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.

The Forgotten Generation

New figures show that graduates are encountering an exceptionally hostile jobs market and the government persists with policies that put the burden of the country's debt on the young."

With thousands of graduates pouring out of universities and recruitment opportunities being few and far between, 2011 is seeing the worst case of unemployment in over a decade.

   With the recession relentless in its pursuit of draining profit and earnings, companies seem reluctant to invest in young hopefuls with degrees, opting instead for the more experienced applicant.

   Young job-seekers have been dubbed ‘the forgotten generation’; never before have graduates found it so difficult to find employment in their chosen sector and figures show that there has been a steady down-fall of those successful in their hunt since 1995.

   But with thousands more young people opting to go to University, the prestige of having a degree is decreasing considerably; whereas in earlier years University was predominantly a middle-class concept, in recent years students from various working class backgrounds have chosen the under-graduate path as opposed to the working environment.

Having been promised a career at the end of three years studying, graduates are now expected to show certain levels of experience in the work-force. Freelance projects may improve your CV, but to some employers it is still not deemed as real work experience. In a complete twist, however, those without degrees are told they lack sufficient qualifications necessary.

   The perception of graduates has deteriorated over the years, from respectable students having committed three years to their chosen subject, to binge-drinking youths opting to scrape exams rather than work a nine to five. As a result, students are now considered by some as a drain on the economy.

    As so many applicants are eager to join the work-force, employers should be more enthusiastic to lap up the talent. The younger generation should be nurtured in the working environment, so that in the event of the fore-coming change-over, we have the tools necessary to succeed in businesses and industries. Ideas should be challenged and new motives put forward, in order to develop.

  Graduates are fast opting to travel, rather than join the queue of job-seekers, maximising the risk of Britain losing out on potential to other countries, particularly those like Korea and China where opportunities have been rife. With the handover from Britain and America to the South Pacific looming, we need all the enforcements we can get.

   Ultimately, many graduates have a mixed feeling of betrayal and frustration at their inability to prosper, resulting in negative energies and potential and talent consequently going to waste.

Many young people have been urged to vote, contribute to paying taxes and continue to search for jobs, but with many years of being forced to work menial jobs before being recognised, it comes as no surprise that there are some who are reluctant to comply, making for an undeveloped nation with a bleak future. 

  The problem is, there is a lot of talk of going to University and gaining a degree, but not much talk about which degree is most beneficial. Take myself, for example, a naive nineteen year old with A-Levels in English, Media Studies, German and Psychology. The wisest of us would have opted for Psychology, the subject with more prestige and opportunity attached to it, but no. Not me. I chose English and Media, and why? Because I loved writing. I loved English. And magazines, and editing, and filming, etc. How foolish. I'm not, for one second, slating those, like myself, who choose a career path that interests them. But when I told my tutors of my dream to be an Author, and therefore I would be studying Creative Writing at University, why ON EARTH did they not shake me and tell me to do Medicine instead? 

  Upon leaving Uni, the only people I've known to have been remotely successful in their chosen sector are those with a degree in one of the Sciences. Second in line to success are those with Law degrees. 

  With a wind-fall of third-teir universities, and subjects classed as 'mickey-mouse' courses tripling before our eyes, it is no wonder that there are hundreds of us graduates walking the streets of London, and other mainstream cities, holding our CVs and scratching our heads in bewilderment. 

   I have always prided myself on being open-minded and open to the needs of those I care about, but as a graduate who has scoured all of the jobsites one can possibly name, I am adament that my child will study Law or Medicine. Whether they like it or not.

Barcelona

My toes are damp from Twilight hour spent on the deserted beach. Calls of delight drift my way occasionally, jarring my trail of thoughts. I sit at a round table, just off the beach, my skirt damp from the tide. A continuous blur of colours pass, excited babbles of conversation, high heels clacking along the way. Inside the club, glass after glass of cocktails are passed over the bar in exchange for a few Euros. 
Clack. Clack. Clack. 
Babble. Babble. 
Clink. 
I blow out smoke, and look up (too-late) to see a fairly young Indian guy, a carrier bag full of cans in his hand, eyes now red courtesy of my cigarette smoke. 
“Ah, Lo siento!” My apology is sincere, but my Spanish isn’t great. “I’m so sorry.” 
“No, it’s ok, Miss.” His accent is thick with broken English. He holds his bag higher, gestures to the contents inside. “You want can?” 
My mouth is already forming into an apologetic smile, my head half-tilted when I notice the holes in his trousers. His feet are bare on the sand. 
“One Euro. For you, six can, four Euro,” he persists. 
I gather my change; count the coins in my palm. “I’ll take one can, but here’s four Euros.” 
He accepts my generosity with a flash of his boyish smile and gratefully takes my money in exchange for a can of lukewarm beer. 
He bids me goodnight with a respectful nod, and continues on his quest, his flat feet rough on the concrete, carrier bag dangling by his side. 
I watch him cautiously approach a group of English girls, their heels sky-high and dresses skin-tight. 
“Beer for you, lady?” he addresses one in particular. 
“Nah, you’re alright,” she throws back, her eyes cold. 
“Only one Euro, miss-,” 
“Fuck off, you tramp,” another spits, followed by a torrent of foul language. They laugh as he ambles off, tail between legs. A group of lads pass, wolf-whistle; just like that the girls are hot on their heels, the cheap bottle of wine they are sharing quickly downed and chucked onto the beach. 
I can’t tear my eyes away from the discarded bottle of wine, a stain on a blank canvas. It is still early, but I know that hours later the beach will be littered with more cans, empty cigarette packets... 
Further along the beach, it is beautiful. Hidden around the corner, it hasn’t yet been discovered by tourists and remains a favourite among the locals. 
My thoughts go back to those English girls. Their language, attire, and attitudes. No doubt in the coming hours they will be having un-protected, drunken sex for free. Tonight they will give their bodies readily to any taker, self-respect just another word in the dictionary. 
And here I am selling mine for a living. 

Time up. I finish my cigarette and walk back the way I have come. My can of lukewarm beer sits unopened on the table. 

Sunrays on her face...Sunbeams on his Leather

Two friends, sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder... 
Atmosphere tells a story neither will tell. Fingers trace lazily, speaking a language their lips are yet to learn... 
...Notebook left open, pen rolled away; writing unfinished... 
...Her leg settled against his; tights against jeans. Cotton against leather as they lean in, absent-mindedly resting on one another... 
...Blades of grass tickle...wind carresses... 
...He leaps up, retraces his steps...her attention returns to her notebook, fingers find the discarded pen. 
Romance dissolves. Normality re-emerges. 
Friends again. 
Her eyes abandon the page, find him metres away, sunrays dancing around him. They duck behind her book as he glances over; a retreat. 
Even magic wears off in time. 
Their moment, however, will prove harder to erase...

A Trip into London

We are driving. The city flashes by as we hurtle down the road, it seems, at break-neck speed. The sights are beautiful. Boutiques, high street stores, even the people sashaying down the street are glamorous. London. A typical scene. They are, however, completely insignificant. This is not the reason we came to be here. We sit, worlds apart, in the back of the taxi, anticipating arriving at our destination, simultaneously dreading it... 
...Suddenly the lights change and the car is forced to come to a stop. I take her hand; squeeze her fingers ever so slightly. Such a simple gesture, the touch so light it was barely real. She felt it, however, and squeezed back. No longer divided by the situation, but what seemed a universe, we are united. I am strong because she needs me to be...I am strong because I need me to be... 
...And so when the lights change once again, and the car resumes its journey, we both resign ourselves to the inevitability that awaits us... 

The journey back is horrific. Soul-destroying. Pain is etched on every muscle in her face. This time, when she squeezes my hand, it is desperate. Painful, physically and mentally. She cries. For what she has done; what she has lost. All the while I am beside her. I stroke her hair, I hush her cries...I lay her down so that she is lying across the backseat of the taxi. Circumstances have forced us to use such transport, so that we don't even have the privacy we deserve at such a time. The taxi driver is worried sick, no doubt more about his seats than the well-being of my friend... 
...Eventually, after what seems like hours, she quietens. Until her sobs are subdued to whimpers. Then she is asleep. Her head rested in my lap, I continue to stroke her hair, wipe her tears... 

...And then I cry...

When the stars come out

My Grandad has never had a way with words; I suppose the grief was too much for him. In any case, little Chloe, my six year old cousin, still wasn't satisfied with his blunt response, her curiosity persistent, a memory that won't go away. I am only seventeen, but I know what to do... 
...I take her hand, so delicate, she fits into my palm, like a locket on the edge of my collarbone. She looks at me when I finally stop, all the expectancy that only a child is blessed enough to possess... 
...We are in my Grandad's front garden, the air making my skin goose-pimply, her teeth chattering. She is light in my hands as I scoop her up, settle her on my shoulders. She swings her legs, clasps my hands, happy with this arrangement, as though the small of my neck were her throne... 
...I point to the sky with my nose, not wanting to let go of even one hand. I know she is looking up too... 
...The stars are out, posing like models on a catwalk. One stood out from the rest, because there's always one that shines brighter. And then I answer her question, in a way my Grandad never could... 
"There's your Daddy Chloe."

The Man of my Dreams

Your face is hidden 
Your arm a barrier between my eyes and yours 
Yours, though, are closed 

A canvas of limbs 
Invading the plan of the floor 
Hands splayed 
Those beautiful hands, whose fingers once 
Delicately seperated the strands of my hair 
Those hands...that used to make it alright 

Here he is 
The man of my dreams 

His mouth slack, unsmiling 
His eyelids selfishly hogging his best assets, green and wide 
In a dream of his own 

But...this time when I shake him 
His eyes don't open, his hands don't reach for me, his mouth doesn't smile 

This time... 

He will never wake...So trembling, I kiss those beautiful hands...for what else can I do?