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.