribed as the scum of Luton town. Don't get me wrong, a percentage of our customers are just lovely, to whom I would happily wait on any time of day. The remaining percentage make my life as a waitress absolute hell. Just last week I was summoned away with the wave of a hand, with the words 'there's a good girl' stinging my ears. Needless to say, I insulted the dickhead in the armani shirt, who was arguing with me over a £2 strawberry sundae I'd charged him for his daughter (the guy had an Audi parked outside for goodness sake!) and was almost fired for calling him pathetic and a disgusting influence on the five children sat around him. Ahem.

So, I think my time as a waitress is quickly coming to an end. I'm getting far too old, far too cynical and far too careless to continue serving arseholes, and it's coming at the expense of a group of people I work with that I absolutely adore. I'd also just like to mention that I probably would not have lasted the job if it weren't for the wonderful people I have worked with. 

Countless nights I have gone home, on the verge of tears, to call my boyfriend to complain of my night at the restaurant. Why, I bawled, why? Why couldn't I find a job in my sector, and why must I be subjected to serving morons when I was trying my very hardest every single day to find a job? (I'd just like to formerly thank said boyfriend for listening to these outbursts, with no less patience and sympathy, every single time 11pm came and I arrived home, tired and covered in pizza sauce, chocolate sauce and coffee stains.)

Having introduced the boyfriend onto the scene, I'd just like to mention that having stood by him while he searched endlessly for a new job, having seen his spirtis drop at every job application ignored, I am proud to say he is now excelling in a fantastic job that he loves. 

Now that my degree-less boyfriend was living his dream, I was more than encouraged that I, the degree-holder, would soon follow suit. That was back in January, and with the end of March fast approaching (I had turned 23 with not a glimmer of hope of the shiny career I had envisioned obtaining since I was 16) I had still not managed to find anything.

Having gone to many interviews, submitted various pieces of work and pored over thousands of jobs on the internet, I was encouraged by my boyfriend's mother to look into teaching. I can't say I was ever excited at this prospect, but I applied for teaching jobs with gusto. Teaching assistant jobs seemed to be easily obtained by several of my friends and acquaintences, but I was met, again, with more blank messages and un-kept promises that in the event of an opening, I would be kept on file and contacted. 

I had an order in which I wanted to live my life. An order that me and boyfriend couldn't agree upon. HIS: Get married. Have children. Continue career. Go travelling. MINE: Go travelling. Get a career. Get married. Have children.

I am happy to say, however, that I may have finally found the stepping stone to my career. A six-week placement with a PR company in Richmond has given me back my hope at finding a job I know I am best suited to. With promises of working in and out of the office, writing articles and attending press releases in and outside of London, I am excited to finally be doing something mentally stimulating.

And with this new chapter in my life fast approaching, another aspect of my life is fast developing also. I will be living with my boyfriend in London for the whole of my placement,  an experiment, really, to see how well we live together before diving into a commitment. Kind of like a 'try-before-you-buy' thing (I'm very careful like that.) After two years of travelling between London and Leicester and London and Luton, it will be nice to go home to him every night, with the knowledge that it can be short-lived if it's not our cup of tea. I'm sure Jaimin won't miss the late-night, emotional phone-calls about Pizza Express.

So, as a final report, I'm glad to say that I am still in love and still hungry in my pursuit to start my career. And, in a corny way, it's all the more rewarding when you know you have earnt it. 

A Customer At Work

She sat before me, head down, black roots seeping into her golden blonde curls, cascading down over her shoulders. I noted her worn out cowboy boots and dirty jeans, trembling hand reaching for a bottle. I watched as she tilted her head upwards, her throat bare of jewellery and the creamy colour of goat’s cheese. One of her green eyes flicked onto my face as she drank and she suddenly began to laugh, beer dribbling over her rosebud lips as she used the white of her hand to wipe her mouth.

She had studied Bio-Chemistry, only to drop out in her final year just months away from completing the course. She lived on friends’ bedroom floors, having been disowned by her heartbroken parents, when she wasn’t with her aspriring 'rock-star' boyfriend, who was always ‘away for gigs'.

I watched her, grinning manically as she mopped herself up with napkins; her smile seemed genuine. Was she really happier this way? 

Man. The ultimate defeat. This is what I think, as I wipe the bar around her.

Print's prospects for survival in a Digital world.

With technology fast evolving, the future of traditional print is continuously being challenged. 

  Considering a large percentage of the public admit to indulging in television programmes, rather than a hard-back, and the swift development of social media, it seems that the prospect of old-fashioned reading is rapidly vanishing.

   As well as the fact that the general public are seemingly more prone to ‘liking’ something on Facebook, or ‘tweeting’ random thoughts, technology is at the heart of research and information; newspapers are fast being replaced by online news feeds and teletext.

With the development of technology, the public are steadily becoming lazier. People want fast results, accessibility and immediacy, which is exactly what digital media can provide. 

  Digital media has many advantages, the main pro being that it is environmentally friendly. The rainforests will continue to be destroyed for various other products, but at least we can save a few trees with the downfall of books being used, and with technology constantly up-dating, accuracy is also an advantage. Sites like Google and IMDB are excellent examples of this, where information is steadily processed and provided to people worldwide. We may mock the elder generation, but it's no wonder they find it difficult to keep up; the development of technology in such a short space of time is fascinating.

Having said that, as a recent Graduate, although guilty of the odd ‘cheating’ when it came to research, i.e. ‘googling’ information (Google has become such a success that apparently it is acceptable to use as a verb) I remember spending hours in the library with books, with many students alike. The reason for this was ultimately for my Bibliography; tutors were considerably unimpressed with my 1st year submission, containing a Bibliography that held a long list of internet sites and quotes, and I quickly learnt that my research had to consist of print and hard-backs. This raises a valid point; as long as the world continues to rely on professors, lecturers and scientists as sources of information, the prestige of books will remain and the idea of internet research will continue to seem amateur in comparison.

   The fact remains, however, that print will soon be a thing of the past. Soon, newspapers and books will be a memory and it will be our generation that will be mocked by our off-spring for failing to keep up. 

   I was recently bought a Kindle, and I honestly have no idea what to with it. Apparently I’m supposed to download books on it?! I can understand the convenience of having various books on a device, but to me it steals the beauty of reading. I’m the kind of girl that likes to search out a good book in Oxfam or Waterstones, or waste time between meetings, reading in coffee shops. 

And at least with a book, you haven't got to worry about the battery life. Anybody who has seen somebody with a Macbook in Starbucks, whose battery has just died, will appreciate the point I make about the inconvenience of using a Kindle or  whatever other device they are no doubt thinking up at this very moment.