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.