Lost Vagueness

Say Hello to Pan Am

2011-11-26T10:12:00.000-08:00

Is the acting? Not really… Although I was pleased to see that Neighbour’s best actress and Australia’s finest export Margot Robbie (what a name!), otherwise known as Donna, has made it into the blue blazers. Yes, I’m also in love with Neighbours, but that’s different blog all together.

Is it the script? Possibly… Some of the characters reach the hallowed third dimension, but for the most part they’re left wooden and stiff, awkwardly stuck in 2D.

It’s the clothes.

Now, I’m not really one for drooling over designers or rushing out to buy non-prescription Rayban specs because all the kids in Hackney are wearing them… And if you’ve seen my wardrobe, you’ll know that a good 80% of it is what I affectionately call “Primarni”. Most of my shoes have holes in their soles, and my newest pair of heels are from (am I going to do this?) Peacocks (yes, I’ve gone there). I can’t afford a haircut at the moment, so my fringe looks more Shetland pony than Kate Moss, and my glasses (though Channel) have been across the American continent without a glasses case, and sit slightly skewed and scratched on my face.

I do however love and adore the clothes on Pan Am. I’d probably not eat for a few weeks if it meant I could have the dress Christina Ricci sashayed down the street in during Episode 3, Ich Bin Eine Berliner (right).

Just look at those infamous Pan Am uniforms. 80’s power suits have nothing on these. These blazers were cutting it across the concourse before Joan Collins had even heard of shoulder pads and Dynasty was just a twinkle in someone's eye. My god. It’s no wonder the original BBC trail showed the girls kicking it in kitten heels to a cover of Beyonce’s Independent Women. And look at that tailoring – perfect to suggest a busty set of power boobs beneath, tucked away in triangular power bras. Nipped in waists are perfectly highlighted by the dainty white gloves that hover just above the hips as they elegantly carry the classic Pan Am luggage bag, leaving Paris Hilton’s ridiculous Louis Vuitton bag posturing trashier than ever in comparison. The pencil skirts give the impression of demure, covering the knees innocently enough, but the sexiness still shimmys away elsewhere in the close tailoring. There’s no hiding a nice bum and a set of rocket thighs. You need to have curves to rock these bad boys… there will be no lift-off for size zeros.

What I like about the wardrobe of Pan Am, is that it’s oozing femininity without feeling the need to crack the whoppers out in a low cut mesh top and leather hot pants (I’m talking to YOU, female pop stars gyrating away on Saturday’s T4). The ladies aren’t trying to squish their calves into skinny jeans or hide the inevitable muffin top that spills over the top (I speak from personal experience). They’re wearing clothes that flatter the female figure, leaving a bit of imagination there as to what lies beneath, instead leaving nothing to the imagination in a pair of ripple hugging leggings.

They’re wearing skirts and dresses, things that have been made safe in the knowledge that yes, as much as we try to hide them, we do actually have hips. And that also, yes, we do have breasts, and they’re lovely, but it is possible to show them off without semi-transparent material. It’s all about the ratio. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Not everything. Not “I need no imagination to know what you look like naked” (that’s YOU, Rihanna).

Yes, you could say that the characters having to endure weigh-ins and wear girdles is just as sexist and objectifying, but that rather spoils the fun of it all. They look like real women, and they dress like real women, so it can’t be all that bad. It’s all just a bit of fun. Isn’t it? As one review puts it:

“Pan Am takes a more forgiving look at the Sixties. Even the blatant sexism is viewed more with affection than regret.”

Right. So my argument is a little flawed in that the sexism is actually quite bad. Also that review was written by the Daily Mail, a paper that doesn’t have the right to validate anything, ever. Does this make me a sexist? Am I advocating uncomfortable underwear and figure watching in order to look good? Oh dear.

So there it is. My first ever blog about fashion (sort of). And probably my last. I’ve got it out of my system. I saw clothes, got all girly about them, engaged in a bit of mild sexism and I’ve shared it with the group. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to put on my George at Asda tracksuit and forget it ever happened.

Theatre Maker's Lunch

2011-11-15T05:19:00.000-08:00

Hopefully I'll have some nice wee vox pops to stick in here at a later date. I did wander around with a dorky set of headphones on and a little microphone to record them (YES, okay, fine, I will admit I DID pretend to be Britney with it). I just need to learn some magical jiggery pokery to upload them first.

Theatre Maker’s Lunch

Cornerhouse (The Annex)

Saturday 12 November, 12:30

I have to admit it: I’m a little bit nervous about the idea of a “Theatre Maker’s Lunch”. The last time I had any contact with the acting world, I was 15, and surrounded by fellow drama students pretending to grow from an acorn into a tree. My attempt was more sapling than majestic oak. Unless it’s Karaoke in the early hours of the morning, it’s unlikely you’ll ever see me in the spotlight.

It is then with a degree of nervousness that I tiptoe into the Cornerhouse’s Annex room for a session of networking “aimed at supporting emerging artists to make their own theatre or performance.” I had imagined a room of extravagant thespians making exuberant conversation, finishing each sentence with a flourish of over-the-top gesture. What I find is something entirely different.

There are no cries of “daaahrling” as I shuffle into the bright, airy room. No flinging around of limbs or showy, O-T-T story telling. There’s not a beret in sight. A few participants are dotted around, casually making conversation and nibbling on the rather yummy fennel seed biscuits provided by Cornerhouse. Clusters of artists gather to discuss their projects, offering advice and guidance to each other before the session has even started.

The seating is laid out in a large circle, and for a minute I begin to panic. There’s nowhere to hide. What if they ask me to introduce myself to the group through the medium of dance? I frantically try to recall the opening routine of Wigfield’s Saturday Night, the only dance routine I know, cursing my mother for not forcing me into ballet classes when I was younger.

Thankfully, we’re just asked to say a quick hello, along with a few standard ice breaking questions - one being to provide a piece of performative work that we wish we’d been a part of. This varies from Beyonce’s Glastonbury Performance to Avant-Garde films like Rabbit’s Moon; one performer cites The Royal Family, and another chooses Samuel Beckett’s Fragments. It’s a mixed bag, which is no surprise: as we go around the circle, it becomes clear that this is an extremely diverse network of individuals. There are dancers, actors, costume designers, scriptwriters, producers and musicians… And they’re from a variety of backgrounds and at different stages of their career: from drama graduates to directors of theatre companies.

So what’s brought them together?

According to Lowri Evans, leader of today’s session, they’re here to help each other out, supporting each other’s work “from the spark of an idea into fruition”. It’s about using the collective knowledge of the group to get projects off the ground, relying on the individual talents that are present in the community to kick start a great idea, instead of waiting for the powers that be to give it the go ahead.

It’s obvious that there’s a need for this sort of support. The workshop is fun and light-hearted, but there’s also a slight air of desperation from some of the more “green” members of the group, who are struggling with the lack of support they’ve been faced with: the pressures of “coming out of uni, when everything was handed to you on a plate, to nothing”, as one member puts it. This isn’t just about being creative. It’s about making a living.

Thankfully, the theatre industry isn’t as down and out as some may have it. There are small, innovative theatre companies that are making it, and their tales of success fill the room with an almost audible sigh of relief.

First to take centre stage is the wonderful Eggs Collective (represented today by Roxanne Moores and Lydia Hirst), who seem to have finally grabbed hold of success by (in their own words): “saying yes to everything”. This hard working all female company makes no illusions to the rest of the group: to make it big, you need to earn your stripes. “Everything we’ve done has been a learning curve,” they tell us. They run us through the history of the collective, their highlight being access to a considerable amount of Arts Council England funding, a point that turns the room momentarily green with envy and sets pencils scribbling furiously into notebooks as they share their ACE bid writing experience.

The issue of funding is ‘the big one’, and the question on everyone’s lips is how to get it. Our second speaker, Susie Wren of Happy Storm Theatre CIC sheds a little more light on the issue: “the first one [funding bid] is a minefield,” she warns. She provides an extensive timeline of her funding application, as well as detailed budget breakdowns and thoughtful advice on how to market your project, which provokes yet more scribbling from the group. Apparently, any inside knowledge on ACE bids is gold dust, so the level of detail each company goes into when sharing their secrets of success surprises me: there’s no cautious card holding here. If there’s advice that’ll help someone on their way, they’ll share it.

There’s a surprising lack of competition amongst the practioners. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, with limited funding and dwindling investment in the arts. I didn’t expect today’s speakers to be so willing to give potential competitors a leg up. I sit back during the feedback session and examine the group to find that every one of them is attentively listening to a young girl’s project idea. She finishes with the question “what’s next?” Immediately someone speaks up with an idea she should investigate, and the group becomes alive with suggestions. Heads nod and pens click into action as everyone frantically jots down the names of contacts and networks that can help them on their way. One member speaks up who’s never worked in theatre before: an English graduate looking to move into the industry. The group actively leans forward, eager to reach out to him with support. It’s like an AA meeting. My name’s Edward, and I’m thinking about directing a play. Even I pitch in with advice, I can’t help it.

Before long the session comes to an end, leaving 10 minutes or so scheduled in for networking. I grab a few vox pops (and some more biscuits) and chat to attendees. From speaking with them, it looks like today’s shiniest nuggets of wisdom have concerned the practicalities of making theatre production profitable: how to get paid for doing what you love. There’s a mixture of excitement from those who’ve been shown there’s a way to achieve this; and intrepidation from those starting out at the foot of what looks to be a very steep climb. Everyone agrees that meeting other practioners today has provided some motivation to give it a go.

As I step out from the Cornerhouse into the biting November wind, I feel a little warm inside. It’s nice to see people being nice: supporting each other, creating opportunities where there would otherwise be a brick wall. It’s what makes the art industry special, and it’s a good feeling to be part of it. There’s a spring in my step that’s bordering on improvised dance, and I almost break into spontaneous song; but then remember I’m not in a room of theatre practioners anymore. I’m in public, and the man next to me is looking a little afraid.

Little Rays of Sunshine

2011-11-04T07:55:00.001-07:00

You know what they say: “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” I’d rather make a lemon drizzle cake with mine, but ho hum.

It’s been a tough year. Tough in the middle class woe is me sort of way, not like famine or disease or anything. Not really tough… more sort of chewy; hard to swallow. A bit gristly.

It’s been a hard one in the same way it’s been a hard one for everyone my age (oh yes, this is where this blog is going, I’m jumping in on the stampede of other bloggers who are also going there). We all knew it would be hard anyway. We’re twenty-somethings, after all. We’re supposed to be confused and anxious about the future and horribly skint. I’ve been informed that I should keep expecting it to be quite awful for a good many years yet. But on top of that; on top of being in our twenties, we’ve also been squished into the bottom of a rather large crash. We’d barely began to ponder on what we might actually want to do with our lives; stepping tentatively onto our “career paths”, only to turn around and see a huge double decker credit crunch bus hurtling in our direction. Too late. Crash bang wallop. Should’ve checked both ways.

There have been some spectacular ups. But there’s also been some sub-zero lows. What I’m planning on doing now is finding the middle ground. I’m going for bronze. It’s still good, it’s still a medal, but it’s not the best. No more great expectations.

I think it’s a pretty good theory. Whoever said aim for the stars is responsible for a whole world of disappointment. Your head would explode before you even reached the clouds.

I’ve already started applying it to every day life. Expect the worse, and everything else is a bonus. This morning, for example, when I received ANOTHER rejection letter, I just shrugged. This time last week, I’d have been a little shadowy ball of despair. But this week, I was prepared.

You can try this at home. When opening curtains, for example, picture howling wind and rain. It can’t get any worse (and this IS Manchester, so it’s probably quite an accurate guess). Turn those irritating pizza flyers into a ray of sunshine. When you hear the letterbox flip open, think “heating bill” or “nail bomb”. It can only get better. Imagine the milk’s gone off in the fridge and be pleasantly surprised to find it fresh.

In the work place, why not brace yourself every day for the word “redundancies”. Open every email expecting a period of notice. Those people at the water cooler? They probably are talking about you. Plan for this. Feel the elation when you’re invited for after work drinks.

In this way, every day has its little happy moments. I had one just now when the phone rang and it was just my mum, not the fire service informing me my apartment had burnt down. You have to be thankful for the little things.

Making Your Mind Up

2011-10-17T07:20:00.000-07:00

I can't really make up my mind.

The question was only “mash or chips”, and yet, here I am, in a cold sweat over which potato product best accompanies chicken and tarragon pie.

It's obviously the mash.

I realise this after I say “chips”. Thankfully, the waitress is in a good mood, and informs the kitchen of the rightful accompaniment. Close call.

The trouble is, I'm not really very good at making decisions. Unless they're rash ones, and even then, they're usually followed by a minimum of 2 days feeling anxious and guilty (this is usually following a large splurge of money).

I can't seem to pin it down. Literally. The answer eludes me every time. The words “yes” and “no” swash around before my eyes, fluttering to the ground like leaves; evading my grasp with an effortless sweep along on the breeze.

I think it should be recognised an an illness. The inability to make decisions. People like me should get indecision allowance. Extra time on deciding momentous things like side orders or which seat is best aligned with the cinema screen. And we should be allowed to recall decisions without rolling of eyes.

People like me take 10 months of “should I, shouldn't I” to quit a job. And I'll need around that time to work out what to do next. It's a game of eternal swings and roundabouts:

[Internal Monologue]

Right. I'm going to do this. I'm really going to do it. I'm going to do this creative writing workshop thing. Look – here's some genuine interest from a massive UK charity. And look! See this lovely woman? She wants you to work with her on this. Look, see? Look there, in your diary. You've got two workshops booked in already. Do you see? Are you registering this?

No. I don't see. Because whilst I'm pencilling in these amazing opportunities, these once-in-a-lifetime, now-is-your-chance-to-make-it moments, I'm secretly thinking: “I'm not sure about this”. I'm thinking: “Is this a good idea? It's not very stable. I'm not sure I'm really that good at it. Is this really what I wanted to do? What about being a journalist? I did want to be vet once, and I do get on well with dogs... And there was that masters course...”

This, readers, is the scary, uncharted sea of my inner mind. It's a Bermuda Triangle of answers. They pop into my head, and then they're lost inexplicably to the depths of my turbulent little brain.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who can't make her mind up. And I'm not the only one who fits snugly into the twenty-something bracket. And I'm not the only one who's a girl. Thank god for that.

Someone's only gone and written a book about it: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Undecided-Endless-Perfect-Career-Life-Thats/dp/1580053416. I think this is going to be one of those rash decisions. Surely, I need to own this book. Just look at the tag line: “How to Ditch the Perfect Quest for Perfect and Find the Career and Life that's Perfect for You”. It's in my shopping basket. I'll probably buy it. And then cancel the order.

What is it about modern life that's got me having minor breakdowns whenever I need to make a choice? Colour Fade or Moisture Boost? ARGH MY GOD! Which shampoo? WHICH ONE?!

Is it to do with fear of change? Quite possibly. I did cry when my mum got rid of her perm. And when they sold the car: “You didn't let me say goodbyyeeee!” I sobbed, woefully staring out at the yellow part of the grass where our Renault used to be. That could be it. Quitting a job is a pretty big lifestyle change.

Is it lack of knowledge? It's highly likely. For a person like myself who has trouble reading a 24 hour clock, knowing the difference between “Sole Trader” and “Limited Company” has almost had me running for the nearest recruitment agent faster than you can say “tax returns”. As a young person wanting to start up a community arts program, there's pretty much no guidance in terms of “okay, here's what to do next.”

Is it money? It makes the world go round, after all, and it certainly gets my head spinning on it's axis. Heart or head? Freelance or full time? The answer will most likely be the one that pays the rent.

But what about the smaller, totally pointless, inconsequential decisions? The ones that have me paralysed at the kitchen table staring at two invitations saying “but if I do this... I can't do this... and then I wont see so and so... but then I've not seen XYZ for ages...” until my other half kindly shakes me out of it by making the decision for me. And even then, I usually do the opposite to what he suggests. And then spend a day worrying I've done the wrong things.

I think, perhaps, I'm being a bit melodramatic. (Me?! Never!)

I am complaining, after all, about having too much choice. About not getting what I'm given, and having the freedom to choose.

Starting from today, I shall become queen of the decisions. I shall be Mrs. Logical. Ms. Informed. Mistress of decisiveness.

Starting with Lunch. Well. I'll need to work my way up to the big ones.

Enduring Love

2011-09-21T01:50:00.000-07:00

It was my Grandpeg and Grandad's birthdays last week. This is a bit of therapy for me, I suppose, but I thought I'd share it all the same.

Love. It's a big word. Some people like to fling it around as a casual term of endearment. Some are terrified to use it at all. For some, it's the word craved for after months of careful strategic man-keeping (you know the type – the ones that set a timer to go off before the correct amount of time has elapsed and it's safe to text back). For others, it creates a person shaped hole in the nearest wall as they flee for their lives.

Some of us think we know it. Some of us will never know it. For all of us, it's a pretty big deal. It funds many a psychoanalysts' holiday – converting hours spent listening to thirty-somethings reliving their fears of dying alone into Easyjet flights to the Dominican Republic. Hallmark makes a killing from it every year.

The sort of love I'm thinking of is the stuff of fiction. You can find it easily enough if you look in the right places: a BBC period drama, an Austen novel, an old black and white on a Sunday afternoon. That sort of undying, all consuming, cursed love. The type that Jane Eyre hears on the wind, calling her home to her brooding Lord Rochester (swoon) and a lifetime of unadulterated passion. The type that taps on Heathcliff's windows. More recently, it's the steamy up-against-a-wall, fiery-soul-crunching romances of films like The Notebook. It is that sort of pure, momentous love that deserves it's story to be told. It defines it's characters. Their life is their relationship with another being, and, despite all the evil aunts and unbalanced societies you throw at them, that is all that matters.

But is any of it true? In real life, amongst the Nine til Fives and the school runs and the careers and the hour long Tesco shops, there's surely no time to sit around looking lovingly into your other's eyes. When we're asked to tell our stories, they will be in varying forms:

Grandchildren: Grandma, tell us about your life!

Grandma: Well... which bit? There's the university years, then the sequel single years... the part when I tried speed dating...

What I'm getting to, in a slightly confused, not-really-sure-myself what the answer is way, is does true love exist any more?

And before you roll your eyes and call me a cynic – I'm now about to suggest that yes, actually, it does. So you can put away your pitchforks.

I myself, believe that I am in love. I'm not gloating. Well, I am a little, but that's not the point. I'm 99% sure. But then I'm 23. And we've not even been together 2 years. He could turn out to be an evil psychopath who uses internet chat rooms to talk about dressing up in women's clothes. It's unlikely, but it could happen. I'm a realist.

So when can we safely say, without fear of discovering a pair of stilettos in the cupboard, that we're on to something good? My answer: when you're 84.

Hollywood Style

My Grandpeg, Peggy (we called her that because she decided she was to young to be a Grandma) met my Grandad during the war. Their story is filled with Hollywood sparkle. She was in harmony band with her two sisters – The Tallant Sisters (surname: Tallant – Peggy Tallant – best showbiz name ever?). They entertained soldiers on leave, singing their way into the blazered hearts of dashing heroes of war. She, in my eyes, would have been the belle of the ball. I know this because, even at 80, she beat her Grandchildren hands down in the glamour stakes – turning up to her birthday party in a silky silver polka-dot number. My Grandad, who's joint birthday party it was (their birthdays are days apart) couldn't keep his hands off her all night. Seeing them slow dancing together, centre stage but eyes only on each other, was one of the happiest moments of my life. She was Julie Andrews with more charm. Julie Christie with more style.

She was already dating another service man when my Grandad decided that she was the one for him. The story goes that he would turn up on her doorstep with relentless regularity until she finally agreed to go on a date. One night she said “I can't, I'm washing my hair”. “That's okay,” he said “I'll come in and wait.” From that point on, they were an item. The other man, poor guy, came home on leave and saw them on the bus together. She was wearing a silk scarf that he'd bought her. I wonder to this day if he still thinks of her.

Grandpeg always told me that from that first date, she knew she'd marry my Grandad. Of course, she didn't tell him that right away; but she new. And she was right.

Their love was one that all ten of their grandchildren hold up as an example of a marriage. They were one person in everything they did. They took turns reading the same book. They answered the phone together (one upstairs, one downstairs). At Christmas, they refused to go to their kids' houses – it was a day just for them – and they'd spend it alone together. They celebrated each new birthday together, navigating the years hand in hand. In a room, they'd always be stood next to each other. Always touching, even if just shoulder to shoulder. They saw their four children grow together. They recently saw their first great grandchild together. They wrote each other love letters. Flirted. Tickled each other. When Grandad had a heart attack on a trip to America, she refused to let him go, and slapped him across the face so hard she brought him back to the brink.

It would have been their 60^th Wedding Anniversary this year. They'd been at their holiday home in the Cotswolds, celebrating together, alone, just the two of them. They'd spent the day in the garden, drinking tea in the sun. Doing the crossword. They were due to drive to Stratford the next day to see a play. In the evening, Grandpeg suddenly, without warning, passed out. She didn't regain consciousness. Grandad stayed with her for every minute of her final hours; holding her hand, telling her he loved her. She died in the arms of her husband quickly and painlessly, and, I like to think, smiling to herself at the memory of a perfect day with the man she loved as her final one on this earth.

The news spread through our family like a black, inky shadow: trickling through the generations, covering each of us with a dark stain that I don't think any of us will ever get rid of. Grandpeg and Grandad have four children and 10 grandchildren. It wasn't a hurried drive over to get to him once we'd heard the news. It was a stampede. His daughters made a tight ring around him, shielding him, and letting him grieve. It was not until I saw his face that I realised what true love is. That face could only be the result of a love that had filled his whole body, and then left.

So we've reached a bit of a downer. But there is light at the end of the tunnel. Because months on, Grandad is, against everyone's fears, surviving without her. Love is not the stuff of Greek myth and The Romantic era's tales of woe. He didn't find the highest cliff and throw himself off it to be with her (although I'm sure at times it crossed his mind). No Romeo-esque poison touched his lips. Love is getting up again. Love is feeling the pain and loss of one half of you, but also looking back, and smiling at a life so full of the stuff it was close to bursting. Love is 60 years of marriage, and a wealth of fleeting images that inform your everyday life. It's learning how to use the washing machine, and feeling her support the first time you attempt a casserole, even when she's gone. How do you know it was love? When you can see the influence of it, track it's force, through every stage of your life. It's an 84 year old man who still feels the reverberation of that love so strongly, he can survive without it.

So, yes. I think that sort of love does exist. It's out there. For every Steve, there's a Peggy Tallant.

Starting Wearing Purple...

2011-05-23T07:41:00.000-07:00

I feel as a Poetry Editor I should share this poem today - Grandpeg's favourite and a testament to being young at heart.

Grandpeg (Peggy Jones) was my Grandma, but she decided that sounded too old, so named herself Grandpeg instead.

She will be greatly missed.

WARNING

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph – b.1932 – poem written 1961

I want To Ride My Bicycle...

2011-04-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

... But I can't.

It was a romantic notion, really. It's spring time and the canals of Manchester are, amongst empty beer bottles and flyers for Silks strip club, sprinkled with blossoming trees, daffodils and other heralds of the new season. What a nice day for a bike ride, I thought, following the trajectory of a particularly handsome couple as they glided through the warm air along the banks of the Bridgewater.

I've also just returned from Amsterdam, where everywhere you look (and quite often suddenly where you weren't looking) there are beautiful Dutch women, cycling around as if they were born to do so: pedalling out of the womb with a cheerful 'ding-ding' to politely move people out of their way.

I wanted in. I wanted a lovely sit-up-and-beg (how delightful) bike with a basket and a bell. I also wanted long flowing blonde hair, but I'm a realist. It took a few prods on my HTC to realise that bikes aren't actually that cheap. Turns out, they're more than just metal and rubber. Bikes are machines, with mechanics and design and aerodynamics. Not just metal frames with a bell.

So, to Gumtree I went. I've used it before to advertise our blankpages submissions guidelines. The results can be quite staggering (though submission quality not always quite so); so I knew people in Manchester do use it. Low and behold, a bike was posted last night for £75. I've just been trained in Negotiation (that's a whole other blog), and quite rightly thought I'd be able to get that down to £50. Which I did.

Robert, who has since been demoted in my phonebook from "Robert Bike Guy" to "Evil Robert", turned up promptly at 12:30. By the time my in-house bike-spert (known to many as my boyfriend) got down to the carpark, he had arranged himself, nonchalantly leaning against the boot of his car, bike propped up and looking...well... rusty. That was some clever photography he'd used on Gumtree, even if I was viewing it through a rose tinted smart phone screen.

I'd accepted that my lovely vintage lady-bike would have to be a more manly "mountain bike", but really, the pictures must have been done by whoever makes Britney look like a dewy teen. By this point, however, I'd committed, and Robert had that "I've driven all the way to Manchester to deliver this" look on his face.

I took it for a test drive - it made a horrific crunching noise when I changed gears. Robert smiled the nervous smile of the man about to embark upon a phrase that many have used before: apparently, this had never happened before.

Simon jumped on it, looking quite elegant on his pinkish silver rust machine. The crunching persisted. Now. At this point, it would have been sensible to say no thank you. But the thing was, it was sunny, and I wanted to get my romantic hair-flowing-in-the-wind underway. Before I knew it, I'd offered him £45, he'd said yes, and there I was cycling round and round the car park trying to shush the awful crunching noise.

Since it was quite obviously broken, I was advised to take it to the bike shop. Most of the way there, Simon pedalled a good distance in front on his shiny red man-bike so as not to be associated with my sad little cruncher; stopping once to make sure I was okay after hearing a yelp and seeing me sprawled across the pavement. I'd fallen off and, in one fell swoop, almost taken out a young couple on the pavement, broken one of the brake cables and quite seriously harmed my ego.

The bike shop was full of black glossy super machines. Rusty Rocket (as I'd named her by this point) and I limped through the doors to be greeted by a sales man with a "oh god another Gumtree disaster" smile on his face. The repairs needed to make it function will cost around £25-30. It'd been a while since she bucked me off, and I was beginning to quite like her, rusty piece of crap that she is. I'll be taking her in on Wednesday to be operated on.

This whole ordeal has seriously questioned my view of peer-to-peer classifieds. Has anyone ever bought anything of worth on Gumtree? Or is it just a graveyard for people's junk, mostly labelled up as vintage, and sold on with that "we're an on-line community" façade of conning people into buying their garage excrement? I'd be interested to hear, for example, if anyone's ever NOT regretted getting something from the "free stuff" section.

Does the slightly crappy graphic design and forum-like listings format lull buyers into thinking these people are our comrades? A friendly neighbour just wanting to sell his bike because, despite his fondness for this good quality piece of equipment, he's moving? Gumtree has that hippie, share and share alike feel to it that could quite easily convince you he's just selling so that another community member can enjoy it. In reality he's sick of hitting it with the lawn mower where he's left it, outside, on the grass, for a good year or two.

For now, Gumtree's left me with: smarting palms (see pavement incident); a rusty piece of metal on wheels in the hall; and a totally irrational hatred of people named Robert.

All Work and No Pay

2011-03-28T12:31:00.000-07:00

... makes for an angry Marc Jacobs intern: http://tinyurl.com/4ufnreb

"Work Experience" has become something of an umbrella term. Nobody likes to admit it. As a fledgling arts marketer or PR guru, turning down unpaid work is a dangerous game. Seeming sceptical about how much "experience" you'll actually gain is a sign of lack-lustre ambition. Asking what the role actually entails at interview is a no - no. You nod and pull your best "I'll do anything you ask of me, I'll even buy your lunch and sign your wife's valentines cards" face until your cheeks begin to spazm.

The truth is, not everyone out there wants to help you.

Thank GOD, in the arts, we're more fortunate. It's rare that people will take you on for free because they want to take advantage - the arts doesn't HAVE any money, so they can't pay you for their pearly drops of wisdom. We knew that already. Plus, well, people in the arts are quite nice, really. Mostly. There are exceptions. I recently chewed the ear off a very nice lady from Xtrax for a good half an hour, and, I think, she really did want to help. She gave me advice. Contacts. Heads ups on opportunities.

What they can offer, is hands on experience. And they do. I work full time, but I also work at a wonderful organisation called Blank Media Collective. Now. This may not be work experience (although they do offer it, and a bloody good course they offer, too) as I have an actual role - but it's unpaid. I couldn't give a monkeys. From day one, this organisation, this collective of artists, have supported and nutured my ideas and ambition. If you have a project in mind - they're there to say "do it", and do it with the full support of a body of professional artists and communicators.

There, are, however, very wealthy businesses indeed, who have found an ingenious way to take on more staff - without paying so much as a train fare. I find it hard to believe, for example, that fashion house Marc Jacobs, who's purses cost more than a month's rent of my moth box (apartment - see tweets regarding moth infestation, don't want to talk about it) can claim to be unable to pay a decent wage to their interns. Magazines owned by the world's biggest media corporations. Endless Blue Chip brands sitting pretty at the top of the Telegraph's Universe's Larges Most Humongous Richest Companies of ALL TIME charts. They will barely cover your bus ride to work. Why? Because they can. For every graduate with a scrap of dignity, who says, "No, actually, I'd rather not spend two months running back and forth to Starbucks for nothing", there's another student, salivating with hope and ambition, who'll say "one sugar, or two?" The competition is fierce. There is no loyalty amongst the ranks here. Blink, and you'll miss it.

Do not get me wrong. Unpaid work experience is and SHOULD be the most important learning experience of your career. I have been fortunate. I have worked for record labels, literary agencies, publishers and newspapers who have been more than forthcoming in their responsibility to give you some actual experience. I've been taken to meetings, overseen highly confidential documents, had access to manuscripts, been given articles to write.

But I've also sat at a table (not a desk) staring at a wall and wondering if I'll ever actually get to meet the person who is supposedly my "mentor". I've also spent hours, on hands and knees, scrubbing down filing cabinates, re-ordering bookshelves and, on one occassion, helping my boss move house. Not once did they call me by name. Not once did they show interest in the areas I was looking for experience. Not once, in fact, did I come away from a gruelling 10 hour day thinking "I've learnt something today".

And it's not just the menial jobs they're hiring young hopefuls for. They are professional, fully legitimate roles. Graduates doing the job of executives on the promise they might one day be taken on. Artists spending as many hours and shedding as much sweat arranging exhibitions and framing artwork as paid curational staff. These are graduates with the qualifications to be doing these roles - but because their employers have slapped the title "intern" (how American) or "work placement" over it, it's fine to pay them bugger all.

I am reaching the peak of my little mountain. I've done my work experience. I still take unpaid work, here and there, where I think it's beneficial to my career. But for all those others, who've just graduated with a loan they'll probably never repay: ask for more. If you're not getting anything from a placement - make sure you do. Ask questions about everything. Be as nosy as you can (without breaking laws).

Oh, and if your an employer thinking of offering me unpaid work, I do, on occasion, make a very good cup of tea.