...but at least this time I actually got one, rather than the interminable silence that is the norm. I'm trying to get work experience, just a week's worth, in March next year, but noone seems willing to help.
Today's letter was from Private Eye - my kind of publication and something i've read for years. It's the sort of paper/mag that I would like to work for in the long run. I like the stand they take, and that they are (relatively) fearless. I wrote Ian Hislop a letter sending back a cheque i'd received for a contribution I'd made to their pages, suggesting that I could make a bigger contribution by doing a week with them. I made it as light hearted as I could, saying that my tea making skills alone were worth more than a tenner, and enclosed an article that i'd written for the local paper. Got a one-liner back saying that they don't do work experience, but at least they sent the cheque back! Will cash it now, to fund the postage costs for the next round of begging letters.
What I don't understand is why the print journalism industry is so unwilling to assist aspiring journalists. We're constantly being told that online journalism is the way of the future, so I fail to grasp why the traditional newspapers wouldn't want to encourage people to their field. It's not as if most of these places are awash with staff - most of them are run on a shoestring and I'm sure they could do with an extra pair of hands even if it's just to make the tea, open the post and wade through press releases. Come on, editors, give us a chance.
Saturday, 2 December 2006
Monday, 27 November 2006
(wine) glass half empty, or half full?
Had to have a few days to recover from the 'family conference'. It consisted of a 10 minute chat with one of her therapists, where I explained that if I actually said what I thought in front of sis she would explode in dramatic form. He nodded his head sagely and asked if I had any particular examples of her druggy behaviour. God, where wouldI start? Certainly couldn't scratch the surface in 10 minutes, that's for sure. So I gave him a couple - coked up at dad's funeral, turning up drunk to visit me when Thing 2 was born, shouting and screaming at her own barrister in court. None of which seemed in the least bit of a surprise to him.
Enter sister stage right. 30 minutes of pretty much how unsupportive I had been in her hour of need (that'd be the hour of need when I was heavily pregnant, working full time shift work,looking after Thing 1 as a toddler, commuting 60 miles a day, looking after dad as he slid further into the abyss of dementia). As you can guess I was none too impressed. Don't think I won over the therapist by describing therapy as 'navel gazing' - He said I was the 'head' and sister was the 'heart' of the family. More like 'Mug' and 'skiving, selfish, self centred, lazy, manipulative cow'
As you may have guessed, I didn't think much of it. Sister cried continually, but at least kept the semtex-type explosive behaviour in check.
Sister was looking forward to her 'exeat' 2 days later - a chance to go home just overnight to start her move back in to the real world. Mr Therapy explained to me in private that the programme requires total abstinence from drink and drugs. I said I thought this highly unlikely. He put his head to one side and explained how determined he felt sister was.
Had a phone call from sister tonight. She is in detention, standing outside the headmasters office. Her 'friend' , the one who had offered sister a bed for her exeat and a quiet night in with a meal and a DVD and some good girly chat, took her to a mate's party instead where they got larruped. No drugs - apparently all her 'mates' were very 'respectful' of this and did it outside, but a bottle of wine instead.
£15k, 28 days as an inmate and still no bloody further down the line (Freudian slip, I assure you) They want her to stay another week, which she has refused, but will do day therapy instead - 9-4.30, for a week, leaving her another 15 or so hours a day to snort her septum out.
Alison's sister, 10 days into her 3 week terminal prognosis, is finally in for her 'shit or bust' operation today - it will take at least 10 hours. I can't begin to imagine how awful this must be for them all. Apparently her kids left for school this morning without seeing her as she was sleeping and the call came in after they had gone that the bed was waiting - she hasn't said goodbye to her kids and may never see them again. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it. Life is so unfair.
Enter sister stage right. 30 minutes of pretty much how unsupportive I had been in her hour of need (that'd be the hour of need when I was heavily pregnant, working full time shift work,looking after Thing 1 as a toddler, commuting 60 miles a day, looking after dad as he slid further into the abyss of dementia). As you can guess I was none too impressed. Don't think I won over the therapist by describing therapy as 'navel gazing' - He said I was the 'head' and sister was the 'heart' of the family. More like 'Mug' and 'skiving, selfish, self centred, lazy, manipulative cow'
As you may have guessed, I didn't think much of it. Sister cried continually, but at least kept the semtex-type explosive behaviour in check.
Sister was looking forward to her 'exeat' 2 days later - a chance to go home just overnight to start her move back in to the real world. Mr Therapy explained to me in private that the programme requires total abstinence from drink and drugs. I said I thought this highly unlikely. He put his head to one side and explained how determined he felt sister was.
Had a phone call from sister tonight. She is in detention, standing outside the headmasters office. Her 'friend' , the one who had offered sister a bed for her exeat and a quiet night in with a meal and a DVD and some good girly chat, took her to a mate's party instead where they got larruped. No drugs - apparently all her 'mates' were very 'respectful' of this and did it outside, but a bottle of wine instead.
£15k, 28 days as an inmate and still no bloody further down the line (Freudian slip, I assure you) They want her to stay another week, which she has refused, but will do day therapy instead - 9-4.30, for a week, leaving her another 15 or so hours a day to snort her septum out.
Alison's sister, 10 days into her 3 week terminal prognosis, is finally in for her 'shit or bust' operation today - it will take at least 10 hours. I can't begin to imagine how awful this must be for them all. Apparently her kids left for school this morning without seeing her as she was sleeping and the call came in after they had gone that the bed was waiting - she hasn't said goodbye to her kids and may never see them again. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it. Life is so unfair.
Wednesday, 22 November 2006
Things, Tories and the NHS
Another busy week so far (are there any un-busy weeks?) Three days at college, accompanied by the usual mad rush with The Things. Feel bad as I enjoy my time away from them just a bit too much.
Monday started with a talk from Iain Dale, the famous political blogger, who motivated me to start this. Didn't necessarily agree with everything he said - he's got some funny ideas about life, but hey, that's the strange semi-real world he comes from that does that. Obviously very influential, well-connected and entertaining - a trail blazer when it comes to blogging and internet TV. Reckons the candidate shortlists for the Conservatists are unfair now there's a 50/50 split between the sexes. Excuse me? He said it was discriminatory. Wouldn't have it that women may find certain barriers to success and progress up the slippery pole anymore. You try convincing an employer/tutor/selection committee you're fit for the job/course/country with a child sized gap on your CV. To say nothing of the streak of snot smeared onto your left knee that I discovered just that bit too late this morning.
Still, he said he wants a few of us to appear on his internet TV show - should be interesting, and I have to profess that a man in possession of a good book shop is always OK by me.
Spent most of Tuesday sorting out phone and internet. Thought it was a fault on the line until the nice BT engineer informed me that, actually, we'd been cut off. He was very good about it, but it meant a grovelling phone call to Tiscali who laughed politely at my explanation for non-payment (dog's chewed my homework, Sir) and reconnected us before Darling Husband (DH) found out what had happened. He hasn't forgiven me for the plate I threw at him when he didn't pay the gas bill, so thought I'd better keep this one quiet. Can't afford to lose any more crockery - we're nearly onto the Fireman Sam plastic stuff as it is.
My lovely childminder Alison, who is far too nice to be looking after my Things, was in floods of tears when I dropped the kids off. Her sister was diagnosed with a repetition of a brain tumour on Friday and was given 3 weeks to live by a doctor who told her before she broke the news that she was in a real rush and having a terrible day - coat and bag in hand - so wouldn't be able to talk for long. The doctor was having a bad day? Not as bad as Alison's sister, husband and three small children, that's for sure.
They are now being mucked about horrendously by the bureaucrats. There's a chance she may be able to have a 'shit or bust' operation but the local hospital failed to send the necessary scans to the London hospital when they said they would and the London hospital now won't be able to get the necessary doctors together until Friday to consult- a week into the three week countdown with the prognosis weakening by the hour. Have suggested all sorts of things - faxing the CEO, calling her MP or the local rag to put the heat on but the whole family is just in shock and can't get their act together. It brings back awful memories of the same stuff happening when both Mum and Dad died. Nothing seems to ever move on - millions wasted on 'Agenda for Change' and executives in charge of paperclips on vast salaries, but when the little person needs some real help and support it's just not there. Quite literally tragic.
Sorry to end on a downer. Tomorrow will be more fun - off to a well known rehab clinic for a 'family therapy' session with my sister, a rather unwilling inmate. Can't wait....
Monday started with a talk from Iain Dale, the famous political blogger, who motivated me to start this. Didn't necessarily agree with everything he said - he's got some funny ideas about life, but hey, that's the strange semi-real world he comes from that does that. Obviously very influential, well-connected and entertaining - a trail blazer when it comes to blogging and internet TV. Reckons the candidate shortlists for the Conservatists are unfair now there's a 50/50 split between the sexes. Excuse me? He said it was discriminatory. Wouldn't have it that women may find certain barriers to success and progress up the slippery pole anymore. You try convincing an employer/tutor/selection committee you're fit for the job/course/country with a child sized gap on your CV. To say nothing of the streak of snot smeared onto your left knee that I discovered just that bit too late this morning.
Still, he said he wants a few of us to appear on his internet TV show - should be interesting, and I have to profess that a man in possession of a good book shop is always OK by me.
Spent most of Tuesday sorting out phone and internet. Thought it was a fault on the line until the nice BT engineer informed me that, actually, we'd been cut off. He was very good about it, but it meant a grovelling phone call to Tiscali who laughed politely at my explanation for non-payment (dog's chewed my homework, Sir) and reconnected us before Darling Husband (DH) found out what had happened. He hasn't forgiven me for the plate I threw at him when he didn't pay the gas bill, so thought I'd better keep this one quiet. Can't afford to lose any more crockery - we're nearly onto the Fireman Sam plastic stuff as it is.
My lovely childminder Alison, who is far too nice to be looking after my Things, was in floods of tears when I dropped the kids off. Her sister was diagnosed with a repetition of a brain tumour on Friday and was given 3 weeks to live by a doctor who told her before she broke the news that she was in a real rush and having a terrible day - coat and bag in hand - so wouldn't be able to talk for long. The doctor was having a bad day? Not as bad as Alison's sister, husband and three small children, that's for sure.
They are now being mucked about horrendously by the bureaucrats. There's a chance she may be able to have a 'shit or bust' operation but the local hospital failed to send the necessary scans to the London hospital when they said they would and the London hospital now won't be able to get the necessary doctors together until Friday to consult- a week into the three week countdown with the prognosis weakening by the hour. Have suggested all sorts of things - faxing the CEO, calling her MP or the local rag to put the heat on but the whole family is just in shock and can't get their act together. It brings back awful memories of the same stuff happening when both Mum and Dad died. Nothing seems to ever move on - millions wasted on 'Agenda for Change' and executives in charge of paperclips on vast salaries, but when the little person needs some real help and support it's just not there. Quite literally tragic.
Sorry to end on a downer. Tomorrow will be more fun - off to a well known rehab clinic for a 'family therapy' session with my sister, a rather unwilling inmate. Can't wait....
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