I have a confession for you. Just the one mind. If I confessed all, frankly we'd be here all damn day. I used to be addicted to trash mags. Hello my name is crummymummy, I am 30 something years old and I am addicted to trash mags. My life is unmanageable without trash mags, I have given my life over to trash mags.... you get the picture. I would pretend that they were of no interest to me whatsoever and then sneak into Sainsburies and binge read whilst on route to the gym. It was my guilty pleasure. Like eating ice cream in the bath (no? you've never done it? Hell you don't know what you're missing!) or picking your blackheads it was a habit that is best done alone and kept quiet.
I always glossed over the articles and just relished the pictures - the bags, boozers, bitches, boob jobs and barbies. Pantomime and slightly grotesque - this unrealistic airbrushed celeb worshipping culture. The other day I slunk over to the mag stand to get a fix and (although I had always known this deep down but had chosen to just park it)whilst I perused the usual weekly gossip fests I felt a wave of revulsion wash over me. These headlines dominate: Too Fat! Too skinny! Stop working out! Stars battle of the bulge! Cellulite! Muffin tops! You're wearing that? Worst look of the week!Knobbly knees! Has she had surgery? Worst boobs!
There were options to vote which of two women looked better in the same outfit; whether or not Cheryl should take Ashley back and if Victoria Beckham was a good mother or not. What the fuck is going on? Why are we reading this shite, even in jest or just to see who wore what at the Oscars? Why in the world are we comparing two women - who both look amazing, who both look happy, and judging that one has to look better than the other? Who are we to decide who is a good mother/wife/friend etc. Fair enough to debate the talents (or lack of) - after all, that is the trade that they sell - like we would discuss if a plumber was any good, or of you should eat at this or that restaurant. But to judge a woman we have never met on her private life and the choices she makes in it - who do we think we are???!! Eternally pitting women against each other in order to make ourselves feel better - sucks. It was like the truth screamed out at me and jumped out of every page. These magazines criticise and vilify and amplify every small quirk - however natural - in a woman's body for us to eat up with glee that their 'perfect' lives aren't so damn perfect after all. I shut the mag and walked off. Life is too short. Way too short for such sloppy journalism, non entity adulation, narcissism and women bashing.
I'll find a new vice, just give me til Tuesday...
Friday, 7 March 2008
Bliss
I had a heavenly moment. The kind of moment that makes it all feel worth it. The wee bunny fell asleep on me tonight; something he hasn't done for months. He grew out of this ages ago - now bouncing round his cot for a while before he finally caves in to sleep. But tonight, after whining through bath time and moaning as I dried and dressed him, I noticed his weary big eyes close a heartbeat too long. He was tired. I scooped him up and curled him into me, smelling his baby clean sweet smell and grabbing his bottle with my free hand. Normally he sits up swigging his beloved bottle during story time, but tonight the sandman was already at the shore and he was too knackered to do anything but lamely touch the bottom of the bottle, as if only to confirm it's existence. He snuggled in to me and supped contentedly. I stroked his soft fluffy hair and marvelled at his perfect long black lashes; curling down his chubby little cheeks - flickering as slumber overtook him. I played with the fine hairs that sweep over his ears, sticking out at odd angles. I kissed his button nose with skin so soft an clean that it shines. I breathed in his scent and felt blessed that I have such a beautiful son. His mouth stopped sucking and went slack. I prised the bottle from his cherubic lips and felt his torso rise and fall with every slow deep breath. He sighed contentedly and turned his head inwardly, wrapped in my warmth. I held him and loved him and never wanted to let go. The blissful moment when he felt a baby again and the only person he wanted was his Mother.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Starbucks supermum
A new mum walks into starbucks, her mewing newborn clamped to her chest in a sling. She looks exhausted. Her eyes scan the room in the vague hope she will meet someone she knows. Someone to become her armour while she sips her coffee. Sorry, chi soya milk decaf latte (she is breast feeding after all). If the child should suddenly cry she has some protection, someone to shield her from the disgruntled look and irritated sighs. The looks that scream ‘BAD MOTHER!’ She sees me tap tap tappety tapping away on my laptop and drags her gaze away from my seemingly blissful solace. She is wearing baggy clothes and tugs at her jumper, willing the baby fat to disappear the way it seems to off celebs who run around in bikinis 3 weeks post birth. As she walks past I catch the smell of baby wipes and desperation. For adult conversation. She’ll pretend that the yummy mummy group who meets at the library to sing happy clappy god-awful songs and subtly compete about whose child sleeps the longest is ‘fun.’ What she always dreamed motherhood would be. Pretends that she doesn’t watch the clock willing her husband to come home and take over. Give her a whole fifteen minutes to herself to read the paper (which only depresses her more when she sees all the seasonal fashion that she is meant to be wearing when she isn’t even sure what frigging month it is) before she has to whip out a breast and become the human udder again. (Have you ever tried expressing? Who knew your nipples had so many holes? I have never felt so bovine in my whole life.)
She orders her coffee. She can do this. She is wearing the latest baby holder, the baby is in top to toe gap, she has on her uggs and hefty Chanel shades and a fine layer of make-up. She knows how to give good Motherhood. But underneath that stylish exterior belies a sad, lonely woman. She misses her friends, her relationship, her after work drinks, the cinema, sex, her sleep, who she was. But if she can just order this latte and make some small talk with the cute barista (her only adult conversation until 9pm as husband is playing squash tonight) then she can prove to herself she is ‘getting out there and having a life.’ The baby starts to cry. Loudly. She frets, willing the bloody barista to hurry up. She grabs her coffee and runs. Before people can get fed up with the howling. Before she has to concede that she has no idea what to do to stop the child yelling save lopping out her prominently veined droopy breast. Out she dashes to the sanctuary of home. Her prison. She wills the next 3 weeks to pass quickly – after 6 weeks it gets better, apparently. It’s ten past four. Her husband will be back in 5 hours. Motherhood – piece of cake eh?
She orders her coffee. She can do this. She is wearing the latest baby holder, the baby is in top to toe gap, she has on her uggs and hefty Chanel shades and a fine layer of make-up. She knows how to give good Motherhood. But underneath that stylish exterior belies a sad, lonely woman. She misses her friends, her relationship, her after work drinks, the cinema, sex, her sleep, who she was. But if she can just order this latte and make some small talk with the cute barista (her only adult conversation until 9pm as husband is playing squash tonight) then she can prove to herself she is ‘getting out there and having a life.’ The baby starts to cry. Loudly. She frets, willing the bloody barista to hurry up. She grabs her coffee and runs. Before people can get fed up with the howling. Before she has to concede that she has no idea what to do to stop the child yelling save lopping out her prominently veined droopy breast. Out she dashes to the sanctuary of home. Her prison. She wills the next 3 weeks to pass quickly – after 6 weeks it gets better, apparently. It’s ten past four. Her husband will be back in 5 hours. Motherhood – piece of cake eh?
Monday, 3 March 2008
Its the thought that counts.... yeah right.
Mother's Day. Normally a stresser - remembering to send cards, flowers, make that call declaring she is the best Mum in the whole wide world etc. Then I remember - I am now part of this club and boy, I am gonna milk it for all it is worth. I tell husband that I want flowers and a card. Not his usual card giving procedure either - which involves him getting up on THE day, going shopping, returning, disappearing to kitchen and then appearing with card 'Ta Da!' like he had it all along. No, I wanted to wake up to glory, to wallow in the greatest of my maternal nuturings. He was warned - this meant flowers and a card. It is what Finn would have wanted I assured him.
But before I continue I must go back. On Saturday I had a great day. Went to amazing physio who manipulated me in a way that I haven't been since my Mum persuaded me to cut all my hair off (boy stylee) in order to get to wear my school (compulsory) summer dress in 1979. His name was Albert and I love him. He convinced me that my life has been meaningless without daily stretching and that all the world's ills would be cured if we all just got down on the floor and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d every morning, noon and night. Think about it - animals do it and they don't hobble to physios now do they? He helped the bad back my son helped cause on poonami day last Wed. Wee bunny was in the gym crèche. I was pissed off at husband's no gym show so I took wee bunny to Yo! Sushi as I knew that wee bunny would love it and it would really annoy jealous husband. Bingo. He ate like an angel - causing a terribly posh woman to stride over and tell me how great he was. Posh woman was with her two sons and American (banker??) husband. She was abrasive, arrogant and demanding to the staff and I loathed her. But she complimented bunny so I became putty in her hands... Her eldest son asked how old bunny was - I said 20 months. He thought on this. I said 'He is a year and... " when Posho shushed me with a raised hand and then demanded her brat worked it out for himself. I realised what she was doing. My kid was saintly - she now had to show that her offspring also possessed talents. The poor private schooled child couldn't work it out. I returned to my tempura and carried on helping the bunny to stuff his wee face. Posho's younger son made polite chat and Posho cajoled older son until as they walked out he announced - "One year and 8 months!" She repeated this to me triumphantly. I smiled weakly, thanking god my son was not in her son's class and that my school run would never be one long Olympic competition of one-up-mothership.
Wee bunny and I hot the book store, the play park and then home for a 'Finding Nemo' afternoon. What a movie. the bunny loved it . Now in the book store I purchased a book in the name of research. It was called 'Same sex in the city' and explains how two girls came out as lesbians. I am planning to write a new book with a girl and girl love affair so I thought this would be helpful. wee bunny got Nemo. I got lesbian love affairs. Fair deal. Anyway, Mother's day arrived. I got up to a hungry bunny and discover a pretty but wilting bunch of tulips and pussy willow outside the bedroom door. the way they had been tied suggested husband and nicked these flowers from his hotel display. Next to them lay a card. No, it was actually a piece of white paper. Flimsy and unable to stand up. On it husband had drawn in crayon 'Happy Mother's Day.' Next to it lay the Same sex in the city book. Inside paper husband had written 'Mummy why do you have this book? Do you have something to tell Daddy and I? Are you a closet dyke? I don't understand and neither does Daddy.' What a beautiful sentiment in my card.
Thank god I got cocktails, dim sum and praline cakes at Yauatcha or today husband would be minus a testicle.
Boys - it is never the thought that counts. If husband had read Same sex in the city he would have known this.
But before I continue I must go back. On Saturday I had a great day. Went to amazing physio who manipulated me in a way that I haven't been since my Mum persuaded me to cut all my hair off (boy stylee) in order to get to wear my school (compulsory) summer dress in 1979. His name was Albert and I love him. He convinced me that my life has been meaningless without daily stretching and that all the world's ills would be cured if we all just got down on the floor and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d every morning, noon and night. Think about it - animals do it and they don't hobble to physios now do they? He helped the bad back my son helped cause on poonami day last Wed. Wee bunny was in the gym crèche. I was pissed off at husband's no gym show so I took wee bunny to Yo! Sushi as I knew that wee bunny would love it and it would really annoy jealous husband. Bingo. He ate like an angel - causing a terribly posh woman to stride over and tell me how great he was. Posh woman was with her two sons and American (banker??) husband. She was abrasive, arrogant and demanding to the staff and I loathed her. But she complimented bunny so I became putty in her hands... Her eldest son asked how old bunny was - I said 20 months. He thought on this. I said 'He is a year and... " when Posho shushed me with a raised hand and then demanded her brat worked it out for himself. I realised what she was doing. My kid was saintly - she now had to show that her offspring also possessed talents. The poor private schooled child couldn't work it out. I returned to my tempura and carried on helping the bunny to stuff his wee face. Posho's younger son made polite chat and Posho cajoled older son until as they walked out he announced - "One year and 8 months!" She repeated this to me triumphantly. I smiled weakly, thanking god my son was not in her son's class and that my school run would never be one long Olympic competition of one-up-mothership.
Wee bunny and I hot the book store, the play park and then home for a 'Finding Nemo' afternoon. What a movie. the bunny loved it . Now in the book store I purchased a book in the name of research. It was called 'Same sex in the city' and explains how two girls came out as lesbians. I am planning to write a new book with a girl and girl love affair so I thought this would be helpful. wee bunny got Nemo. I got lesbian love affairs. Fair deal. Anyway, Mother's day arrived. I got up to a hungry bunny and discover a pretty but wilting bunch of tulips and pussy willow outside the bedroom door. the way they had been tied suggested husband and nicked these flowers from his hotel display. Next to them lay a card. No, it was actually a piece of white paper. Flimsy and unable to stand up. On it husband had drawn in crayon 'Happy Mother's Day.' Next to it lay the Same sex in the city book. Inside paper husband had written 'Mummy why do you have this book? Do you have something to tell Daddy and I? Are you a closet dyke? I don't understand and neither does Daddy.' What a beautiful sentiment in my card.
Thank god I got cocktails, dim sum and praline cakes at Yauatcha or today husband would be minus a testicle.
Boys - it is never the thought that counts. If husband had read Same sex in the city he would have known this.
What happened to us?
The sun is shining, the birds are singing and I want to scream my head off. It is not yet 10am. Wee bunny has been fed and watered - by me - and has taken a massive dump. But the nappy has managed to come off so said dumpage is now all over him, his sleepsuit and the nappy. This is no job for the meek. I manage to strip him and plonk him in the bath. I am hosing him down, all the while he yells like I have set the poor little chap on fire. I meanwhile am covered in stale crap, struggling to hold the bunny up in one hand, a shower hose in the other and navigate my way through his nooks and crannies to clear the debris that has welded itself to every available surface of his bum. I think he is clean and lift him out. Yeooooooowww. Something goes in my back. Bunny is howling still and I shush him as I dry him, patting his baby soft skin and noticing that all the shit has not come off and is now on the towel. I wipe his arse, slap on some cream, nappy and dress and him, stopping to let his fluffy hair caress my face and then return to clean the bath/my hands, dump the dump in the bin and then place the clothes in a nuclear site to be eradicated - I mean, in the washbasket.
Husband surfaces. Makes his weird bird seed and meat so-uncooked-it-is -still-breathing concoction that will be his days sustenance. I'm all right Jack is his attitude. I hate him. I hit the shower and try not to cry. My life feels like an endless well of poo and dishes and washing and bath times and I want MORE THAN THIS!!! I dream of running away with some obscenely young boy who looks like Mark Ronson with the wit of Eddie Izzard and the money of Donald Trump. Husband tries briefly to be understanding but returns to his cook-athon leaving wee bunny to endless Bob the fecking builder repeats. I try to dress. Notice the dimpling and curves were once taut flesh stood. Full of self loathing I reach for something to wear. Husband and I have had no conversation today whatsoever. No laughs. Breakfast together? Don't make me laugh - he is always so tired after his long bar shifts that he has no energy for me or the wee bunny. Oh but energy for the gym. Husband has managed to give wee bunny a small cup from the bathroom - a dirty old playtime cup no less - which wee bunny drinks from and then spills over himself. Enraged I get husband to dress wee bunny again - as his clothes are saturated. Husband thinks I am insane and tells me to de stress. It is not husband who spends every waking hour worrying about money and where the next job is coming from. It is not husband who spends two hours making the wee bunny healthy chilli beef for his lunch today and who has to make sure wee bunny has wipes/nappies/food/milk/clean clothes etc etc. I hate him with every bone in my body for having a life. We argue about trivial stuff. These daily verbal jousts exhaust me and wind me into a frenzy. The dishes are left for me to do - he claims they are mine and I scream that they are all dishes from the child's breakfast. He sarcastically tells me maybe I need a lie down. His goading eroding any confidence I have left in myself and making my blood boil. Is the bunny's bag ready, he snaps. Of course it is - all packed, all ready as my life is one only designed to clean up everyone else's shit and make sure everyone else is good to go. What about me? Where did my life go? My hopes, my passion for my work? My sense of goddamn self?
He slams out. The wee bunny follows, trundling along, his every step melting my heart. A sinking feeling grows in the pit of my stomach as I note we haven't kissed goodbye once this week. We're did we go husband? The 'us' in all of this. No longer a team we rant and rage and bully and hate and slowly tear us to shreds. It is all about my unfulfilled needs and your fucking job that gives us no semblance of a normal life. Where do we go from here I wonder? Because I can't live like this forever.
Husband surfaces. Makes his weird bird seed and meat so-uncooked-it-is -still-breathing concoction that will be his days sustenance. I'm all right Jack is his attitude. I hate him. I hit the shower and try not to cry. My life feels like an endless well of poo and dishes and washing and bath times and I want MORE THAN THIS!!! I dream of running away with some obscenely young boy who looks like Mark Ronson with the wit of Eddie Izzard and the money of Donald Trump. Husband tries briefly to be understanding but returns to his cook-athon leaving wee bunny to endless Bob the fecking builder repeats. I try to dress. Notice the dimpling and curves were once taut flesh stood. Full of self loathing I reach for something to wear. Husband and I have had no conversation today whatsoever. No laughs. Breakfast together? Don't make me laugh - he is always so tired after his long bar shifts that he has no energy for me or the wee bunny. Oh but energy for the gym. Husband has managed to give wee bunny a small cup from the bathroom - a dirty old playtime cup no less - which wee bunny drinks from and then spills over himself. Enraged I get husband to dress wee bunny again - as his clothes are saturated. Husband thinks I am insane and tells me to de stress. It is not husband who spends every waking hour worrying about money and where the next job is coming from. It is not husband who spends two hours making the wee bunny healthy chilli beef for his lunch today and who has to make sure wee bunny has wipes/nappies/food/milk/clean clothes etc etc. I hate him with every bone in my body for having a life. We argue about trivial stuff. These daily verbal jousts exhaust me and wind me into a frenzy. The dishes are left for me to do - he claims they are mine and I scream that they are all dishes from the child's breakfast. He sarcastically tells me maybe I need a lie down. His goading eroding any confidence I have left in myself and making my blood boil. Is the bunny's bag ready, he snaps. Of course it is - all packed, all ready as my life is one only designed to clean up everyone else's shit and make sure everyone else is good to go. What about me? Where did my life go? My hopes, my passion for my work? My sense of goddamn self?
He slams out. The wee bunny follows, trundling along, his every step melting my heart. A sinking feeling grows in the pit of my stomach as I note we haven't kissed goodbye once this week. We're did we go husband? The 'us' in all of this. No longer a team we rant and rage and bully and hate and slowly tear us to shreds. It is all about my unfulfilled needs and your fucking job that gives us no semblance of a normal life. Where do we go from here I wonder? Because I can't live like this forever.
Breakthrough
I have a meeting. Not just any old meeting - but a meeting with Mr BBC drama himself! Am excited? You betcha. I even kept my cool this fair morning when small child had a major fist-pounding-the-floor tantrum after refusing his lunch and being denied his crack-like addiction to Bob the Builder. Pity Bob wasn't around to fix the tantrums he creates... Can he fix it. NO HE CAN'T!! Plus I am doing some work with the loveliest man on the planet - Mr Grey as he shall be known - a Lit agent, by reading some of his clients work. He's taking a gander at my penned efforts. So I have a few little rays of sunshine in my otherwise cloudy sky. The wee bunny is asleep. He is refusing all savoury food at present, only opening his trap to whinge, drink or eat chocolate, fruit and nutella. I am hoping that the universe will conspire for me to achieve a job, successful house move, great child care in new area and a flat sale - in that order. Oh and loyal tidy clean tenants too.... I've read 'The Secret' and am pouring out those positive happy shiny rays. Apart from doing my back in after poonami on Wed morning, things are not too bad. Even husband and I have exchanged pleasantries and kisses today. Plus it is Mother's Day on Sun - which I had forgotten actually refers to me too these days. I am getting dim sum at Yauatcha and hopefully flowers - rather than the crap Best one all night shop card and scraggly lilies that were last years token. After the poo hell I survived this week - I am expecting great blooms.
As for the meeting - keep your fingers crossed for me eh?
x
As for the meeting - keep your fingers crossed for me eh?
x
End of my TETHER!!
Why can't I get a job? Seriously? If an interview is based 70% on how you look: I am presentable, a dab hand with my make up, able to scrub up ok, girl next door looks, blue eyed, blonde (albeit with roots) and size 10-12. 20% on what you sound like: lilting Northern Irish tones, softened by 17 years in London, thankfully not nasal sounding. 10% on what you say - well I am always well researched on anyone I meet and the subject we are due to talk about. I spend hours trawling the net, hopeful to find a little snippet of info that will set me apart from the other interviewees. I know my onions when I get in there - years of interviewing celebs has made me fearful of ever being underprepared. That way you can never be thrown. You always have an answer/solution. A good story teller, I have several up my sleeve and pride myself on being able to wheel out an anecdote on any given subject - always with a humble angle, always taking the piss out of myself. In short - I give good interview.
Ok, so interview aside. I have worked in TV for ten years. Trained as a broadcast journalist (2:1 degree) then travelled for a year. Lived in NZ and Oz. Visited Hong Kong, Thailand, India. Came back and was a reporter for 2 years and then freelanced since 1999. An associate producer on channel 4 shows including the obligatory stint on The Big Breakfast. Presented shows on relationships, teen dating, DIY, news, fashion, current affairs - a fecking Dog show programme for gods sake - for a breadth of channels - and made a living in the cut throat bully-boy playground that is presenting. In a sea of fluffy vacant models who somehow snapped up the best jobs - I stood my ground as a comfy girl next door type: friendly, a woman's woman, non threatening and good company. It made me a great interviewer even if I do say so myself. But I tired of being in and out of work like a yo-yo. Never knowing of I had any pennies to go on hols, buy an outfit etc Always living in fear that a new producer would take over and make their mark by axing your truly. I think when I did a screen test at almost 9 months pregnant and the TV company didn't offer me the job saying that I hadn't been 'energetic enough' (a was a bloody beached whale in flats for gods sake - what did they expect?) that I realised how ridiculous the business called show was and decided to jump ship. That and the fact that I flew home to Belfast every week for 10 weeks to present a live show (small babe in arms - the wee bunny was 4 months old), which everyone loved - but the muppet that ran the station insisted on putting the show out on a Friday evening when folk want to watch inane sit coms and relaxing comedy and not tax their wound up brains after a week on the treadmill. It was a Thursday evening show for sure, but muppet wouldn't accept he could possibly be wrong - and so canned my show. Audience figures not high enough. I wanted to scream at muppet - 'Cos they were in the fucking pub!!! Now put it out on a Thursday and you'll see...' Even the vicious TV critics liked it... Anyway, it wasn't re-commissioned. I was out of work and trying not to live on bitter street.
I have spent a year trying to get into script editing. Never one to expect everything on a plate, I wrote letters: cheeky but charming and managed to get renowned people in TV drama to chat to me. They all said "Go work on a soap!" And made it sound like all I would have to do something akin to hailing a black cab. Come to think of it - getting one of those in Soho around midnight is damn impossible - as is getting work on a soap. I've script read for a year... learnt loads about what makes a good, a bad and a downright ugly script and am more confident (not only that I am improving but that this really is the area I want to go into) than ever. I did get a wonderful job offer last year - based in Leeds, on an ITV soap that I had to turn down. I cried for a week. Especially as the folk were lovely and I really felt I could learn so much from them. Since then I have whittled my job opportunities down to one job. In the whole of the UK. You see there are 8 soaps in the UK. 3 in London. 2 of those see themselves as 'continuing drama' not a soap. So there is one soap (thankfully the that one I love and have watched for many many years) in London for me to apply to. I met with lovely folk who work there and found out I am not experienced enough - instead I would be suitable for an assistnat script editor job. There is just one of those at this soap. Now, I move house in 6 weeks and need a job. Or quite simply I won't be able to pay my new King Kong sized mortgage. Last week I wrote to 25 literary agents who represent TV writers - offering to read for them/assist them/ water their plants etc etc. 4 replied they do not need readers. I met with one. The loveliest man - a genuine pleasure. But he wanted to me to head up a department and work on commission only. No can do as sadly banks do not wait around until your tree bears fruit for mortgage payments. Alas I need raw cash - and now. But can I get employed - frankly I couldn't get arrested. How is it that a bright, enthusiastic, loyal graduate with 10 years of work under her belt is unable to net a job?
See my tether. Go to the end of it. That's where you'll find me.
Ok, so interview aside. I have worked in TV for ten years. Trained as a broadcast journalist (2:1 degree) then travelled for a year. Lived in NZ and Oz. Visited Hong Kong, Thailand, India. Came back and was a reporter for 2 years and then freelanced since 1999. An associate producer on channel 4 shows including the obligatory stint on The Big Breakfast. Presented shows on relationships, teen dating, DIY, news, fashion, current affairs - a fecking Dog show programme for gods sake - for a breadth of channels - and made a living in the cut throat bully-boy playground that is presenting. In a sea of fluffy vacant models who somehow snapped up the best jobs - I stood my ground as a comfy girl next door type: friendly, a woman's woman, non threatening and good company. It made me a great interviewer even if I do say so myself. But I tired of being in and out of work like a yo-yo. Never knowing of I had any pennies to go on hols, buy an outfit etc Always living in fear that a new producer would take over and make their mark by axing your truly. I think when I did a screen test at almost 9 months pregnant and the TV company didn't offer me the job saying that I hadn't been 'energetic enough' (a was a bloody beached whale in flats for gods sake - what did they expect?) that I realised how ridiculous the business called show was and decided to jump ship. That and the fact that I flew home to Belfast every week for 10 weeks to present a live show (small babe in arms - the wee bunny was 4 months old), which everyone loved - but the muppet that ran the station insisted on putting the show out on a Friday evening when folk want to watch inane sit coms and relaxing comedy and not tax their wound up brains after a week on the treadmill. It was a Thursday evening show for sure, but muppet wouldn't accept he could possibly be wrong - and so canned my show. Audience figures not high enough. I wanted to scream at muppet - 'Cos they were in the fucking pub!!! Now put it out on a Thursday and you'll see...' Even the vicious TV critics liked it... Anyway, it wasn't re-commissioned. I was out of work and trying not to live on bitter street.
I have spent a year trying to get into script editing. Never one to expect everything on a plate, I wrote letters: cheeky but charming and managed to get renowned people in TV drama to chat to me. They all said "Go work on a soap!" And made it sound like all I would have to do something akin to hailing a black cab. Come to think of it - getting one of those in Soho around midnight is damn impossible - as is getting work on a soap. I've script read for a year... learnt loads about what makes a good, a bad and a downright ugly script and am more confident (not only that I am improving but that this really is the area I want to go into) than ever. I did get a wonderful job offer last year - based in Leeds, on an ITV soap that I had to turn down. I cried for a week. Especially as the folk were lovely and I really felt I could learn so much from them. Since then I have whittled my job opportunities down to one job. In the whole of the UK. You see there are 8 soaps in the UK. 3 in London. 2 of those see themselves as 'continuing drama' not a soap. So there is one soap (thankfully the that one I love and have watched for many many years) in London for me to apply to. I met with lovely folk who work there and found out I am not experienced enough - instead I would be suitable for an assistnat script editor job. There is just one of those at this soap. Now, I move house in 6 weeks and need a job. Or quite simply I won't be able to pay my new King Kong sized mortgage. Last week I wrote to 25 literary agents who represent TV writers - offering to read for them/assist them/ water their plants etc etc. 4 replied they do not need readers. I met with one. The loveliest man - a genuine pleasure. But he wanted to me to head up a department and work on commission only. No can do as sadly banks do not wait around until your tree bears fruit for mortgage payments. Alas I need raw cash - and now. But can I get employed - frankly I couldn't get arrested. How is it that a bright, enthusiastic, loyal graduate with 10 years of work under her belt is unable to net a job?
See my tether. Go to the end of it. That's where you'll find me.
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