Monday, 3 May 2010


So, still surfing the wave of unemployment, I have written more Cover Letters in the past 9 months than The Olsen's combined have had hot dinners. Not hard really. But after a while, the constant rejection gears up from a feeling of a mild annoyance to a hefty kick in the groin. The reason I digress is, I am in the middle of applying for a job at a Teen Magazine. Yet another added bonus of my chosen profession is that there is no simple application form, tick box, AB or C option - pretty much every position advertised requires at least three feature ideas and about 300 words in the 'house style'. This particular role demands five feature propositions as well as a diary or blog entry in the prose of a 'typical teenager'. Right. 

Already being deemed geriatric by my 18 year old sister, this could prove harder than thought. Luckily, I still have an old diary from the height of my own adolescent angst to refer to; and when reading it the first thought to enter my head - what a fucking idiot. There is no way that I could use any of that whinging crap, riddled with abominable spelling and toe-curlingly awful slang. It is interesting though, how one tends to view their formative years from such a rose-tinted perspective, when in reality, we (or maybe just I) were as rattlingly insecure as Woody Allen on acid.

For example, then, I had my whole life ahead of me, good skin, and never had to consider stale pans in the sink, overdue laundry or managing a weekly shop with £8. Whereas now, I'm a solid government statistic, poor and not really sure what I'm doing from day to day, yet I'm far happier. It's a rare thing to be grateful of age, but in this case I so am. Having said that, I'll probably read this in five years time and want to break my own fingers so I can never write such bollocks again.

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