The Cost of an Unpaid Internship: £3000

After going back to the drawing board and giving up on journalism (See here for more info) I decided to throw myself into my role as Literature Editor for The Stag (University of Surrey's student newspaper) as this was probably the best it was going to get.

Part of 'throwing myself in' was acquiring interviews. Not the easiest thing to do when you're a 20 year old with no connections. So  I got on to Waterstones, Guildford and asked them to tell me about events coming up with authors. Sure enough the lovely people at Waterstones emailed me confirming that Sarah de Carvalho would be appearing at the store. I did a quick bit of research on Sarah and she sounded cool. Author of 3 books, she'd also founded Happy Child International. Happy Child is a Christian ethos charity which works with street children in Brazil. 

So I emailed her, asking (nay, pleading) for an interview. Charmingly she acquiesced and a week later I was sipping a coffee with her in Costa, Leatherhead.

The interview was a success. Sarah was lovely and answered my questions with enthusiasm. After the interview she asked me a few questions about myself. Surrey offers its students a placement year scheme so I was telling her about this when she asked if I'd secured my placement. I told her I had not. She then asked me what areas I was looking in. At that time, after giving up journalism, I'd been thinking about an arts administration type role. So I told her this.

Then it all got very strange. Her eyes lit up and she began to ask me questions about my competency at an alarming rate. I answered them as best I could and then she gave me the best piece of news. She was looking for an intern to work for her charity Happy Child International and promote her book Solomon's Song. It was the arts admin based internship I was looking for!

Sarah asked me to send her my CV and covering letter, so I did, that evening. She quickly got back to me offering me a role as an unpaid intern for a year. I was not expecting a paid role and it was 3 days a week giving me a chance to earn some money. Not the best scenario but the best I was going to get. She asked me to meet up with her and her colleague Caroline to finalise these details after Christmas.

Over Christmas I began to have serious doubts about whether this placement was a good idea. How would I live? Would it really look that good on CV? And then I realised I had no idea what the role actually would be... 

I met up with Sarah and Caroline again. That's when they laid the bombshell on me.


They expected me to start in July 2012 but before that they wanted me to raise £2000 for Happy Child International through events at the university. Caroline said to me, 'If you can't do this, I'll know you're not serious.' 

She also wanted me to go to Brazil to see, and I quote, 'the vision'. I explained that this not financial viable for me and Caroline said I would need to raise the money for my trip as well then. So that's another grand.

We then went on to discuss working hours and I stipulated that 3 days was the absolute maximum I could do. They seemed disappointed with this. At no point did I get to see a contract. I was not told who my line manager would be and when I asked them to tell me what I would be doing day-to-day they seemed vague answering that some days I would be working from home.

I was then given 2 weeks to decide whether or not I wanted to take up the placement. I was having serious doubts. As a full time student, how the hell was I going to raise 3 grand?

I talked to my tutor and she helped me compile a list of questions to ask Sarah and Caroline via email. Caroline did not get back to me for 10 days, seriously limiting the amount of time I had to decide.

When I eventually received an email back from Caroline; she told me I would be assisting on projects in schools. Something which I have absolutely no experience in. I thought I would be publicising the book and the charity.  The official job title would be Administration Assistant. Even though I asked for one I was still not given a contract.

I was also told I no longer needed to raise the money. Apparently Sarah thought this would be too difficult for me. If this was the case why was I asked to in the first place? 

After asking for detailed Health and Safety precautions in regards to my trip to Brazil, Brazil was immediately taken off the table as well.

I turned down the placement with Happy Child International. Maybe I'm an idiot. But, I feel that being asked to raise 3 grand before even taking up the placement was ridiculous. I also disappointed with the lack of communication between Sarah and Caroline. The nail in the coffin was the amount of time it took Caroline to e-mail me back.

Happy Child International is an amazing charity; I have researched their work and was so impressed with what I saw. However, perhaps they should think hard about how they treat the people in the UK as well as those in Brazil.

This comes at a time when unpaid internships have been met with criticism. I am not opposed to unpaid internships in principle, and would happily take an unpaid one if I could afford and I felt it would be beneficial. However, being asked to essentially pay 3 thousand pounds to work unpaid for a year seemed far too steep for me.

My experience with Happy Child International scared me and opened my eyes to the big, bad world of work experience. If this is how a Christian ethos charity treat their interns I shudder to think how those at less scrupulous companies are treated.

I'm no longer going to do a year's placement. I want to finish my degree and crack on. And I don't want to work in Arts Administration. OK so I went to one conference and I didn't enjoy it. But since then I've done some amazing work with The Stag. All I've ever wanted is to be a journalist, and you have to stay true to what you really, really want. 

I've since been applying for work experience over the summer with magazines, regional newspapers, and when The Guardian opens their internship scheme in 2 days I'm going to apply for that.  Why work for a charity whose principles I'm not sure I agree with in a role I don't really want?

Only 27 per cent of bylines on the front pages of newspapers are written by women (Centre for Media Literacy) but that's nearly a third of all front page stories. What it really boils down to is: I want to be in that 27 per cent.

One Of The Boys

'Are you going to do some weeding? Garden's looking pretty bad...'
'Nah, that's a boy's job.'
'You're a really shit Feminist.'


It's funny how thirty seconds of dialogue can really get you thinking. I'm all about declaring that I'm just as good as a man, that I don't believe in gender stereotypes and that women are equal to men.

Basically, I'm the first to say I'm a Feminist and this all got me thinking maybe being a Feminist means doing some of the shit stuff too. You know what, men get a tough time in society too. Fuck it, men are just as stereotyped as women. Whilst I'm often fond of saying that women are presented with an impossible and unrealistic image daily by he much maligned media. So are men! This in part links to my views on the phrase 'Man Up'  but how often are men presented with a ridiculous or stupid image?

We ask a lot of men. Women want a man to sensitive and gentle, but God forbid he should be 'girly'. Growing up if a boy expresses an interest in a typically Feminine pursuit he is labelled as 'gay' (Hello, Homophobia). As for fashion, to an extent, women have much more freedom than men. It is not socially expectable for a man to wear a skirt. Why the fuck not? Skirts are comfy. Why shouldn't a man wear girl's clothes if he wants?


 I've read in countless women's magazines about different types of males: Metrosexual (great, lovely and sensitive, but OMG WTF is he crying?!), Alpha Male (breadwinner, strong, probably has deep seated issues), Beta Male (Mummy's boy, bit of a loser, but in recessionary times he's the one to watch!), and of course The Lad (a right laugh when he's had a few drinks, likes football, unreliable.) 


Well, that's just wrong isn't it? All the men I know can be lads when they go out, metrosexual when they go shopping, alpha male when they're having a good day at work and beta male when they're having a less good day...


Feminists fought so hard to break the Angel/Whore archetype, so why aren't we trying harder to break the male stereotypes? We are people. Not types. Perhaps the most wonderful thing about being human is that we are all different, so why are we trying so hard to categorize others?


So if you are equal to a man (and you SO are), you should take on some 'manly' tasks. If we're trying so hard to break down gender stereotypes then we need to do just that. There's no such thing as a 'manly' task, there is just a task.


I agree that it is harder for the average woman to do some heavy lifting than the average man. But we CAN put the shelves up, we CAN mow the lawn, and we definitely can do a bit of weeding. 


There are plenty of nice things about gender inequality. It's nice that men are expected to ask us out, that they are expected to pay for dinner and open the door for us. Chivalry's cute, of course it is.


But, with the good comes the bad. If women want to be treated as equals, we need to act like equals. And that means paying for dinner sometimes. 


So here's one for the boys. Because a lot of people forget that the best Feminists are often men. It's not about a fight between the genders. It's about uniting them. To me, what Feminism truly means is equality of the sexes. So why not cut a man some slack and ask him out? And let's all stop calling everyone and everything gay all the bloody time.


My first resolution is to buy my boyfriend some flowers. Because I want to subvert the gender norm. Because I'm a real Feminist. Because I'm sure he'll love receiving flowers just as much as I do. And, quite simply, because I love him.

What the fuck am I going to do with my life?

I always had this vague idea I wanted to be a journalist. Not an award winning, trekking in the Congo journalist. But a stylish woman who knows the difference between a flat white and a macchiato and who is ‘political’. I suppose a Features Writer for any women’s glossy would have done nicely.  So when I got the chance to attend a conference aimed at those in Student Media wishing to pursue a career in the media it seemed like a golden opportunity. I was so excited, I was going to meet Iain Hislop, Jerome Taylor, Ed Caesar...to name but a few and ‘mingle’ with other like minded people. What could be better right?

Well it just sort of wasn’t good. The speakers were interesting, their stories compelling and their dedication to their profession admirable. And, yet, I just wasn’t feeling it. Everyone talked about Twitter like you might talk about an indoor toilet; assuming that everyone has one. I even heard the phrase ‘The Twitterati’. And I don’t have Twitter. I didn’t realise how Twitter was ‘essential’ to getting a job. And I don’t know if I want to work in an industry where it is.

Then there was networking. My own personal worst nightmare. Imagine a large room full of tables with a few chairs around them, and one famous journalist sitting on a table whilst 18-21s year old’s gather around them and compete hungrily for their attention. I could pretend that I’m too ‘cool’ too ‘above that’, but honestly, I don’t have the balls to hound someone like....like a journalist would. Yep, you got it before I did. I’m simply not cut out to be a journalist. I’m really socially awkward, how would I cope with interviewing someone? How could I be pushy enough to demand to speak to an influential politician when I struggle saying no to a simple request from a friend?

Every successful journalist attributed their success in some way to networking. And while I watched my peers rush forward to Mike Thomas and shake his hands, I was rooted to my seat. A boy barely taller and much thinner than me pushed me out of the way to grab Ed Caesar’s beautifully manicured hand whilst gabbing as loud and as fast as he could. I was shocked. I know I am supposed to be from the ‘go- and –get- it’ generation, but wasn’t this all terribly impolite? Was it really nice to hound the poor people? And for what purpose... I mean was Iain Hislop really going to whip his phone out and take some 19 year old whippersnapper’s number down, wait around until they’d got their 2.1 and then give them their dream job? No.

Ultimately though, regardless of whether or not it would pay off, I was too afraid to try. I cannot shamelessly self promote. I cannot find words to fill the silence that would surely follow when introducing yourself to someone at least fifteen years your senior and who’s work you’ve read in national papers.

In short, I am not cut out for my dream career. And, perhaps I am foolish to have believed such a career would have suited me. The NUS Student Media Summit at Amnesty International  was an incredibly valuable experience, not only was it fascinating, but it also showed me that I need to go back to square one. Back to the drawing board.

So help me, what the fuck am I going to do with my life? 

On Beauty, Happiness and Big Bouncy Breasts

I've been trying to write this post for several days now (it's a great distraction from revision/the impending doom of leaving Rawson House Level 1) and I've really struggled. I immensely dislike sentimentality and emotional outbursts and if this is what my post becomes then I have failed. I read somewhere that when trying to write something difficult you should imagine you are writing to a friend. So hello friend. I feel over the past 8 months of this blog you've got to know me fairly well. So here is my greatest secret and shame:

I would say I'm a fairly confident person. I'm no prude and I'm happy to talk about more or less anything, but there's one conversation I always walk away from. That's the one about my weight. Now to those of you who don't know me I'm not some sort of elephant woman. In fact here is a full length photo of me so you can see exactly what you're working with.

To be fair, I am drunk here and posing like a loser.

So as you can see, I am not exactly a french fry. Let's bare in mind I am wearing my favourite (read: most flattering) dress and I have my hair done up nicely and my make up all neat and whatnot. Also, I'm wearing heels which definitely makes a difference. The point is in Topshop I'm a 12/14. And that makes me feel horrible.

I'm going to Nice with my boyfriend on the 26th June for a week and about 2 weeks ago I decided I needed to go on a diet. Why? Because the thought of wearing a bikini on the beach in front of people made me cry. I feel really ashamed admitting this like I'm letting you into my most intimate thoughts. It got to the point where I avoided changing rooms because the all angle mirrors were far too depressing. Photos were I look anything other than perfect are immediately untagged.

I haven't wore jeans since I was 13 because I think my legs look fat in trousers. I don't even earn a pair of trousers. Do you know how hard it is to put tights on when you're chronically hungover, it's freezing cold and it's 8.53am and your lecture is at 9am? If not, I'll tell you, it's a fucking struggle. The summer is my favourite season because the sun makes me feel happy but baring my arms is something I can't stand. I tell people it's because I burn really easily (and I do) so I don't want to expose too much skin, but really if my arms were sinewy and lovely I'd be happy to walk around like a lobster. As for removing the uniform of black tights.....Disaster.

It takes me hours and hours to get ready for a night out because I am so obsessed with the fact that from a certain angle I might look fat. I have wasted so many hours of my life standing in front of a mirror scrutinizing my stomach.

I know from an intellectual point of view I am not ugly. I'm not even fat. I am definitely within the realms of a healthy weight. In fact here I am, 9.19am in the morning in my dressing gown, make up from the day before on my cheek and my hair unbrushed. This is an uneidted, unflattering and above all a truthful photo of me. And to be honest I don't look that bad.

Okay so I don't look amazing, I certainly wouldn't like to walk through Guildford town like this but if my boyfriend/flatmates/work mates/any demographic of people I know saw me looking like this I wouldn't exactly mind. I like my eyes, they are big and brown and I'm blessed with good skin and a fairly petite nose.

In fact, it's about 15cms of my body that reduce me to an emotional mess. 15cms. The size of a small ruler or a large (ish) penis. Not exactly something to send you into waves of discontent and pain. By the way, that 15cms start at my hips (ish), encompassing my stomach and span out to the tops of my thighs. Vagina is obviously included but I have little to no issue with my womanly garden. If you'd like to read more about woman bits go here (because it's a really good post and Ivy is brilliant so you should read her blog anyway)

I don't like my 34FF boobs (too big and too difficult to encase in a shirt/t shirt/any form of fitted garment) and I'm not an epic fan of my bitten to the quick finger nails. But I can handle these things, I can work around them. It took my a long time to accept 'nature's gift' of abnormally large breasts. The mountains that sprung from my once athletic (no, really) chest took years to get used to. The stares from older men still annoy me, but as breasts go mine might be beastly, but they're also rather good. I can do cleavage with a capital C and a v- neck makes me look like Wonderwoman.

I am what people would describe as curvy. Body like a guitar. Look like a coke bottle. Cliche but shaped like an hour glass. And apparently that's what everyone wants, yak yak yak. Bollocks. Every cute or fashionable piece of clothing I find in Topshop/Dorothy Perkins/New Look etc is tailored for a straight up and down french fry. Not a coke bottle. To quote my darling friend Emma, 'Imagine the awkward moment when my thighs fill the space in the harem pants.' By the way, Emma is not fat. She's beautiful.

I like the way I look. I do. It's just the clothes that are made for young people are made for young skinny people. And I am not, and will never be, skinny. Girls can be cruel, we know this. But the way I feel in a body con dress is nothing to do with the way a girl looks at me when I wear it, it's to do with the way I have been told (by the godforsaken media, by society, by the fashion industry) it's supposed to look.

My diet is going well. I have cut out carbs and sugar. But what for? If I'm honest, I didn't want to lose a few pounds. I wanted a body transplant. I wanted legs you could snap with one hand. I wanted jaw bones you could cut yourself on. I wanted a stomach that did not just stay flat, it actually poked in.

So far, so eating disorder. But here's the thing. I might have dreamt of Kate Moss esque shape. But I love to eat. I love to drink. I love to enjoy life. Now, I'm going to tell you to read Charlie's blog because he says this is more beautiful words than I can create. I would rather have a stomach, hips, boobs and enjoy my life to the full. Yes, being thin would make me happy, but not forever. My boyfriend wouldn't love it that's for sure, and neither would anyone who loves me now. Because, let's face, I wouldn't be Alex if I looked like someone else.

This diet has helped me in so many ways. I've realised that I love vegetables for one, which surprised me. And I realised that food was something to be enjoyed, rather than something to plan my life around ('If I do an hour more of revision, I can buy a chocolate bar from the vending machine' is not the right attitude to have). My most important realisation is that I want to be healthy, not skinny. I want to be happy, whether I'm a size 14 or a size 8. I want to live each day to the full, not pick at a lettuce leaf and forgo a glass of wine.

So this post isn't a complaint. It isn't even really a diatribe of resentment towards the fashion industry or everyone's favourite scape goat the media. It's a celebration. A celebration of skinny minis in their skinny jeans, and girls with bums, hips, tums and boobs. Anyone who lives life to the full, no matter what their figure looks like, is worth praising. Be healthy, look after your heart (it'll last a lifetime), eat your greens and enjoy your food. Live life to the full and don't be like me and wish for someone else's body. As Judith Butler said, 'The body is a social construct' anyway. I don't know if I do believe that, but I do believe that happiness isn't a number, a clothing size or the way you look in the tightest jeans. At the risk of sounding like an outdated hippy, happiness is laughter, love and friendship. Not matter how you look, you will always be richer for having these three magical elements in your life. I don't just believe this, I live by it, and it never fails to do me right.

Jasmine Von der Bogaerde: The UK's (more talented) answer to Rebecca Black?

OK I've been really lazy with my blog of late, but honestly I haven't had time for (many) sexual antics (apart from my new purchase....

I think I wanna be a dominatrix?

BIRDY, BON IVER AND WHY IT ALL JUST MAKES ME ANGRY



But more on that later. If I get enough revision done today to satisfy the sense of guilt that I have been feeling then I shall write all about my leather bound antics. For now I am shamelessly reposting something that I sent to Lorna to be published in The Stag, soz. And it's about music.

I like cover songs. I have no issue with someone covering a song I like. But I have a massive issue with ‘Birdy’s’ cover of Skinny Love by Bon Iver. I am aware I am bit late on this. Birdy, AKA Jasmine Van der Bogaerde is fourteen, and her song went viral a few months ago, facebook was inundated with links to her YouTube sensation. So far, so Rebecca Black. However, that is where the comparison with Rebecca Black ends. Van der Bogaerde does not lack talent, she has it in heaps. She is a classically trained pianist, with a gorgeous voice. Her cover of ‘Skinny Love’ charted at number seventeen in the UK and Fearne Cotton named ‘Skinny Love’ her song of the week on Radio One. Impressive stuff for anyone, let alone a fourteen year old.

But I hate her cover of ‘Skinny Love.’ It makes me feel angry. I appreciate she has a beautiful voice, I appreciate she is an exceptional pianist. It doesn’t stop me loathing her cover of one of my favourite songs. In early 2008 I became aware of Bon Iver (a play on the French ‘Bon Hiver’ meaning good winter) and the album ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ stills moves me further than most. The album is wracked with passion and meaning. Not only has Justin Vernon (the singer-songwriter of Bon Iver) got a soulful voice, he is also talented songwriter. ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ was written in Wisconsin during a three month winter, in which Vernon was halled up in a log cabin in the state’s Northern Woods. The reason for Vernon isolation? A break up. The break up was the inspiration for ‘For Emma, Forever Ago.’ Needless to say the album is packed with emotive lyrics and soft gentle melodies. My favourite line from ‘Skinny Love’ is a fantastic example of the raw emotion evident in ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, ‘Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer/I tell my love to wreck it all/ Cut out all the ropes and let me fall.’ From Vernon’s husky, gentle voice this is truly heartbreaking. When a fourteen year old, with annoyingly perfect features sings these lines to me, atop perfect piano accompaniment I simply cannot buy it. Vernon’s pain and heartbreak shines through each perfectly constructed line, Van der Bogaerde’s does not. Simply because, she is fourteen, she is young, talented and lucky. By default she cannot flood the song with as much meaning as Vernon does. And for me, that makes the song weaker. It means less when it does not and cannot come from the heart.


Jasmine Van der Bogaerde will go far. Unlike her contemporary, Rebecca Black, she is gifted, incredibly so. In five years time I will be excited for her own contribution to the music world. But for now, she needs to get off my facebook and get her heart broken a few times. Then come back with a sensational album, which will make me kick myself for ever doubting her.

I've linked you here so you can hear Birdy's cover, and here so you can hear the original.

And here is a picture of Birdy which perhaps highlights how annoying she is.

Punching her in the face would be oddly satisfying.

As ever, I've made huge sweeping statements and unfair judgements. Pick up as you will dear readers. More on sex later.

Realisation

It's 23.22. I'm sunburnt. My hand hurts from writing. My boyfriend is ringing me in about seven minutes. I have been revising for hours, in town, by the lake, in the library. I even went to Tesco. I booked my tickets for Latitude Festival. I handed in my last piece of coursework for the year and I actually put a suprising amount of effort in. I'm going to be Copy Editor on a university creative magazine next year. And of course my much talked about position as Literature Editor of The Stag, my university newsaper.

It's 23.24. I'm in love with someone who loves me back. I've nearly finished my first year at University (something I thought I'd never be able to do). I get on with every member of my family. I have a job (even if I would rather stick my hand in acid than work on Saturday). I have friends, here and at home.

It's 23.25 and I'm happy.

It's 23.26 and everything is going to be alright.
It's 23.27 and after two difficult years I've realised I've finally become the person I always wanted to be.

It's 23.28 and I'm officially a sentimental loser.

Goodnight.

"The sex was amazing, until N-Dubz came up on shuffle...."

Music is something I'm really afraid of when it comes to sex. Sometimes it can be tantric and wonderful and really add to the moment. Usually it's just plain embarrassing. The first time I ever did anything vaguely sexual with Tristan Sean Kingston's Beautiful Girls came up on my ipod shuffle. (If you haven't heard it, please listen here) Anyway, that was pretty awful for me. But, then I started thinking and chances are someone else (with slightly different music taste) would probably find it perfectly acceptable.

When I was about 15 people I knew starting actually 'doing it.' Obviously, I wasn't having sex. But it felt like everyone was (actually, about 3 of my friends). I was round a friend's house and she had her ipod plugged in and asked me to put some music on, so I selected her 'Chilling' playlist as that's exactly what we were doing. She turned around irate and shouted, 'Why the hell have you put my sex playlist on?' Mortifying memory for me even after 5 years. Anyway, her sex playlist was nothing like I would have imagined.

In films (and I'm talking the kind of films I watched when I was 15 so The Notebook* etc) the music is always soft and gentle during the sex scene. I'm thinking more 'Make You Feel My Love' by Adele, originally Bob D before you all shout at me, rather than 'You're Makin' Me High' by Toni Braxton. So I always imagined that sex music was gentle and nice- my first sex playlist contained Death Cab for Cutie and Coldplay!

Then I gave up with music during sex by and large. Until I came to University, where the walls are thin and I live with fourteen other people who I'm sure would rather hear my music than the creaking of a very old bed and/or heaven forbid my cries of passion. I pay for my spotify so I didn't have to worry about adverts thankfully, but the main thing I wondered was WHAT music to play. So much so that so far I've just chucked on my current month's playlist and hoped for the best.

Today I decided, I'd like to create a sexy playlist. But what the hell music did I find sexy? And surely did it not depend on the type of sex I was having? Were songs about sex sexy? Or was it the actual rhythm that was sexy? Was a sexy song a song I'd listen to at another time? The Smiths are my favourite band but would it ever be appropriate to have sex to one of their songs?

So I did what I always do when I'm confused, I asked the good people of Facebook. And because my  friends are wonderful I got so many replies. And it was all so different. Slow RnB- Ne-yo, Pretty Ricky, Marvin Gaye. 'Scary' rock music- Nirvana, The Mars Volta. John Mayer. Prince. To name but a few. I asked my flatmates (who I love so much, there you go guys, thank you for reading) and everyone felt differently from Toots and the Maytals to Def Leppard. I was more confused than ever.

I started making a tentative list, and it all went wrong. I've had great sex to Arcade Fire but could I find a song that I found actively 'sexy'? No. I've had amazing sex to Bon Iver but same problem. I think 'Time is Running Out' by Muse is a really sexy song, but I don't think I want to have sex to a song with lyrics such as, 'You will be the death of me.'

Everyone else seems to know what they like to listen to when they get down, whether it be Ne-yo or The Mars Volta and I just don't have a clue.

So help me out everyone...here is my sex playlist, tell me what I need to do to it. Is it too slow? Is it too fast? I want it to encompass romantic lovemaking and also the occasional dirty fuck. Help! Is John Mayer too 30 year old mum? Is Ellie Goulding too main stream?

Here's a link to my playlist: Sex?

Facebook me with your advice, I need your help. My sex life is suffering.

*I really don't like the Notebook. Soz.

Of course I know what to listen to after sex... Always this.