I rang 'The Big G', eventually, after another half an hour of sitting staring at my phone like it was an alien object. Or a bomb. It turns out... I sent my story to the wrong person. So, attempt number two is now firmly underway, and hopefully I've found the right woman this time. I'm now gearing up early to make another terrifying phone call on Monday...
Phew, all this pitching stuff is blinkin' hard work, physically and emotionally. I'm quickly understanding that being a journalist involves very little writing and lots of running around like a crazy person and very big phone bills. And lots of emails. Endless emails. I'm seriously considering having my computer surgically attached. Especially now that I have one so wonderfully itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny.
Yes, my computer dilemma is, touch wood, resolved. He is tiny, blue and light as a feather. I've named him Sparky.
Friday, 12 December 2008
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
This week I have been mostly hating...
Computers.
Well, maybe hate is too strong a word, as my love affair with the Internet isn't THAT easy to let go of. This week, however, I have been mourning the death of my beloved laptop, Bridget. Big, clunky, old fashioned, lovable Bridget. My first ever computer. The product of all my saving throughout my A-levels. Gone. To be honest, I knew something had been wrong with her for a long time. It all started when she began resetting herself randomly to January 1988... But on Sunday evening, whilst having a You Tube comedy clips session (as I am wont to do on a fairly regular basis), she suddenly decided she couldn't go on any more. So, duly, we pulled her apart to see what was wrong, and my in-house IT expert (aka flatmate) told me she couldn't be fixed. At first I was angry, resentful even. How could she break at such an important time in my career? Then, I was just sad. I even shed a little tear for her. (She is now being used as an organ donor for her various working parts.)
I was forced however, to recover swiftly. Clearly, being a journalist without a laptop is impossible. It's like a goldfish without water, cheese without pickle, salt without vinegar... I'll stop now, you get the picture. I needed a quick fix and decided that my limited funds would stretch to a replacement in the form of a sexy little Acer Aspire One, who I was sure would soon become as much a part of me as Bridget was. (I mean, come on, I spent about 8 hours a day with her for over three years... I was bound to become attached.) Terribly excited, I skipped to Currys with the remainder of my life savings and bought one. On returning home feeling highly excitable (the effect that spending money on pretty things tends to have on me), I forced my housemates to bask in the wonder of it's beauty and tinyness for several minutes. Which I am sure they LOVED.
But, alas, it was faulty. I thought my housemate was joking when he said to me this morning: "Um... it doesn't turn on". Pants. So, fresh from Currys, I have returned home with a new one. I've got no idea if it works, as I have temporarily stolen my housemate's laptop on which to blog, and do work. Well OK, more of the former and less of the latter. Technically though, blogging is work. At least, that's what I've decided to tell myself in order to suppress my guilt at not reading my media law textbook...
Anywho. I've still heard nothing from 'The Big G'. It's been a week now, and I have been reliably informed that tomorrow is a good time to call. Wish me luck... Will keep you posted.
Well, maybe hate is too strong a word, as my love affair with the Internet isn't THAT easy to let go of. This week, however, I have been mourning the death of my beloved laptop, Bridget. Big, clunky, old fashioned, lovable Bridget. My first ever computer. The product of all my saving throughout my A-levels. Gone. To be honest, I knew something had been wrong with her for a long time. It all started when she began resetting herself randomly to January 1988... But on Sunday evening, whilst having a You Tube comedy clips session (as I am wont to do on a fairly regular basis), she suddenly decided she couldn't go on any more. So, duly, we pulled her apart to see what was wrong, and my in-house IT expert (aka flatmate) told me she couldn't be fixed. At first I was angry, resentful even. How could she break at such an important time in my career? Then, I was just sad. I even shed a little tear for her. (She is now being used as an organ donor for her various working parts.)
I was forced however, to recover swiftly. Clearly, being a journalist without a laptop is impossible. It's like a goldfish without water, cheese without pickle, salt without vinegar... I'll stop now, you get the picture. I needed a quick fix and decided that my limited funds would stretch to a replacement in the form of a sexy little Acer Aspire One, who I was sure would soon become as much a part of me as Bridget was. (I mean, come on, I spent about 8 hours a day with her for over three years... I was bound to become attached.) Terribly excited, I skipped to Currys with the remainder of my life savings and bought one. On returning home feeling highly excitable (the effect that spending money on pretty things tends to have on me), I forced my housemates to bask in the wonder of it's beauty and tinyness for several minutes. Which I am sure they LOVED.
But, alas, it was faulty. I thought my housemate was joking when he said to me this morning: "Um... it doesn't turn on". Pants. So, fresh from Currys, I have returned home with a new one. I've got no idea if it works, as I have temporarily stolen my housemate's laptop on which to blog, and do work. Well OK, more of the former and less of the latter. Technically though, blogging is work. At least, that's what I've decided to tell myself in order to suppress my guilt at not reading my media law textbook...
Anywho. I've still heard nothing from 'The Big G'. It's been a week now, and I have been reliably informed that tomorrow is a good time to call. Wish me luck... Will keep you posted.
Thursday, 4 December 2008
'Tis the Season to be Jolly, fa la la, la la la la.
I got the shock of my life when I woke up on Monday and looked at my calendar. December? Really? Bloody hell... remind me again where my year went?
Oh yes, I finished my degree, graduated, found a new job, quit the job, then sacrificed materialism completely in the name of journalism. I remember now.
The Christmas lights are going up everywhere (naturally, from the very minute that it became December), the little Christmas huts selling bratwurst, roast chestnuts, sweets and all manner of festive things are back outside Churchill Square shopping centre and the season to be jolly is firmly upon us. Whether we like it or not.
I for one, haven't managed to get in the festive spirit yet. My Christmas spirit has been firmly credit crunched. Yes, I know, the shops slapping sales on everything at the moment has made it all ridiculously cheap, but since the silly banks wouldn't give me a loan, the silly letting agent has been messing me about with admin costs which have slowly sapped away all my money, and the cost of cheese (which I find very hard to live without) has become INSANE, my money has vanished. Totally. Therefore, one of the fundamental ingredients of Christmas, the PRESENTS, are not happening this year. Christmas shopping, the highlight of my year, the one time I get to spend loads of money and time in shops without feeling guilty has been denied me. I almost want to cry...
...but anyway. Yesterday, I struck out of my safe little trainee journalist bubble once more and, in pitching them a feature, have steeled myself for a knock back from The Guardian a.k.a. 'The Big G'. Seriously, I must have checked my pitch for spelling mistakes fifty times over before I finally, with red cheeks and a thudding heart, hit the send button. That was twenty-four hours ago. I'm now clinging onto a teeny-tiny shred of hope that they've simply 'forgotten' to get back to me today. I wonder how long I have to wait before its perfectly acceptable to pester them with a phone call...
Any thoughts?
Oh yes, I finished my degree, graduated, found a new job, quit the job, then sacrificed materialism completely in the name of journalism. I remember now.
The Christmas lights are going up everywhere (naturally, from the very minute that it became December), the little Christmas huts selling bratwurst, roast chestnuts, sweets and all manner of festive things are back outside Churchill Square shopping centre and the season to be jolly is firmly upon us. Whether we like it or not.
I for one, haven't managed to get in the festive spirit yet. My Christmas spirit has been firmly credit crunched. Yes, I know, the shops slapping sales on everything at the moment has made it all ridiculously cheap, but since the silly banks wouldn't give me a loan, the silly letting agent has been messing me about with admin costs which have slowly sapped away all my money, and the cost of cheese (which I find very hard to live without) has become INSANE, my money has vanished. Totally. Therefore, one of the fundamental ingredients of Christmas, the PRESENTS, are not happening this year. Christmas shopping, the highlight of my year, the one time I get to spend loads of money and time in shops without feeling guilty has been denied me. I almost want to cry...
...but anyway. Yesterday, I struck out of my safe little trainee journalist bubble once more and, in pitching them a feature, have steeled myself for a knock back from The Guardian a.k.a. 'The Big G'. Seriously, I must have checked my pitch for spelling mistakes fifty times over before I finally, with red cheeks and a thudding heart, hit the send button. That was twenty-four hours ago. I'm now clinging onto a teeny-tiny shred of hope that they've simply 'forgotten' to get back to me today. I wonder how long I have to wait before its perfectly acceptable to pester them with a phone call...
Any thoughts?
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