Fleet. It's As Exciting As You'd Imagine After South America

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My second week back in England is well underway. Being stuck in darkest Fleet, a small town in Hampshire with a lot of trees, chavs, security guards outside pubs, and traffic humps, is what you can make of it, I've found: unavoidably dull to look at, you've just got to keep moving, thinking, trying to get back to London basically, in order to alleviate the boredom. Or, spend all night on msn talking with your boyfriend (who is extra lucky to be back in Bolivia, my favourite part of South America) and sleep through most of the day, as I did today after Monday's rather lacklustre start, despite my best efforts.

Monday was my first day back on the job trail, having lined up a bunch of meetings in the city with various agencies and contacts to see what was out there and explain what I'd been up to since we all last met. The first one, with an agency, was unexciting and involved being asked to apply for a deputy editors job on a buolding magazine ("It's a lot of talking about ventilation, bricks, that sort of thing," the recruitment woman told me as she tried to sell the idea "Yes, it is a bit dry."). The second meeting, a typical journalists' luncheon in Soho with an editor who paid for the vino and the food, was more promising. The third one was shite. An agency boss, perhaps clutching at straws in desperation to give me answer to a slightly awkward question, or simply being honest - don't know - set about a little light character assassination. It put me right off my last meeting of the day and frankly made me wonder about working ever again. In short, about 2 years ago or less, I was interviewed by a well known editor of a well known business magazine for a job that would have been a big break for me, a job I was more than ready to do and could have easily done while taking on more at the same time. The same guy had been responsible for previously shortlisting me two years running for a business journalism award run annually by his magazine and a consulting agency, my competition being some of the country's best business columnists for the broadsheets. Anyway, despite a very good interview (I thought), I didn't get it, but what I did get was a rather sweet letter almost apologising for not giving me the job - if I remember, it said the job was too junior for me and I'd find it dull - and asking me (in hand writing, mind) to keep in touch for when something else came up. This confused me because of the interest this editor had shown in my work and the nods of approval by way of shortlistings, and in 2006 an actual award, he had a major part in. It plays on my mind to this day because I wonder what lost me the job if it was not my work, and to be hoenst I was wondering if it was something to do with my personality, being too scary in my determination (I've been told this before), being perceived timid (I've heard that one but not for years), something I was not aware of. So I told the story to this dude and asked for his honest opinion. He decided that my portfolio was great, but that it was probably presentation. Apparently, I'm not a good brand ambassador: I don't look the part, talk the part, and I dont conform enough. Interestingly, he thought an issue at hand would be my lack of degree, which I've long gotten over (having navigated endless ignorance about my lack of paper proof that I can spell and have some intelligence) in the first few years of my career) and never tbought would at this stage be taken into account. I thought, well, some of the stuff here could well be true, I'm rubbish at fitting in, largely because I don't want to. But surely my work speaks for itself?

The advice? and these are his words:

1. "wear some slap"
2. "wear a blouse"
3. "Improve your posture"
4. "Work on the way you talk - your voice is dull. Variate your intonation"
5. "Smile more"
5. "Conform to what people want"

At least now I know how to get ahead in journalism. Stick a rod up my arse, pout like a Barbie, and supress every aspect of my personality, instead mirroring what those in power do, say, and think. Laugh at everyone's jokes, and pretend to be a proper girl. Funny though, cuz all the hacks I know are a (much loved) bunch of overgrown indie kids with alchohol dependency issues, gaping holes where their confidence should be, a few cheap suits - commonly unironed or slept in - and the only make up I've seen on my journalist buddies has been on the boys' faces. There are, however, two common elements binding them together: they're pretty much all boys, and they are all graduates, mostly from top redbrick universities.

Funny that.

I brooded over this for a few hours. But I decided it was preposterous. I can adjust elements of my presentation, but I can't change who I am. I don't want to. And any company who deems the stuff above more important than my portfolio is probably not the place for me to thrive. And I will not be piling on the slap. I think my face is fine and bears no relation to whether I can spell. I always thought that journalism was rife with lefties, hippies, and indie types (I think I would never have gotten a job at Metal Bulletin as a weekly hack, except for the fact that the editor's final question in an otherwise disasterous interview was, 'who are your favourite band?'. The answer was Steely Dan. He was a fan.) But to this dudes mind, the power brokers are nazis who want me to look like Barbie and agree with everything they say.

Hold up...that sounds like my last boss. Hmm.

The way I see it, people seem to think my work's fine, and I use my personality a lot in my work, being a features writer. It is also very important in contacts building. I enjoy that part of the job and if you just act like a fucking accountant in front of people, hiding yourself, well youre acting as if theyre stupid and its rubbish. Don't get me wrong. If someone offers me advice I can use, that points out my shortcomings, I'm happy. I'm egotistical enough to handle it. But without me, my work wouldn't be something I could be proud of, and no doubt I wouldnt have any sort of awards action. So I'm sticking with me. I'm on my side. Even if none of these bastards are. I look like a drag queen with lipstick on anyway.

Aside from that, I had a great weekend staying in London with my closest friends. I went up to the city on Saturday afternoon to my friend Chris' house - which is, after a year of fretting, minor meltdowns, and avoided responsibility, looking pretty hot with bamboo wallpaper and corner couches - caught up over tea, and then went to Sonia and Rosie's house (hereafter known as The Twins) to have a lovely reunion with my favourite Italo-Aussies and a gorgeous dinner before trotting down to the Old Blue Last in good old Hoxton to see Chris' band, Molloy, play. We saw another band there, the Laurel Collection I think theyre called, who were awesome. Had a few beers and got back in to the swing of London/Indie life. I felt different, not least because I have no clothes so I feel a bit of a pikey in among the german fashion student types and the fashionistas. But I've lost a lot of interest in clothes and gossip rags having concerned myself with other things in the last year, though I thoroughly enjoyed seeing live music again, having beers among music types again, and being close to my most trusted mates. On Sunday Chris and I pottered around on Columbia Rd flower market (I spotted my first celeb since getting back - hairdresser to the B List, Nicky Clarke - thats how you know you're in London!) and thought about my Bolivian friend Maria Jose, who I so want to bring to London and show her all these things. I got sad thinking how hard it would be for any Bolivian to afford such a trip, and how hard MJ dreams about it. If I win the lottery (probably have to play to have a chance), MJ is top of my list for a round the world ticket.

After that I went down to Crouch End to see Elaine and Steve, for the christening of their youngest daughter, Saoirse, but due to the tube not running there and my getting lost - getting back into the Knowledge is harder than I thought - I arrived at the door of the church to see everyone pouring out. We went back to Elaines for cup cakes and beer. It was nice.

Last week I kept busy by seeing a couple of mates who live in the area, but last Friday I got some bad news about one friend from my past. Karolina, a girl I spent some time with and who used to loan me bootleg Nirvana cassettes and awesome 70's clothes, facebooked me while I was travelling, much to my surprise, but never mentioned being sick and though there are at least three mutual friends in touch with us both who knew she was ill, no one told me what was going on. Only when I went for beers with a mate from school who Id not seen since 1996 did I learn that she was very sick and didnt have much time left.... did I make some enquiries to other friends and learn that she was in the end stages of cervical cancer. In a panic, I drove to her folks' place, but no one was in. I tried to call her, and some of her mates, but I heard nothing back for days. In the end, someone told me that there was no chance of seeing her. So I have to accept that. It's very strange and very sad. It made me think about my boyfriend and want him to come home.

But that's not unusual. Christ, I've never spent so much time online as in the past week while Alexis and I are trying basically to maintain the same level of interaction we enjoyed while travelling together. I've finally signed up to MSN messenger for this purpose - though when I joined I was surprised to see that loads of people had added me - and my facebook is always working. We've had a couple of phonecalls too, one today which was a complete surprise and a really nice one, but we were on msn until 4.30am GMT last night, doing a chat-a-thon as we love to do so much. It's awesome that we can do that, I'm feeling like it's almost better to be unemployed right now, so that I can msn at will. Technology eh? It saves many suburban lives.

x

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Photos

This Sceptred Isle, Rammed with Chavs
The viewing pleasures of the Sunday omnibus