Teach!

The diary's filling up. I'm making a bit of a hash of keeping it neat though. Such is my insatiable desire to squeeze even a small amount of purpose out of each day that, no sooner is a task complete, that I am crossing it out, scribbling over it in a frenzy, demonstrating to the crisp, organised, professional, leather-bound diary that I too am crisp, organised and professional. Although not at all leather-bound. The tasks that are causing such chaos across the pages of my diary are many and varied. They are generally intimidating imperatives written to myself in a threatening tone. 'Email so-and-so', 'Research this', 'Phone them', 'Check this', 'Check for reply to previous email'. And so on. They began as fairly logical demands, which were focused on obtaining the great job. However, as the replies trickled back (or, in some cases, got lost in the ether) panic crept in and these bullet-pointed daily demands began to take on a life of their own. They have begun to branch out, forcing me to consider alternative lines of work.

A recent demand I made of myself was: 'Research teaching'. Teaching, I convinced myself, was essentially journalism. It communicated information to other people. Reaching this profound conclusion cheered me up for a whole day. I saw an ad in the paper a couple of weeks ago - one of those adverts showing a smiling, relaxed youngish looking person with the word creative positioned somewhere nearby in a sort of speech bubble. All that was required of me was to text my email address to a very short number and someone would get in touch. So I did. And they emailed me. I wasn't sure who 'they' were to start off with but I was soon to find out.

A couple of days later, back on the trail of the dream job and having forgotten all about my brief foray into the unchartered waters of teaching, I was clutching at yet another media straw and sending an email to someone I didn't know, when my phone rang. Withheld number. Ominous. I picked up, effecting the most professional tone I could muster. Well, you never know, I thought. Can't afford to be caught off-guard with a disinterested I've-just-got-up tone of voice in the middle of a job-hunt. It's funny how, on an unemployed good day, any chance phone call, email, meeting in the street becomes a source of infinite career potential. And on a bad day, well, you're grateful to be able to google your own name, just to fill the minutes. So, I picked up. "Hello?" I said, in such a self-assured tone of voice that I surprised myself. Still got it, I thought. "Hello," said the lady. Now, this wasn't the kind of hello that I had offered up. This was the kind of soothing hello that made you want to curl up and fall asleep. Who WAS this? I wondered. Trisha Goddard? Or just God..? "You ticked a box to say that you would like to be contacted by a teaching careers advisor about moving into the teaching profession?" I thought. Frantically. Shit, I couldn't remember ticking a box but I really didn't want this woman to go. She sounded like she could help me. "Ah yes," I said. "I did." "I was just checking that you received the email I sent last week, asking if there was anything you wanted to discuss regarding going into teaching..?" Shit, I remembered this bit. I'd ignored the email which was simply entitled 'Teach'. No question, just teach. Just the title scared me off. "Oh yeah, I'm sorry, I've just left my job and I've been running round filling out applications and I haven't had time to go through my emails properly." What?? Have I suddenly been transformed into the web-of-lies-spinning-spider?? I check my emails every day, at least five times. Ok, many times during five separate sittings. "Oh, don't worry," she replied, sounding disappointed but unsurprised (she sounded as if she had received a lot of desperate registrations to this teaching information service from newly unemployed graduates, hoping that one text could hold the key to their next career move). She was about to wish me all the best for my career and disappear forever when I spluttered and spewed the following: "...But if you're free now it would be great to talk through some of my options..." Was I trying to buy a credit card? A mortgage? What, therefore, were 'my options'? Surely you either want to be a teacher or you don't? What did I expect her to say? 'Well, what you can do is try teaching for a few weeks, get paid for it and in the meantime look for that media job you want'. No, there were no such options. Nor should there be. "I left my job as a journalist in November and I'm just trying to look at other areas I might be able to go into..." And that was it. She was hooked. She began talking through training, experience...and other things of which I have no recollection. I drifted off. Her voice was like a glass of red wine mid-afternoon. It made you feel relaxed, and sort of sleepy. Like aural massage. "So have you been into a school yet..?" "What? (waking up) Oh a school? Erm, well, no not exactly."

The words 'not exactly' were about right. I had been into a school. My old secondary school. To give a talk. I was offered up by a well-intentioned friend of mine as an example of a successful ex-pupil. I was wetting myself. I had to talk about my rise up through the ranks of journalism to the dizzy heights of a national newspaper. I felt like a criminal walking in there that Tuesday evening two weeks ago. But I went through the motions. It began with sherry with the governors (I had an orange juice in an effort to maintain a dignified, professional appearance but, on reflection, simply looked like someone who didn't trust herself with a drink). The governors sneered, firing accusatory glances at me over the rims of their sherry glasses. 'What's SHE doing here in the SHERRY room? What has SHE done to earn a place in THIS room?' But I pulled it off (the talk and the sherry room) and, to be honest, it went a long way to re-fuelling my sluggish supply of self-confidence.

Not sure this is what the softly spoken careers lady meant though. "Oh well, you need to be getting some experience in a school first, really." "OK, sounds great, I will." The words fell out of my mouth. "OK, well I'll go away and look up that thing I said I'd look up for you and I'll drop you an email when I've found it." What had she said she'd look for? God, I'm a bad person. And she's going to the effort of emailing me the answer to whatever it is afterwards! Oh the heavy burden of guilt! "Great, thanks so much for your time," was my feeble response to her efforts. And she was gone. God, or whoever it was. If that's what teachers are like then it wouldn't be the worst thing...

Jack Daniels

Before I start talking about myself, I'd like to talk more about the taxi driver. There's no rush to fill you in on my situation. There is, depressingly, far too much time for that. But Billy, as I'm calling him, let's start with him.

He would drive me home from work now and again when I was working nights. We'd drive from the centre of London to Highgate, speeding our way round Marble Arch, along Oxford Street and then winding our way up to the north of London, along country roads, past huge houses. The whole journey took about half an hour - Billy told me it was at least an hour's journey during the day - and took a childish pleasure in informing me that he was one of the few who could complete the journey in such a tremendously (read: frighteningly) short time. He wore a leather cap, had a few teeth missing and always smelt of one of coffee, tobacco or chewing gum. I have no doubt all of these still apply. He seemed to wear everything on his sleeve; grumblings, issues of the day, confusions. And smells. He did have a tendency towards the non-PC but he reminded me of a Charles Dickens character and I liked him. He had this fantastic cockney accent - in fact it reminded me of Oliver Twist's in that 1960s film. What set them apart was that Oliver's didn't break into a heavy, choking smoker's cough every few words. He'd talk to me about his water rates, his Irish heritage and the taxi touts who, he believed, took his business. I'd go into work saying "Was talking to Billy last night about his water rates..." and colleagues would stare, bemused, and reply that they had never once spoken to him during a taxi ride, never mind engaged in a debate about how much he should be paying for water. I, on the other hand, couldn't get him to shut up. To be honest, it's probably my fault. I'm a master in covering up an awkward silence. My brain could have switched off for the day but my mouth would keep producing conversational time-filling gems such as: "God, it's freezing at the moment isn't it? Can't believe it. I mean, it's not just cold, it's freezing. And just last week it was really mild but now it's cold. What is THAT all about??" Wow. Sparkling. Or, the 'generalise about the economic situation chat' which goes something like this: Taxi driver: "You hear about those jobs that went at that place?" Me: "(blow air out in a way that suggests that I have been worn away by a long life of hard labour) Yeah..I don't know, it's terrible isn't it? Every day we hear something. I mean, it's every day, you know. Unbelievable. You hear what Gordon Brown said today?..." Blah, blah, blah. So, yes, I would encourage the flow of conversation. Even at 3am. Because of this, I only had to open the door of the taxi before the conversation would begin. And because of this, I got the impression Billy was sad to see me go. I know this because I stunned my colleagues by being presented with a Jack Daniels hip-flask at the end of my last evening's taxi ride. It was a little confusing but, I suppose, sweet. A hip-flask? The next few months of my life flashed up before me like a fast-forwarded episode of Shameless. His eyes said it all: "Take this Charly (that's what he called me). You'll need it." His actual words were: "I bought a load of these the other day so you can have one as a leaving present and remember London." OK, so maybe it wasn't planned but I proudly added it to my pile of one box of M&S chocolates. Chocolates and alcohol. To be honest, that's exactly what I needed. Good thinking my two generous friends.

Another thing I needed when I left was hope and, initially, there was lashings of that. Heaped onto me by well-meaning friends and family. "You can do anything. Oh my god, just LOOK at your qualifications! The world's your oyster. Your OYSTER. You can do anything." It was almost too High School Musical to be believable. I came away feeling like I'd over-indulged on Pick 'n' Mix. The first one tasted lovely but, after a whole bag, nausea was creeping up on me. Apparently my life was an opportunity time bomb and if I didn't hurry and dive down the thousands of career paths open to me, the whole thing would explode in my face and I'd be left licking off the remains of my professional custard pie. Overwhelmed and with an inflated sense of my own importance, I rushed off to begin the job-search or what should really be referred to as the exercise in shameless self-promotion. Yes, the media world is a hard nut to crack and I was not satisfied with having done it once, I wanted to do it again. Print media? Pah! Done that. Now, it's time to take on the beast that is broadcasting! Mwah ha ha...I said, sitting on my invisible high-backed leather chair, turned deliberately away from everyone else.

And so I have begun to prey on media bosses up and down the country, ruthlessly infiltrating their inboxes in a bid to find employment. I even lured one very nice man into a little light email conversation. I think I caught the poor guy unawares. I contacted him on the day after New Year's day in my eagerness. He was probably just signing in to check for any emergency/urgent-looking emails and there I was, perched at the top of his email list. 'Happy New Year - Now Give Me A Job'. Of course I didn't write that. But the fact I was there in the first place on January 2nd suggested all of that. Once I had a reply from him, I leapt on it and hurried off another email. Questions, questions, must ask questions, ask him how he got into doing what he's doing, ("Everyone loves talking about themselves," someone once told me. Oh how true.) keep the man talking! And it did. He replied with an extensive biography of his life and told me to watch his documentary. I frantically scribbled 'Watch documentary on i-player' in my new Moleskine diary, bought in an attempt to invite constructive, job-seeking energy into my life. I sat back and read over the instruction with satisfaction. To me, it was as good as writing in the date of a job interview. Brilliant. I'll watch it and then I'll email him and tell him what I thought! Yes! Genius! He'll never escape and he'll have offered me a job as his assistant producer by the end of the week, so strong is the impression I am making on him.

Needless to say that didn't happen. But the documentary was very good. And I did tell him. Feeling bold, I had also offered some thoughts on how he could have improved the ending. I haven't heard from him again.

The Beginning

It was a funny time to leave a job - in the middle of a recession. Well, technically, we weren't yet in a recession or at least that's what I kept reading. The media would have a week of lambasting our economic situation, the job losses, praising the silver lining which came in the form of an increase in lipstick sales, and then a week later I'd read in the media small print (my description of the luxury paragraphs at the bottom of the article reserved for weekend perusal) that we weren't yet in the grip of a recession. Not really. In theory. Something else that I hadn't quite got my head around had to happen before that could happen. After that the buzz word would be deflation. I think. Nonetheless, it couldn't be disputed that things were bad. The health of the country's finances, the general security of just about anything appeared to be teetering on the edge of a depression which had a sickly whiff of the 1930s, 70s and 90s.

Meanwhile, I was suffering from my own form of depression. I spent my days, or rather, nights, chewing up ordinary news stories and, quite literally, sexing them up. Or, to apply the correct jargon, applying the formula of 'Search Engine Optimisation' to each one. This translates as making sure each article pops up immediately when searched for in a search engine. Put more simply: Boobs Tits Sex Sex and More Sex. So I left. I was a serious journalist. I could conquer...something. Eventually. But not where I was. No Pulitzer Prize-winning word-smithery was ever going to roll off my fingers while I churned out Boobs and Bums. The news of my departure was not shocking to most of my colleagues. I mulled this over: "This is reassuring," I told myself. "Made right decision. Must get out. Must demand more for myself (I think this is taken from an episode of Brothers and Sisters but I can't be sure)." Once I had left the building for the last time clutching my leaving gift of one box of M&S chocolates, I did feel a little fuzz of victory in my stomach. Turning to flash a final glance at my former place of work at 3am on my last night (morning) of work, I sighed in a romantically valedictory fashion. In fact, I think my sentiment would be best summarised by the following Joyce line:

(Take a moment to breathe in the pretentiousness of that last sentence)

"Mother [...] prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race."

- A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce

I wasn't addressing my mother in any way but you get the gist. I felt hopeful. Until I got into the taxi, which was parked up for the last time to take me home. The taxi driver, let's call him Billy, was refreshingly realistic about my situation. His words were: "It's a difficult time at the moment. You wait till you see how difficult it is to find a job after Christmas. All those bankers who thought they were OK.." And he was off. And I was off. It doesn't take me much to start worrying. Given a thread of discouragement, I'll grab it between my teeth and run with it, blindly and madly, tugging at that thread as I run towards the great big flashing sign that reads "PANIC HERE". And when I get there I'll stop, turn around, and see the thread lying forlornly on the ground, where once it made a beautifully neat ball, and I'll stare. I stared at the road, twisting round by now up towards Highgate. This man would see through any trite self-defence. So I was honest. "Yeah, I know it's going to be difficult, but I just couldn't do it any more" "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, so quickly that I was reassured instantly. He continued: "I knew this fella who used to screw in lightbulbs for a living. Easy job, good manney [accent]. Then one day he just woke up and said, I've had enough of this. Now he says to me that he'd love to have a job like that now." Oh, right, I'm thinking. Not sure what to make of that story.

Oh, I thought. But..but..what about Joyce? What about literature? What about the classics and their tales of adventure and triumph in the face of adversity and.. That's when the stark hilarity of my situation hit me - who on earth in their right mind would voluntarily give up a job in the middle of a financial meltdown? The boldness of my move slammed into me in much the same way as I had slammed into a tree in Year 8 while running to escape a snowball. This metaphorical smack in the face left me with a numbness and twinge of embarrassment uncomfortably reminiscent of the very physical smack of the running-into-the-tree incident. So I decided to write about it - 'it' being life as a voluntarily self-unemployed person in their (now late) twenties who had the daft idea of going in search of a dream in the middle of a credit crunch, when everyone knows that there is no worse time to undertake such a task. Oh, and in case I forget to state it elsewhere, 'the dream' is to become an important writer and broadcaster. Yes, it is.

I was reluctant to start the blog at first because I thought that it would be, not only another self-indulgent use of web space, but also rather embarrassing. I told my friend about my idea of writing about 'voluntary unemployment at a time of financial meltdown' and her response was to laugh, saying that it sounded hilarious and that I should do it. Hilarious? That's my life we're talking about. So here I go. I suppose it's a sort of live, investigative piece on how a young girl is going to navigate her way through the media quagmire to make the transition from print to broadcast at a time when just about everyone is cutting jobs. A challenge? Why, of course. It will be that, but it will also be a peek at everything in between. This vagueness is deliberate because I don't know what the next few months have in store for me. But I'm going to have fun writing about it.