Intern Anonymous

There is a website which is essentially a forum for moaning in which unpaid and undervalued interns can vent about their torrid work conditions: Interns Anonymous.

Half way into my six week placement, I would not have counted myself among these unfortunate students and recent graduates. In my workplace, the atmosphere is welcoming, the pay is more than fair and, let's face it, I love the novelty of business dress. Indeed, I love sharp tailoring to such an extent that I have not begrudged the crazy early starts, the fact that no-one ever seems to know I'm due to work with them on any given day or that I have to be consistently proactive in order to find tasks for myself.

However, I love to work hard and my pet peeve is not feeling needed. Yet today, I walked into a department in which the staff talked over my head and failed to help me organise my day. It beggars belief that, in a somewhat overstretched organisation, an able 21 year old could not be put to some viable use. I am essentially an extra pair of hands and am willing, if not downright eager, to get on with any task available, grass-roots or otherwise. I felt like I was banging my head against a brick wall all day as every person I met looked over me and questioned someone else about why I was there and what they were supposed to do with me, without even being considerate enough to acknowledge me.

I suppose part of my irritation stems from the fact that only now am I truly realising that work will be testing. For years, I have had the pleasure and privilege of intellectual stimulation on a daily basis. Only now can I appreciate that work is filled with mundane, repetitive tasks. Hopefully, with determination and as one ascends within a company, the work becomes more varied and decisions more consequential but it is a key reminder that one's work cannot be one's all.

Row, row, row your boat

I am, at heart, a boatie. There, I've admitted it. I was, once upon a time, one of the (clearly mentally imbalanced) folk who dragged themselves out of bed at 5.30am in the depths of winter, come rain, wind, hail or snow, and sat in a boat for several hours, several times a week. I had callouses on my hands for months on end. I submitted to the all-in-one which is universally acknowledged to be hideous in all respects. I was told to man the ef up on a regular basis. But, still, I loved it - the adrenalin, the camaraderie, the slightly debauched celebrations, burning boats and then jumping over them -- just for kicks.

Even though I've since abandoned it for the sake of RAG, work and sleep, I still leapt at the chance to get the girls together for one of the best regatta events of the season: Henley. Sunshine - check. Summer dresses - check. Pimms - check. It was a wonderful day and the perfect way to launch the summer vac. Whether you find yourself lounging on the bank and watching the teams power through the water or surrounded by the crowds in their boaters and blazers, this event is old school in the best sense of the word.

Balls, balls, balls ....

Being summer in England it is, of course, chucking it down with torrential rain - in August; I mean honestly. Confined to the house as I am, I can think of no better way to pass the time than to fill you all in with how my term ended ...

On the day of the ball, I picked up my friend from home who, despite staying only for one night, had managed to accumulate five suitcases! I can veritably hear the baffled cries of my readers: how can one person need so many bags, indeed five times the amount of bags one might originally assume? Why, by bringing three changes of outfit for one evening, of course. My friend is nothing if not a glamorous trouper.  After the aerobic workout that was getting them up the six flights of stairs to my room, situated in the eaves of my college, the girls came over to get ready. The night was amazing - from hairstylists, to vodka fountains, a thousands types of food, gorgeous fireworks accompanied by wonderful music, dodgems, ferris wheels, shisha, jazz bands; Tinchy Strider even made an appearance! All was a blur of excitement.

However, I am most definitely a morning lark, not a night owl, and love to go to bed early so as to wake at dawn, enjoy the quiet calm before the traffic starts and college awakes. Needless to say, I was a little worried about how to make it from 6.30pm to 7.30am straight without collapsing from sheer exhaustion! But, without getting drunk and without the need of an IV of caffeine, I danced my way through the night. A slight slump around 2.30am was cured by an amazingly effective power sit (totes the new power nap). Amazing night with amazing friends ... though not such amazing sleep afterwards since I was top and tailing with two others in a single bed! Two hours sleep + packing + four hour trip back to London does not make for a happy girlie ...

RAK...

Sometimes I feel my character is a bit 'Jeckyll and Hyde'. Lest you get the wrong impression let me clarify: I don't mean that I am involuntarily undergoing a gradual and irreversible metamorphosis into some hideous, misanthropic creature with no sense of conscience! Merely, that I wonder how I can be so confident with people I don't know, able to strike up a conversation and makes jokes, yet with people I see regularly I become more and more shy and reserved, constantly worrying about the impression I've made or whether I'm being included, comparing myself to others and generally berating myself for being so unapproachable. Surely, as time goes on, it should be the reverse...

For some reason, of late, this bizarre and unwelcome neurosis seems to have intensified. I feel that I've broken bridges through my aloofness and harbour the imaginary thought that, if only I were starting again, all would be different. But it wouldn't. It's all to easy to fall into the trap of thinking that the grass is greener on the other side.

So, I resolve no longer to compare myself, to worry about the behaviour of others. All I can do is focus on myself, not doing myself down but doing myself justice by being as kind as possible: in my gestures, my words, my attitude, my actions, my eyes. I think all too often kindness is underrated. People worry, just like I do, about how they are perceived and to that end act aloof or even maliciously, relishing the sense of superiority this affords them. But I would rather be rejected and mocked for being kind and perceived too eager than constantly to hide behind the cold walls of aloofness.

Let's go viral

100,000 Britons have shut down their Facebook accounts in May alone. To be honest, this isn't as monumental a denial of modern social media as you might at first think: many of those questioned have merely upgraded to the newly popular Twitter due to fears about their privacy.

Whilst I don't intend to start tweeting my way through life, I can sympathise with the growing apathy towards Facebook. A recent study suggested that those who use Facebook, on average, have a better social life offline than those who didn't. What complete piffle. One can only assume this study was funded by a certain Mr Zuckerburg, or some such similar. Having so much information about people you've met only a few times or haven't seen for years on end can certainly make you feel that you know every intimate detail of their life -- but do you really? Fine, you can read that they 'went on a bender last night and, like, totally passed out in some random estate lol' or that they've started a new job or whatever it might be. But have you really an inkling about their well-being, their plans, their character? No, but, nevertheless, the illusion remains.

Even with those close to you, it's easy to stop making the effort. A quick message or, nowadays, even a quick click of that 'like' button can make you feel like you made contact. But no initialism or emoticon can really convey the tone, the facial expression, the gestures to which humans are so disposed and which we need in order to make ourselves fully understood. Moreover, Facebook, with its bursts of news, can have actively damaging effects on friendships, from reading a comment clearly not meant for your prying eyes or viewing a party invitation sent to all of your friends but not to you, either by design or out of neglect.

It's no wonder that people reach a level of saturation and wish to return to simple methods of communication which, let's face it, can be confusing enough at the best of the times, without adding the golden haze of viral networking to the whole affair.

Escapism

Everybody needs a little escapism from the more unpleasant, or even simply banal, elements of their life from time to time. Normally, when I want to escape into an alternative reality, I do one of the following:
1. Bake. Particularly recipes with an unnecessary number of steps. I'm not one for this all-in-one malarkey.
2. Read Country Living. Am I worried that I share the interests of a middle aged farmer's wife? Perhaps. Do I dream of living in a grade II listed farm house with a dog called Potato, a roaring fire and a local supply of apples nevertheless? Yes.
3. Dance. Zumba, ballet, aerobics - whatever. Can't.get.enough of those endorphins.

However, when at university (where perhaps the drawbacks of reality hit me harder than elsewhere) I have no kitchen, would be mortified to be seen with CL in my shopping basket in the social hub that is the local Sainsburys and know of no local dance classes.

So, today, I got up around 6 and hopped on my bike and with a some hastily scribbled down directions set off on a long ride. Fool. What was I thinking? I began to resent myself when wondering what on earth I had meant by 'G Lane' or 'take a kind of small right.' I positively loathed my former self when I accidentally ended up on a dual carriage way. Luckily, after a hasty recourse to the side of the road, I escaped with my life and made it back home.

Despite the dramatics of the ride and the intellectual rigour needed to decode my sparse notes, I forgot my normal world for a couple of hours, enjoying the view from Boar's Hill over the cityscape of Oxford and generally taking overly romantic pictures.

Now, you have the almost unutterable pleasure of two photos!

I was torn between my love of old maps (Boar's Hill in 1919) ....

and the sheer narcissistic pleasure of my own photo (a casual field in 2011)

Miniature prosecco and absolute joy!

I won't beat around the bush: finals may be boring but finalists are more so. It may sound callous, it may sound unsympathetic - actually, it is. This term has, thus far, been intolerably dull as I am living in the strange twilight zone of a third year sans examens. All my friends have been following the French dictum of 'metro, boulot, dodo' (tube, work, sleep) except there isn't even the hint of 'metro' to ease the tedium of constant revision, just the quick walk to and from the library. Not only is summer term distinctly less fun without friends to muck around with, it is disconcerting to view veritable spectres of your future self, worn down by the stresses and strains of finals revision. The finals fear seems to be contagious for I feel a little apprehensive about my own. Yep, I'm actually nervous about those tests, you know, the ones a year from now.

However, today, the first of my friends completed their final final (if that makes any sense!) and I couldn't have been more pleased for her ... as well as a little gleeful for myself! After running around like a headless chicken trying to find a suitably hysterical card (merci, Edward Monkton) and a nice miniature bottle of rose prosecco (merci, Hotel Chocolat), I dashed over to the exam schools to greet mon amie (this post is becoming tres francais, n'est-ce pas?)

It soon became painfully clear that I needed to up my game. Cards and prosecco were clearly not enough. There were inflatable magnums of champagne, garlands of kaleidoscopic colours, vuvuzellas (no, I'm not sure how this instrument, which quite frankly sounds like a bee breaking wind, adds to the celebrations either), huge bouquets of flowers, confetti, silly string...  The list goes on. There were also covert tins of baked beans, bags of flour and boxes of eggs for the inevitable trashing (essentially where you besiege your friend with any edible substance to hand; the more disgusting, the better). However, being the goodie-two-shoes that I am, throwing food was clearly not an option. However, I refuse to be upstaged and so next time will be bringing all of the above AND a bubble blowing machine or something equally spectacular.

Festival chic

Spent this Saturday having a very pleasant time hanging out at a college music festival selling ice cream, enjoying lots of music sets and sneakily, some might say cunningly, engineering it so that all my friends came along to say hello. The sun was even out!

But no, alas, alack, woe. I dash off for a mere half an hour to grab some dinner with the old flatmate and, as soon as I head back, it is CHUCKING it down. No word of a lie - forget cats and dogs; think pigs and elephants. Fool that I am, I skip along trying to hide under trees and whatnot. Meet the friends and we realise there is only one thing for it: we must embrace the rain. Yes, we WILL work the festival-ly look, as Best Friend so aptly described it. For those of you not accustomed this means: smudged and/or running mascara, soaked hair (requires regular 'jugeing' for rock star volume) and in my case a very inappropriate white linen top which went see-through fairly quickly.

Despite being un peu cold and wanting to thwack the lady in front who was smugly allowing her umbrella to drip all over me, twas a fabulous night made better by my friends' final set - anyone for a good bit of Cee Lo Green and some vintage Motown?

Back to reality and work now but, unfortunately, I have been horrifically unproductive all of today and yesterday but hopefully this evening I will work like a worky thing (yes, my grasp on the English language is outstanding). I fear I may get distracted as I have a bizarre urge to google wellies. I think I've caught the festival bug!

Assessed.

Happy Easter Sunday! Hurrah for afternoons filled with paltry English sunshine. I am currently waiting for papa to set up the barbecue and can think of no better use of my time (apart from revision, packing for university, stuffing my face with chocolate etc. etc.) than writing un petit blog post on my day out at the shops last week, though this was no ordinary retail therapy.

Last week, I was assessed -- though to be quite honest, by what criteria I'm not entirely sure. I applied to a well known department store for an internship way back when (well, November). The folks down at HR seem to have enjoyed toying with my feelings, stringing out the application for a full six months. For an internship. Yeah. I completed reams of tests which ranged from the mundane (what's your name and where do you come from) to the insane. A firm favourite was the test of your reactions to hypothetical scenarios likely to occur in retail management - such as if a customer came down and complaining that one of your bibs had stained her baby's face would you
a) pour a bucket of water on the baby to see if it remedied the condition
b) call the CEO of the company down for advice
c) take her to court to sue for libel
Fine. I may  be exaggerating the teeniest, tiniest  bit but some of the situations did seem rather unlikely!

Still, I made it to the gazillionth stage (stage 6) and was invited to a London store for the assessment day. Having spent days deciding upon my outfit, I took great pleasure sashaying up to London in my newly cobbled shoes with the other commuters with all my documents in their colour coded folders. Stunning though my shoes were, they were clearly not actually designed for walking so I was much relieved to find a lift up to the seventh floor where we met with the assessors and other candidates. The exercises, I assume, designed to test general team work and leadership skills, hardly differentiated the candidates from one another. We all seemed fairly on a par so I cannot help but feel resigned about the outcome and am worried I'll be upset.

However, I shall take solace that I was whittled down from around 3,000 applicants and also by the fact that I got to head up to the amazing roof garden (which I had no idea existed!) and soak up some rays whilst gazing at the city scape of the best city in the world. Always a silver-lining, non?

Still, everybody keep your fingers and toes crossed until Tuesday, s.v.p.!!

The Bookshop

The title of this post is somewhat ambiguous: I have both been working in a bookshop and have just finished yet another of Penelope Fitzgerald's novels, coincidentally entitled The Bookshop. However, these two are not wholly unconnected as I have found my lovely, local bookshop to be the perfect place to get really stuck into a book: quiet, without distractions and with enough hypothetical judgement from the customers that you feel like you really need to read rather than daydream!

Obviously I spend the majority of my day during term time reading but normally either in Latin, Greek and even, on the odd occasion, French and German (apparently there are no English philologists!). Tacitus' Annals aren't really my ideal bed time reading, however devoted to my subject I may be. Most of the time, I'm simply too drained or too busy to read for pleasure. I had slightly forgotten just how lovely it is to be completely caught up in a book, so utterly hooked that you accidentally awake in the morning to find the light still on and a book on your face (ahem, no I'm definitely not speaking from personal experience...)

Since I love sharing good finds, I'll end with a couple of favourites for your perusal!

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. An amazing and fairly rare combination of a tightly constructed plot and excellent writing which manages to be poetic, humorous and yet completely true. I was totally gripped, though must admit that towards the close I had started to tire of the endless gothic cliffhangers. So, whilst I've heard that The Angel's Game is equally fabulous I may need to restrain myself until next vac to launch back into such melodrama!

Bluestockings by Jane Robinson. A very inspiring book about women's fight for university education. I was amazed at how recent a struggle it was, continuing even after the cataclysmic World Wars. I was also shocked by the ridiculous preconceptions about women's mental capabilities (apparently the activity of a woman's mind was thought to be inversely proportional to her sanity and even her fertility!) and what personal sacrifices were made for this cause. A definite reminder not to take my freedom and privilege for granted.

The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald was as late a find for me as writing seemed to have been for the author who discovered her talent rather late on in life. Her novels are petite and delicate but wonderful. I've read a fair few now including The Beginning of Spring (an evocative portrayal of Moscow at the turn of the century) and The Gates of Angels (an interesting deliberation on love, faith and science) but this was by far my favourite. The petty injustices suffered by Florence Green and the despondent finale had me completely enraptured.

E(1) is for Edgy

I've just spent a lovely day (topped off with just a hint of spring-ly sunshine) avec the Best Friend in Spitalfields and think I am in love. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to shop anywhere else ever again. Well, this is clearly a lie as I love my Zara and a cheeky bit of Topshop from time to time but there's something oh so satisfying about digging out a vintage item from a big heap of, quite frankly, questionable clothing (were red leather hot pants a good idea, even in the sixties?) As I still harbour a somewhat snobbish concern, totally against the vintage mentality, over the origins of the clothes, bags, belts and broaches were the main culprits aujourd'hui.

As we walked down Brick Lane I was completely caught up in the bustle and the noise. I can't wait to move back to London permanently. I am most definitely not made for the country, far less for a small town. Once university is over, it's back to the big smoke for me and all the excitement, diversity and history which comes with it. I realise that, attending one of the oldest universities in the world as I do, that statement is somewhat ridiculous but there's something of the chaotic, the ramshackle to London's history which I adore. Mostly though, I am consumed by the grittiness, dirtiness and dubiousness of London's past, something which feels lacking from the smooth, sandstone colleges of academic life.

That said, I simply do not know my home town well enough and have thus resolved to eschew the touristy and the tacky London, the better to hunt down the quirky and offbeat. Goodbye Leicester Square with your dodgy night clubs, hello Portabello with your soulful blues nights!

Frankie says relax ...

So, here we are again. It's the stress fest that is the beginning of term. You've just arrived, have barely unpacked and before you know it you're about to have a nervous meltdown about beginning of term tests, let alone when full term kicks in - overload of lectures, insane amounts of essays to write, huge charitable events to organise, trying to fit in new societies. Aaaand relax, because no matter what has gone before, this term is going to be different.

Last term, the stress got to me but now I refuse to let the expectations of others and the pressures of work affect my wellbeing and push me towards a lifestyle which is an unbalanced, not to mention an unhappy, one.

My plan (aside for power bikram yoga sessions on my new mat which I received from Best Friend for Christmas?) is to be inspired by a quote which mirrors my mentality.

The first one I found was from Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar: 'There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure  but I don't know many of them.' Well, wise though she may be, this quote is simply unfortunate for I do not have a bath at university and 100 miles is rather a long trip to soothe away my troubles.

The next, located firmly in the classics, was from Ovid: 'Take a rest. The field that has rested gives a bountiful crop.' Firstly, I'm not a field and, secondly, I don't need to rest; I need motivation to work yet in an unstressed and zen like manner. Onwards and, hopefully, upwards.


My third quote is from Maureen Killoran,who quite frankly I do not know from Adam but whose advice is sage. "Stress is not what happens to us. It's our response TO what happens. And RESPONSE is something we can choose."

Can I buy you a drink?

Yesterday, after a pretty solid day of revision, I thought I'd earned break and so popped out for some birthday cocktails with a friend who's back from her year abroad. Only virgin cocktails, though ... I'm still on a bit of a detox from NYE! So, I slick on some mascara and bop off to the bar. So far, so good. The group was a little awkward at first but, as the night went on, we all loosened up and it was pretty chilled - just what I wanted from the evening.

But, cherchez le drame, as my tutor always reminds me! As we were chatting and laughing, these two guys outside started dancing at the window. At first, I though they were so drunk they were just dancing at their reflections but it turned out they were dancing at me! One of them motioned at me to come with. Well, as you can imagined, I laughed it off, smiled and carried on with my pint sized class of vodka - I joke, water! Ten minutes later, this guy pops in and says that he sorry to interrupt but would I like to pop down for a drink with him at a local pub. Slightly shocked, I declined as politely as I could, explaining that it was my friend's birthday whilst complimenting him for his unusual twist and swivel dance move. Again, we carry on chatting and joking and then these two guys casually saunter into the bar, trying on the whole 'oh, you're here too?' act. He comes over (apparently, third time's a charm!) and offers to buy me and the birthday girl a drink... so much for the detox! I very reluctantly accepted an appletini (sickeningly sweet, in case you cared to know) and then felt obliged to go over, thank him and then chat to him for a good hour as he blatantly hit on me and I tried to maintain a bizarre balance between polite and friendly yet frigid.

But here's my dilemma: what is the suitable etiquette for such a situation? Essentially, I just wanted to hang out with my friends but there's only so many times I can politely refuse. The whole situation seemed epitomised by the appletini: yes, it was a sweet gesture, and there didn't seem to be a creepy subtext, but it was sickening, if only because I was trying to detox at the time and hang out with my friends and didn't want to be pressurised into flirting with a guy who I wasn't particularly blown away by. This was not helped by being referred to as 'little lady' all night.

I was only too happy to be distracted by the arrival of some of the boys, even if it meant being mercilessly mocked for my debauched NYE antics!

New year's resolutions

I firmly believe that I am cursed when it comes to NYE. Two years ago, I was stranded at the world's most bizarre party. A friend and I came up with the marvellous plan of ringing up an old friend and inviting ourselves to his house party in Euston. However, after missing the last train, being dumped by a cheat of a taxi driver in the middle of nowhere and faced with policemen who seemed to be having difficulty with the concept of London let alone with the notion of providing directions, we decided to call it quits. We finally arrived (at 3am) back at Victoria to stumble back home to bed. Last year, a group of us were having a lovely dinner before we realised that we had not organised a single thing. Cut to us texting everyone in our phone books trying to scout out a glamorous location for midnight (not my proudest moment, I'll admit). Finally, we got an invite from a girl whom we knew from school. In our desperation, we headed over. Whilst sitting at her glass dining table, it spontaneously smashed to pieces which I found a very fitting metaphor for the entire night. We left at approximately 5 past midnight.

So this year, with absolutely no expectations (perhaps the downfall of many a NYE), we set off for our party. Lovely dinner beforehand and a brief stop off at the pub before we arrived, all quite merry... And when I say merry I mean I can't remember much past midnight. It is such an unpleasant feeling not being able to remember how I behaved or what I did and I feel terrible for placing such a burden on my friends. I've not been able to stop thinking about it for days and feel ridiculously embarrassed as well as unable to work out where I went so wrong.

However, I've resolved not to dwell too much longer on the whole debacle which completes my triad of dubious New Year's Eve parties, save only to take away these realisations: Firstly, how lucky I am to have such savvy friends who did such an amazing job taking care of me. Best Friend's dad was also (unexpectedly) amazing and all made me feel a little bit better in the morning by gently mocking me for my drunken behaviour including believing we were living in the 1990s. Secondly, to curb drinking so much. More difficult as I can't pinpoint exactly where I went wrong and am sure I've drunk more than that before but hopefully this memory will serve as an acute warning in the future, if ever I feel myself tempted towards one to many.

This brings me to my general new year's resolutions, aside from being grateful for my friends and trying fairly hard not to become comatose too often. People often treat resolutions with such disdain but I love the feeling of hope which a new year brings, a feeling that one can start afresh and not be dogged by past attitudes and behaviour.Et voila, one no longer even has to try with such an amazing website - why not give it a go?