The perils of being a single woman

DISCLAIMER: If you have met your soul mate on the internet – don’t read this.

So. Yes. The whole “weekly blog updates” were a ridiculous idea that I just couldn’t stick to. This will only be my third post in a whole year! But perhaps one of my many resolutions for 2013 will be to update it a little more regularly!

Other new year’s resolutions will include: be thin, don’t be a smoker and stop over-complicating things. In many ways I’m in a similar position to when I started this blog last year, but at the same time am living a totally different life.

I’m now a journalist (hence the shorter paragraphs!) and living with Rachel. Both of these things are quite excellent. The job is hard. I can’t deny that it’s been the biggest challenge of my life but, then, most days I leave the newsroom feeling happy, not every day of course… But there’s a lot to be said for having a job you enjoy. It makes up a large chunk of your life. Why waste your time doing something you hate?

Rachel is a great housemate. It’s lovely being able to talk girly things with her late into the night. We are counselor and confidante to each other.

But this blog has mainly been used as a platform for me to get things off my chest so here goes! I’m single again. Through a mere practicality. The other day Rachel convinced me to do online dating. I was very reluctant, especially because I don’t really want a boyfriend at the moment… I mean obviously I wouldn't turn Ryan Gosling down, but who would? Many straight men wouldn't.

So I signed on up to a site which I was told was quite ‘good’… not sure how you define a good dating website? Fewer perverts? A more handsome selection of menfolk? Anyway I did it. The worst part for me was filling out the ‘self-summary’ part. I know that a lot of people would struggle with this. I felt so egotistical (not that I was writing ‘OH I’M SO GREAT’) it was just awful.

Now, this is the part that annoyed me. Even BEFORE I had written A SINGLE THING about myself, what I did, my personality etc. Men started messaging me.

Now, I know that this is how these things work. You go on first impressions. But I was getting pretty full-on messages within minutes of setting up my profile.

In a day I got 26 messages. I should have been flattered but instead the feminist in me reared its head and said NO THIS IS NOT FOR ME. All the people on these sites do is look at your face and email you. They don’t even look to see if you have even the slightest things in common.

I don’t know exactly what it was that bothered me. But for one thing, I’m really polite, I didn't think I could ignore the messages of the men I wasn't interested in. But then I got stressed because I couldn't keep emailing all of them… then I would have been accused of stringing them along.

Also, there wasn't anyone that I thought was ‘for me’ anyway. The one or two pretty men were way out of my league and it was all just a bit stressful. So I deleted my account after less than 24 hours.

THE WORST PART though, came when one of the really full-on people GOOGLED ME AND FOUND ME ON TWITTER! Then sent me a tweet saying I was his “perfect match.”

NO. NO I AM NOT. BECAUSE I SAY SO. DOES MY OPINION OF YOU COUNT AT ALL? NO?

Excuse all the capitals here, as you can tell I was a bit pissed off about it.

Internet dating has worked wonders for many of my friends and family members. But it simply is not for me. I see it as a vast, horny, superficial cattle market. I don’t have the patience for it.

Also, as I said, I’m not dying to be in a relationship. I guess my motivation for joining was really so Rach and I could have a giggle about it.

BUT IT WASN’T FUNNY IT WAS JUST SAD.

I suppose I’m an old Romantic. I’m of the belief that love should happen organically. And yes, this attitude may leave me single for the rest of my days, but I’d rather that than be pounced on by 26 men I have no interest in.

A new sphere

I must apologise for the length of this post. It's been a long time! But I need to start keeping a more regular blog and I shall aim to do a weekly update from now on. So! I become a journalist tomorrow. Officially. They’re even giving me money to do it. That sounds obvious but I know so many journalism graduates out there working their hands to the bone (from doing so much shorthand) completely for free. My dad looked at me as if I were a loon when I was doing lots of work experience at the Derby Telegraph. “You’re working for free?! What is this madness?!” He would scream, face red and forehead vein pulsating with rage. And I would reply “Yes, for that’s just how it works in journalism.” But I think now I realise that it’s not the only industry where this is commonplace. To get that ever longed-for first graduate job you need the experience… but where do you get the experience if no-one will hire you? You work for nothing. There’s no other way.

Internships are so rare these days (especially in the newspaper industry) and when they do come around they’re often unpaid. I am so incredibly lucky to have a job, but if my local paper had been the Evening Standard there would have been no way I could have afforded to do any work ex there. I had some booked at the Manchester Evening News and they told me it would be beneficial if I had a car. I don’t really know how they expected me to be able to fund a car with zero income and a maxed-out overdraft.

But anyway, I need not worry about these things anymore. And this evening my mind is filled with quite a scrumptious nervy excitement about tomorrow. I have a little pile of things in the corner of my room (pictured pointlessly below!) which are intended for my new desk. They include a new multi-coloured diary, drawing pins which are shaped like bees, my Law and Public Affairs text books and a mug. The all-important office mug. Which shouldn’t be too garish but should show your personality to some extent I think. Some of the reporters have quirky mugs, some have mugs from places they’ve been and some have an ever-changing string of different mugs. Mine is a relatively retro flowery sort of mug. Not too large so I don’t overdose on caffeine on my first day.

It’s scary. You start off writing as a job and although you can write on quite a basic level you look at some of your features or attempted opinion columns and think ‘what the heck is this?’. I have great taste in books, I’m constantly reading something, and as a result you expect your writing to be excellent. But it’s not. It’s terrible. But as some dude once said, you have to just keep writing. Keep putting out stuff you’re not mega-proud of and hope that it eventually evolves into something good.

But saying all of that writing is quite a small part of being a reporter. The main bit (and the most exciting bit) is the finding of the stories. The best story I ever got (I judge this from the fact it was the front-page drop) was just someone who rang in about her daughter’s dog and Christmas presents having been stolen. The father of this girl was a Derby County player so ta-dah! Front page drop. But it was exciting! Because I was writing it under a very tight deadline. We had to sort out pictures for the story really late in the day and it was just fun. I feel very sorry for the poor sub-editor who had to go through my work though, as it probably read really badly. But anyway, I just hope that I’m a good journalist. I hope I can just absorb everything. I think I'm just paranoid because I've heard it said that good journalists aren't made, they're born, and I've been worried since I entered this world that I wasn't  'born' a journalist. I get paranoid about ridiculous things!

The main thing I’m worried about though, and this is a personal thing which has been said to me and followed me my entire life:

“You’re too nice” 

I hear it all the time. I think this is because I’m REALLY polite. I’m way too polite. I know that. I apologise if I even slightly bump into people and I am very over-thankful if someone makes me a cup of tea or lends me a pen. And just generally I’m very, very polite. That’s just something that has been imprinted on me from an early age. I can’t help it. I don’t think I can change it. But I can almost guarantee that it’ll make people think I won’t be a very good journalist and it’s bugging me to death!

I can hardly go into the newsroom tomorrow and charge around like the Incredible Hulk just to make a point. And there’s no reason people should think that just because I’m nice I’m also not driven and not motivated because that’s a load of balls. But I know people judge you automatically and potentially I’m going in to the Derby Telegraph tomorrow already being thought of as “too nice”. I hope not. And I hope I can prove that nice does not = being a wet blanket. Underneath this blonde, over-polite, vaguely hippyish exterior is a relatively thick-skinned woman with a longing to see her name on the front page (some day… soon I hope!)

But basically. Tomorrow my life changes completely. I go from being the eternal student to starting what I hope to be a very long, fruitful, enjoyable and fascinating career path. I know things can get very hard. I'm under no illusions that I know it all or that I'm not going to struggle at times but I just feel so lucky to be in the position I'm in. And luck or not I can honestly say, for once and without an overly-apologetic closing statement, I'm proud of myself. The end!

You won't like me when I'm angry...

I’m writing this mainly as a means of shameless procrastination so forgive me if I don’t actually say much, and I may well just rant and rant until the keys fly off my keyboard in a furious flurry of plastic. But we’ll see I suppose.

I’ve been feeling very, very gloomy recently. I’m not trying in vain to garner sympathy here, I know I won’t get any (see, see how cynical I have become of late) but this is my blog and I can moan if I bloody well want to. I think probably this is due to a whole cacophony of ‘stuff’. I’m trying to quit smoking, which is a good thing, a very good thing, but naturally it is making me want to kill anyone who happens to cough too loudly on my morning bus journey. Also I am dieting; 3 square meals a day after the toast-fest of undergraduate student life has made me porky. And I don’t like it. I’ll never be a waif, I know this, it pains me to admit it, but I may as well try.

So here I am, fagless, chocolateless and with an imperial fuck-ton of work to do. My answer to this sorry situation? Cleaning my bedroom. Reading things on Buzzfeed. Making cups of tea that I don’t even really want. Half-heartedly reading the news (because I have to be news savvy even when I don’t feel like being news-savvy) and looking through photographs that I’ve seen three million times. Will this actually achieve anything or make me feel better? No. But it’s better than trying to form some opinion on journalistic ethics (oxymoron anyone?) for my exam on Friday. So there. I’ve justified my blatant laziness. I’m feeling a huge sense of dysphoria alright? Leave me alone.

Also I know if any of the people on my course are reading this and are also procrastinating, it’ll make them feel better too. Which is a good thing.
Really, I could just write ‘MEH’ in big letters and be done with it, so I don’t bring people down with my sorry state. But I’m afraid that is not how I roll (and I do roll rather effectively thanks to post-uni podge)…

Not all that long ago, I was stood in a crowded mill-turned-music venue with Sam watching one of our favourite bands (Everything Everything) and dancing the night away. It’s just not fair. If only I could just run away and be a freelance writer now. I’d write irreverent but sassy articles about the state of the education system or human interest pieces about people with minor brain injuries that make them see other peoples’ faces as cat faces. And people would say ‘wow, d’ya know, I’d never have thought that an article about the daily life of a bus driver could be interesting but IT IS!’ and I would sit back in my big armchair and just throw all of my money into the air and laugh as it fell back down onto my rich, contented face.

Shut up Ella.

Until very recently I only had one pair of shoes. And my glasses have broken and I can’t even afford a new pair. Poor urchin child that I am.
But money isn’t everything right? No-one who goes into journalism does it for the money… Or at least I hope they don’t. Maybe some people do. They think they’ll just wander into the Guardian’s newsroom and Alan Rusbridger will say to them ‘Hey kid, I like you’re snazzy haircut and your vague air of arrogance, do you want my job?’.

Whenever I start writing these days I always go back to journalism. It truly is a love-hate relationship. I love it but I wish it would just piss off and leave me in peace when I’m knackered or feeling particularly gloomy. A prime example of this is shorthand. It’s a marvellous skill to have and our tutor Dora is potentially the best person ever, BUT, and there’s a massive but here. It has ruined my life. No longer can I have a conversation with another human being without trying to ‘write’ down everything they say in shorthand in my head. The same applies when I’m watching a film or listening to the radio, but most annoyingly this happens when I’m reading. Reading is the one thing that can truly absorb me. Everything else makes me impatient. But now, when I’m in the depths of a good book, all I can think about is BLOODY SHORTHAND. It’s actually driving me a tiny bit mad. Oh and also I dream in shorthand too. The endless joy.

Anyway, I’m off to perform more mundane tasks before drifting into an all-too-short sleep and waking up in a potentially even more despicable mood.
Sweet dreams everyone.