Intern-al Monologue

"London doesn’t love the latent or the lurking, has neither time, nor taste, nor sense for anything less discernible than the red flag in front of the steam-roller. It wants cash over the counter and letters ten feet high."
- Henry James The Awkward Age (1899)

This summer I was presented with the opportunity to partake in that time honoured student pastime; The Internship. Every year the capital is descended upon by University students who, upon finding themselves at a loose end over the summer months, decide that the best possible way to fill this time is to spend hundreds of pounds of Mummy and Daddy's money on living in London while working more hours in a week then they have put in all year at uni for zero financial gain. All this in order to add those all important inches to the CV. Interning being the solution, it seems, to the ages old paradox that employment begets the experience necessary to gain it.

The relationship between established companies which require someone to open the post and make the tea and wary undergraduates desperate to rise above the pack when applying for the professional occupations for which, these days, it seems that a degree is simply not enough, is pleasantly symbiotic. They are over the moon that they didn't have to pay someone to complete these menial intern - worthy tasks and we are positively euphoric that (insert name of reputable London company) have deigned to let us boil the kettle for them. Because we desperately require this experience for our impending launch into today's job market.

As a result, time spent interning is enhanced by a steadying feeling of self satisfaction, a sense that one is making an assault into the 'real' world. And it doesn't get any more real than joining the commuter rat race on the London Underground.

Anyone who has ever leapt out of bed, filled with enthusiasm for the day ahead, skipped down to the tube station grinning at everyone they encountered along the way and swiftly realised the error of their ways when people begin to cross the street to avoid them will realise that there is a particular lack of camaraderie between rush hour travellers in the capital. Nobody wants to talk to you, nobody wants you to smile at them and NOBODY wants to dodge around you on the platform while you engrossedly study your tube map. The novelty of tube travel has long worn off for these seasoned Londoners; they know where they're going and they just want to get there. Woe betide you if you get in the way. If looks could kill Victoria Station at 8.30 on a Monday morning would probably be the murder capital of the world.

But you live and learn. I found, on day two of my internship, having completed the previous day's crash course in underground etiquette, that I was really beginning to develop an affinity for London life, hostility and all.

My work placement, for a major publishing house, was genuinely useful. I was able to help out with 'proper' jobs such as editing manuscripts and the experience has definitely cemented my desire to be an editor. But what I learned most from the experience was not how to stop amateur authors' grammatical errors but how my life is likely to turn out if I get onto my preferred career path. Professional life could not be more different to uni life, especially for an idle Arts student like myself; in London you have to put the hours in. Travelling is time consuming and draws out the working day from 8 hours (if you're lucky) to around 11. Outside of this time you are faced with a choice between sleeping and actually having a life.

That life can consist of trips to world famous theatres, taking in unrivalled night-life, celebrity spotting or just trying to visit every single restaurant London has to offer (not a chance). You won't get bored. And London is the place to land that awesome graduate job which will pay for it all.

So it's no wonder that everyone is a bit edgy on the tube in the morning - they're all absolutely shattered. But from where I'm standing they're also living the dream.

So it wouldn't hurt to crack a smile now and again would it?

Fires of Anticipation and Ambition

Some last views of my beautiful city

Darling, darling Chloe;

A hectic two weeks of relentless travelling hindered production of this essay, which has almost doubled in size in order to include the events post-dating it's primary inscription. I can only apologise for this, as though I had ample time between the illegally acquired internet decided to take it's revenge and restrict any contact in the down-time available between flights.

The past two weeks have included a sum total of eight flights, seven cities and countless rendezvous which have done nothing but increase my happiness levels to an immeasurable high; although I do predict substantial flooding in Santiago after this weekend; the bottled up tears (which surprisingly have not been released for at least a month and a half, an incredible acheivement in my dry-eyes...) will be unleashed on an unprecedented scale as I bid adieu to Santiago and my Spanglish cronies for a month in the south sans internet connection. This, however should pose no grand issue in terms of contact, as due to my fantastic new contract I have 900 minutes reserved for your beautiful ears...

I have played host to my Daddy and his girlfriend, and shown them both Santiago's sights and nearby beaches in a short but sweet visit, allowing for some serious tourism photography, aswell as several shots I am rather proud of when me and Tommy decided to climb a nearby hill in the rain as a hangover cure - it worked fantastically until the sound of nearby motorcross riders had a detrimental effect on our on-edge brains and we utterly convinced ourselves about the existence of a man with a chainsaw through the trees who preyed on Sunday afternoon tourists. I was on the point of ringing my mother to say my goodbyes when we saw the bikes, and even then the inbred visage of the rider had us rooted to the spot as we were convinced he had gone to find his brother/cousin/uncle rolled into one and beat us to a pulp. Happy times. The view from the top, (see above) however, was unbeatable, and the choice of taking the road home eased our troubled minds...

Despite the tristesse of goodbyes, I believe the Erasmus year has run it's course and shall be glad to return to England's fair shores. This is by no means unaided by the spontaneous internal combustion of excitement which next year is causing. This has served to light a fire of ambition under my previously happily sedentary Erasmus behind; a force of energy, which shall be much helped by the introduction of a routine at the camp. The 9 'til 12 days of constant exercise shall slim and tone my beer rounded frame, and I shall return free of my lazy attidue. As we have planned, and as shall be strictly followed, our routine of library and gym attendance shall sculpt our minds and bodies into work-free, intellectually stimulating goddesses at the weekend, smoke-less and lighweight.

After Pangea, and minimal sleep, I made my insomniac way to the airport, and spent the five hour break in Madrid in the glorious sunbathed park, planning the year to come and deciding that I, and hopefully if you should so wish your delightful self, shall plunge full-steam ahead into forging our future careers - I intend to contact the Big Issue North offering my services, and spend any non-studious time in the library writing for them and the student paper. This, of course, after the mandatory perusing of The Times and completion of the crossword.

My visit to Alicante, as well as a break from the harrowing routine of late, drunken nights, opened my eyes to my detiorating attitude to boys. Six of the three of us were happily married, two of us unhappily single. Lauren the third is recently and contendly single, and her stance on the situation left me reconsidering my own. The three in relationships had not been in search of their media-naranja, and had happened upon their soulmates by chance. Their butterfly-filled lives reaffirm my faith, whilst leaving me slightly envious. However the stark contrast between the singleton desperately in search of butterflies and she who is happy with her situation decided for me the position I would rather be in. Despite the slight longing for affection there is no doubt in my previously cynical mind that I shall find butterflies along the road, and searching for this where and when possible is only making me lose faith. On this note I journeyed to Barcelona and had the most incredible night at sonar, with not a whisper of boys on my mind, and decided this is the key to contendedness...

On an utterly different note, I am halfway through a Salman Rushdie novel, The Ground Beneath her Feet and strongly recommend it's perusal. I don't know if you are familar with Midnight's Children or The Enchantress of Florence, but if not I shall bring both to our literary abode next year and force them upon you. I have yet to read The Satanic Verses but it is next on my list, and if it lives up to the previous quality of writing and storyline I expect it to be a masterpiece.

Tell me all your news my lovely, only the hope of our lovenest next year is keeping the pain of completing my time here at bay.

Yours adoringly,
Hannah xxx

Tourism snaps from Daddy's visit

Testing Times

Dear Hannah,

I have spent my weekend blissfully unaware of the hustle of the city, employing only the trappings of the 21st century which would make the time more comfortable and gleefully shunning all those which masquerade as a convinience in my everyday life but in fact are simply a means of intrusion for all those that I am routinely trying to evade ie University lecturers, Internship coordinators of dubious authenticity and anybody trying to tell me which Disney princess I most resemble. Thursday afternoon, as the ink was still drying on my final exam script (not really, I used a biro, I just love the imagery) I packed up, turned off my laptop - all the way, not just on to stand by so I could still open it and have it booted up instantly ready to yield information for my 4am pre exam freak outs - and left for Cornwall.

To go from the dog eat dog hotbed of anxiety and despair that is the university library at this time of year to a rural cove which can inspire nothing but awe and calm in the beholder was precisely what I needed.

The view was the kind preserved in Keats and Blake, that awe inspiring stuff which hints at divine orchestration and reminds us of how small we are, and how insignificant our concerns. Walking for the sake of walking, taking in the air, eating around a table, talking and laughing rather than shovelling hastily in front of that all knowing screen was like tasting a freedom to which I'd forgotten I was entitiled.

Forget the pontifications of various journalists who are keen to assert the viewpoint that exams these days are getting easier; one's ability to come up with the answers to various questions is only about half the battle, the real test comes from dealing with the overwhelming stress of exam season and mananging to keep enough of your sanity intact to be able to revise, retain the information and then enter the exam hall without suffering some sort of breakdown.

Because we all know that we can pass exams; we wouldn't be at university if we couldn't. But putting the better part of your future at the end of a pen, we can't all do that. There are no lectures or seminars or textbooks that tell you how.

So this weekend was an offloading of all the panic I've been carrying around for the past few weeks and for that it was perfect.

However, what there is to be said for exam period is that it eclipses all other aspects of life and occupies all thoughts, removing the such impulses and emotions as vanity and lonliness.

While Cornwall in its rural beauty and blissful detatchment from the pressures of university life offers the necessary haven for a temporary retreat, it does us no good to bury our emotions completely, lest they decide to surface, univited, at a later date.

As I write this I have just bade farewell to Joe as he embarks upon a three month sojourn to America for the summer. This has indeed proven to be the straw that broke the camel's back; the seperation anxiety with which I have dealt so well over the past year has manifested itself in despair in which I am now wallowing.

I do hope that this is it, that the last person has left me, that I have spent my last night for this year frozen in panic about exams, jobs, internships, essays.

I did have the most wonderful time in Cornwall and regret that this post is so despairing and introspective.

I miss you terribly and look forward to hearing your news which I have no doubt will lift my spirits.

Love always,

Chloe.xx

Rock and Roll

12 May 2009

Dearest Girl,

I apologise for my incomunicado status over the past week; I am happy to admit that it is due to some of the subjects which your life shall soon be overflowing with. My darling housemates upped and left this Thursday, quite irresponisbly leaving me to my own devices, which due to my retarded nature at this point in time could have lead to devastating consequences. To ease the pain of abandonment I decided to fill my free time as much as was physically possible, and ended by not spending more than half an hour's shower time in my own flat.

I am, however aware that the readership of this blog often counts among itself my parents; and due to this I feel that too much detail on the abundance of sex, drugs and music in my life would be unwise (NONE, Daddy, NONE AT ALL) but suffice to say that my weekend was drunken to say the very least. I ended up, due to my female companion's promiscuous behaviour, which meant the spare bed was taken, spending Friday night in Fran's bed, and realised that I had missed physical contact an obscene amount. Although our search for that elusive intellectual must continue, I have come to the conclusion that it is not sex I need, not at all, just a little bit of affection. In a completely uncalculated but rather satisfactory manner I spent another drunken Saturday night in the same manner; harmless spooning and nothing more, and finding no inclination to make the journey to my humble, empty abode in the pouring rain that greeted us on Sunday, I made a roast dinner and stayed there again.

The contended, slothful weekend, however, has come to an end, and yesterday, though the weather was similar, bought with it the news that my Grandma had passed away. Though not unexpected, it has still bought with it a shadow of gloom to the rainy streets, and has rather sapped the aura of happiness that had enveloped me. It is rather surreal, however, the Erasmus life meaning that home feels another world away, and though I am glad I will be able to make it home for the funeral, I know that until then the sad fact will retain it's dreamlike quality.

I am now in more need than ever of your stories, and am exceptionally glad that your new boozy life will provide me with much entertainment. I also very much enjoyed the first post from our new contributor, and hope she will continue to provide my triste little head with much needed entertainment.

Reciprocating and adding to the electronic love,

Hannah xxx

(The lack of) Sex, Drugs and Music

10th May 2009

Dear Hannah,

It has been brought to my attention by our mutual German acquaintance that "More people would read your blog if you wrote about sex drugs and music". Far be it from to disagree with such obvious wisdom. Thus, my dear, this post marks an attempt to shift the overall tone of our publication toward the scandalous, torrid and even downright Hogarthian in an attempt to cater to the interests of the reading public.

It is at this point that writer's block begins to set in as I have very little debaucherous activity to relate. Indeed, it would appear that my mother is in possession of a much more colourful social life than myself as I have spent much of the past weekend babysitting while she pursues it. Life cannot continue in this fashion! I have dresses and shoes and fake tan and makeup and money spent on keeping my hair and eyebrows under control which cannot be wasted. I need, for want of more rhetorical phrasing, to Get A Life. And soon. I resolve that the next post will contain tales of my social exploits, of nights on the town, of new friends and hangovers. I am adamant that the next time you hear from me I shall be once again in possession of the bright demeanor and sociable attitude which occasioned our friendship in the first instance.

This week I have found myself entombed within an endless pile of revision as well as distracted by thoughts of how easy it is to allow oneself to become entrenched in a rut. It would be easy to simply blame my current social situation on my impending examinations, however, pointing the finger towards academia would be incorrect and far wide of the point. In fact it is the cumulutive impact of many factors of university life which result in my current day to day occupation of drinking coffee, watching Scrubs and staring at the four walls. To sit tight and await the end of exams, viewing this time as the point at which a social revolution will miraculously descend upon my life bestowing upon all about me the insatiable desire to drink and dance until the early hours, make new friends and generally revel in youth and cheap vodka when this is clearly not a lifestyle to which they would ordinarily subscribe is to deny all evidence as it presents itself in my current day to day social situation. As you mentioned in your last post, it does not do to look to the past with a rose - tinted nostalgia, nor does it to fix ones vision on a future which is unlikely to live up to expectations. The answer lies alongside the problem; firmly in the present.

It will do no good to lament the passing of last year, full as it was with hedonistic trips to Robbos, or to long for next year whereupon academic work must be allowed to take precedence over social engagements. It will only benefit my lonely, bored soul to begin searching from sort of distraction immediatly. This is my intention.

This week is to be one of discovery. While my impending sojourn to Cornwall will take up most of my post - exam free time, I intend to utilise the time I do have with trips around Manchester which take me further afield than the kitchen, further even than Starbucks as experience has taught me that there are few interesting acquaintances to be made there. I intend to explore new places, armed with both camera and revision notes and to share my exploits with you via our beautiful blog.

Hopefully my new found social gregariousness will inspire posts which are more to Benny's liking. Ha.

I would welcome your suggestions with regard to where to go and who to include within my plan for social resurrection as well as stories of your own debaucherous activities from which to take inspiration.

Take care my dear, I send you all the affection that it is possible to include within the electronic format and eagerly await your reply.

Much love,
Chloe.xxx

More 6pm Photos

How to Survive the French

As my housemate casually passed me a book entitled `How to Survive the English' (written by a French woman, who else?), I had a definite inkling that this would serve as material for my first ever blog post. I was right.
Living in Paris has made me painfully aware of the cultural differences between l'Angleterre and la France and the self-confessed superior attitude of the French towards oh-no-not-the English. This book was so rude concerning the country of which I feel so proud that I have been googling the authors' contact details ever since in order to send her a long letter criticizing the French to my hearts content.
She calls us every insult under the sun whilst trying to portray the Frenchies as perfect. Bah, non!
So with my letter I'm looking to give her a taste of her own medicine (that's one thing of which she probably already has cupboards full; the French are known to be the biggest hypochondriacs, after all).
I run the risk of boring you with my indignation over this subject so I will keep it as short and sweet - perhaps not so sweet - as possible. I shall save my profound criticisms of the frogs for my letter to this grossly misinformed woman, and shall instead give you some tips on surviving the French...

- Best to start off knowing that you, as a foreigner (and especially as an English one), are wrong. The French are right. Don't try and convince otherwise because they're just French and they're just right.

- Don't be over the top. The French are cool and highly unexaggerated. You might think something is `amazing and wonderful and.. Oh my gosh!!', but don't say it. They will immediately retort with `Yeah, it's not bad'. Making you feel, quite honestly, a bit silly.

- Never smile in the metro, this will immediately give you away as being a foreigner. Try to throw the best irritated look you can manage to the person next to you. They'll love it.

- For goodness sake, never speak to anyone you don't know. If you're wondering where that French girl got her beret (why not) from, then guess. Guess from glancing, but do not stare. Stare at nobody, whether it be man or woman. Any more than a 3 second gaze at someone will definitely provoke a `Hey, what's your problem?' from a femme or `Hey you, mine or yours?' from a homme.

- `Oui, ça va bien et toi?' This always has to be the response to the famous `Ca va ?' Even if you've lost your job, home, and had a bird do their business on you all in one day, you still have to reply `Oui, ça va'.

- Throw in some Anglicisms. `Too much' or `trendy' are some particular favourites. 'Oui, oui, c'est trendy ça'. Oh how I cringe.

- Talk about sex. In France, it is abnormal to abstain from talking about a subject so taboo in our own darling country. Sitting around a table at lunchtime with your work colleagues (yes, even your boss), the conversation inevitably leads to sex. With this, you are supposed to describe some recent sordid detail from your sex life, and nobody blinks an eye. However, blush and mumble that you have nothing to add will leave everybody in an awkward silence.

- `Bon' must be their favourite word. It means `have a good..' and it can be paired with nearly any noun (I'll let your imagination run wild..). Bonne journée, bonne soirée, bonnes vacances, bon appétit? The whole thing becomes very tiring and very confusing for us foreigners and often leaves me thinking `Oh please stop bonning me'.

Well, I hope this has given you some insight into life as a `frog' (very different to the life of an `rosbif', trust me), and I'll leave you with an `Au revoir' and a `Bonne soirée!'