Cricket, allergies, mindless panic

I have 7 days left of my #thirdyearabroad.

This is a deeply upsetting fact for two reasons:

1. I don't want to leave. I like it here, despite this ridiculous, furnace-like heat.
2. I have way, waaaaaay too much work to do.

Reason two is the reason I've not been blogging much. Well, reason two and a whole new onset of allergies. My immune system has taken to treating pollen as the opening of hostilities by some unseen enemy and thus flushes my entire nasal cavity every two minutes, with six to seven enormous sneezes as an accompaniment. To round it off, sleeping is for people who are not under savage attack from pollen and being able to see is reserved for those not subject to ambush by flora.

My kinder colleagues tell me I look tired. I don't have any unkind colleagues, which is just as well because I'd go totally bananas if someone actually pointed out what an utterly unpleasant mess I must look right now.

The allergies were particularly bad last night because I played cricket with some friends from work; all interns, all Indian, and all light years better at cricket than me. I was glad England were playing well against Australia because in this little corner of the world I was letting the side down a lot. Still, it was a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon, if a little (a lot) roastingly hot. It is testament to my lack of sleep and wooly-headedness that for four hours today I couldn't work out why my right arm and side were hurting. Not a proud moment for me.

The work, as I said, is endless. Why people wait until just before they go on holiday to give work to the new guy is beyond me; I suppose they see me as the least important thing on a list but it does make it a touch difficult to get clarification on things I need...well, clarified. Still, I shall muddle through to the best of my prodigious abilities.

My final design for the invitations has been approved, and I got to spend several minutes groping paper. Oh, 350gsm gloss. Mm, 300gsm matt. Oh, Bristol, let me touch you with my fingertips. I used to work in a print shop, and some things never go away. And although it sounds odd, handling paper, looking at the different colours of white, comparing the gloss to the matt and imagining how your image would look...it's amazing fun. Never let me design your wedding invitations. You will lose hours of your life to talk about paper.

With that done it's on to the movies, two translations, and a couple of rearrangements. Six days, five projects. No problem.

Now I think about it...I might go in a little early tomorrow.

Pavlova'd

I've Pavlova'd myself with this blog.

For those who didn't know, Pavlov was a behavioural scientist who found that if he rang a bell before he fed some dogs, those dogs would soon start to salivate at the sound of the bell - not the scent of the food. They had been conditioned to respond in an abnormal way to a stimulus.

I have done the same thing to myself with this blog and the weather. When I started writing this blog, it was as it got dark - around six. I'd write a bit, fix some dinner, sketch out some ideas, speak to my friends, and then polish it off around nine, feeling satisfied and totally missing at least one glaringly obvious spelling mistake.

So now, instead of looking at the time and starting to write at around six, I look out my window, see it's still light, and continue working on my year abroad project or putting a watermark on videos or reading more about the woman-shaped target that "bleeds" when you shoot it, because everyone needs a solid dose of WTF in the evenings. Gender violence is not really gender violence when you present it as a joke. Apparently.

In any case, that means I eventually get round to writing (and eating) at about ten now, as the sun sets. In addition to this total upset to my workflow I'm also running for the position of School of Language and Literature convener at the University of Aberdeen, in absentia, which is proving to be a logistical nightmare and a missed opportunity to harass students outside Taylor building, which I know they pretend to hate but really love.

This morning was a mad stack of recordings as I tried to avoid missing a deadline (a fairly big one, since we've the next five days off) and, aside from one hideous outtake, the recordings are done and I am exceedingly pleased with the results. In addition, Adeline borrowed some more books, although as she did so she also managed to misplace a blank cheque for 3.000€, so perhaps she felt it wasn't worth it in the end.

Don't look at me, I haven't got it, and even if I did, I wouldn't cash it.

Well I mean I probably wouldn't.

The afternoon was given over to more research and more writing; for the first time since arriving here I'm thankful that the work has momentarily dried up because I've got a lot of pages to write and a lot of complex French to wade through. I foresee the next couple of days being dedicated to the same thing, which is good - it'll get me back in the swing of essay writing before going back to uni.

I was given the names of the two potential new stagiaires today, too, which is very exciting. I'm sure whoever gets it will be brilliant, as they're both fantastic candidates. Though - just so you know - you'll never replace me, and sometimes your colleagues will sigh, or look at you strangely, and they'll be wondering why you don't wear waistcoats, or have rugged good looks, or crawl in hungover to high heaven.

And then you will make them love all the things you do instead.

The afternoon was given over to TFI practice where I (still!) need to improve my grammar. It's better than it was but still not good enough, so that'll be an extra hour of work per day until the test. Posts may well get shorter.

To compensate for the huge length of this one, here's a pavlova, to complete the circle.

P.S:

If you are a student at the University of Aberdeen,

You can vote in the elections happening right now!

Just go to www.ausa.org.uk/elections and log in!

Installing real life...99% complete

Exciting day today, which started with me being locked out of my new office. This happens too often.

However, I found a key, and sat myself down. No computer yet; while books can be lugged around any old how, computers must be signed for in triplicate, because people are more likely to steal a computer. Even a four-year old computer with less processing power than the A5-sized tablet they have in their bag. It's crazy, the thing must weigh a ton.

In any case - this meant I was on my laptop, and since I prefer +Gmail over Outlook (sorry Microsoft, sorry Apple, my next laptop's going to be a Chromebook and I'll always be an Android fanboy) my supervisor has started emailing me on that address. However, since I also use it for personal stuff (emails to my dad, getting tickets to En attendant Godot, my weekly hairdressing appointments) I decided now was the time to take control of my inbox. I said it with force. I said it with conviction. I said it with absolutely no idea how I'd go about it.

Step forward +Lifehacker, my favourite find ever. They output around 20-30 articles a day, and almost all of them go in my trash bin because they don't apply to me. But I always scan the titles, because once in a while an absolute gem comes up. Lifehacker is my go-to guy; if Stephen Fry were a website, he'd be Lifehacker. Maybe. Whether he would or he wouldn't be, I knew Lifehacker would help me out, and they did. Page after page on how to take control of your Gmail inbox, and before I knew it I'd so totally organised my inbox that I had a folder for everyone, subfolders for topics, and I'd lost three hours of my day.

Students came in and out throughout the morning, and I'm hoping that's going to become a common theme - I really want the huge new space I've got to be more than book storage. I want it to be a place for conversation, for improving English, and for rediscovering classics of English. English is my first language and my first love, and I'm so excited to now have the opportunity to share it with even more students.

I'm also right next to the coffee machine, so I'm expecting my five hours of sleep per night to be further abbreviated. I will carry on regardless; I would do anything for love. Apart from that weird thing with ketchup and apples, you can keep that to yourself. Weirdo.

Lunch today was kids' menu; turkey nuggets and chips. This is what I count as a weekend treat; going out on a Friday night is not feasible with a 10am start. I'm confident that other students reading this will shake their heads and laugh mockingly, but I'm old now. I'm 23, another few years and I get my pension.

(As I get closer to graduation I'm realising more and more that the world doesn't work that way, but I'm clinging to my delusion like a lifejacket)

My weekend looks pretty good, with lessons in the morning, a walk along the Seine with some work colleagues and I think a visit to Paris on Sunday. I've not been in for a while and I've some things to see before I leave - a date which is approaching with alarming speed.

For tonight I'll leave you with this from my new favourite musical, Matilda, which has just opened on Broadway. 400 Americans read this blog in the last five days; if any of you are New Yorkers I implore you to go and see this wonderful production.

Skip to 0.40 for the good stuff and to avoid David Walliams.



When I grow up, I will eat sweets every day
On the way to work 
And I will go to bed late every night
And I will wake up when the sun comes up and I
Will watch cartoons until my eyes go square and I won't care
'Cause I'll be all grown up.

(Hands up if this was you not so long ago.)

Suddenly, love!

This morning I played the clown for my colleague, acting the parts of the older members of last night's trip to the exposition. Even if I say it myself, I'm a hoot, though I imagine that no small part of that is down to my accent. Foolishness over with, I went to greet my supervisor and find out what I'd missed yesterday evening.

Yesterday evening I missed a meeting for those volunteering with the huge careers day/forum event happening at the university. This will be its 7th iteration, and no drill sergeant in Her Majesty's Armed Forces has been so fiercely punctual of timekeeping as the event's organiser. She has given me the role of bad cop, with the responsibility of going around the rooms and essentially cutting people off when it's time for lunch. People who refuse to leave will be locked in their rooms and will have no lunch and, having already spoken about lunches here in France, you can understand why that would be seen as a Bad Thing.

The rest of my day passed uneventfully; the last few stragglers are signing up for tests, I have a brief translation to complete for "whenever" (Oh, how I love vague deadlines, how I adore them, how pleasing it is to be suddenly told 'I need that translation now') and, of course, hanging in the horizon like a star is my interview for -

I want to tell you all who the interview is with. I really do, because it's exciting and if I get it then I think it will realistically change the whole direction of my career and life. And this blog has readers who, despite the inanity of my life, keep coming back, and I should dearly like to reward those good and patient people with something exciting.

I assure you this sudden dip into seriousness will be temporary, but for the moment do bear with me.

Taken from
http://www.docnews.fr/data/classes/actualite/actu_7844_vignette.jpg

So: I have an interview with Agence ELAN, a French PR firm which opened an office in London in 2011. They've directed PR for companies like Moët Chandon, L'Oréal, and Eurostar. They are the essence of where I want to be; fast moving, European - my immediate supervisor will speak three languages fluently and has three degrees - and working with a broad range of clients. This would only be an internship, of course, but even the first inch of a toe in the door is sufficient for me.

Okay. So that's happening on Thursday and I'm fizzing with excitement, but I'll try to bottle it for the moment. I shall likely pop a little on Friday, but I will do my best to keep it off your lovely clothes.

I rounded the day off with a French film, which was incredibly good fun. L'Arnacoeur is formulaic and even features a frame-by-frame reproduction of the dance sequence from Dirty Dancing - 

You know which one. Don't make me -

I hope you're satisfied.

But it still had some great, laugh out loud moments, and I'd recommend it to most anyone, although it does see this poor guy get stood up by the girl he adores.

Aw.

Unfortunately this isn't the first time this has happened. See also: Love Actually 

Awww.

That's a hell of a thing to be typecast as, isn't it. The guy who gets his heart broken.

What a blog. And it's only Tuesday. Here's to the rest of the week.

I'm going on an adventure!

Planning tomorrow's jaunt, for which I shall be leaving at the unnatural hour of 7 ante meridiem, has got me terribly excited. I've looked up places to go and things to see, been bitterly disappointed by the fact that my favourite looks like it'll be closed and found myself once again confounded by the French fondness for just shutting everything for two hours at lunchtime.

Still, there also seem to be plenty of good eateries, so I'm looking forward to a delectable lunch. The early morning will be interesting and hopefully I'll get the chance to take an early breakfast when I arrive. There seems to be an awful lot to see there including big clocks, various museums, and a cathedral or three. There will probably be lots of pictures, although I can't promise a post - I know I shall be absolutely dog-tired.

Anyhow; that's tomorrow. Today was a slow news day - at least in the morning. In the afternoon, this tweet appeared in my timeline:

I like PR; I'd like to see myself in it one day before long. It's storytelling by any other name and, like a rose, is still as sweet. I like to portray myself as cool, calm and collected. I like you all to think of me as the pinnacle of effortless charm, poise and grace, un maestro di sprezzatura if you like. So it will benefit me nothing to tell you that upon reading this tweet I jumped out of my chair and said a word that my mother told me oftentimes not to say.

Nota bene - For British readers, don't forget that Mothering Sunday is this weekend, and if you've not got anything yet there's probably still some sad looking flowers or a dog-eared card at the petrol station. It's far too late for me. But you still have a tiny chance. Go. Go now!

So having fired off an email to the man in question and received a full job description in reply, it turns out that the company is looking for an intern whom they hope to turn into a full time employee, and at this point in my life I can't really drop out of university and hope all turns out for the best. There was a time when I did exactly that, but I'm older and just a little wiser now - in part because when I did, it didn't, if you see what I mean.

However; I am nothing if not tenacious, and I've sent emails in French and English asking for the company to consider me for an internship of fixed duration. I don't know if I'll get it - that advert will have been answered by a minimum of 200 actually graduated francophones, some of whom will be naturally bilingual, but nonetheless - nothing is gained by doing nothing.

As I sent the email last thing on a Friday night I don't imagine I'll get anything back before Monday, but  I'm going on an epic trip tomorrow and planning lessons all day Sunday so I'm not going to have any time to worry. That's the plan, but I daresay I'll find half an hour to chew on my fingernails. Even in the depths of panic, I know how to schedule my time.

As I packed my things away to go for the weekend, my neighbour popped his head round the door to mention he'd be gone for a week. I asked if he was going anywhere nice, and he pretended to think about it.

- Cap-Vert, he said at last, grinning.

Cap-Vert is a string of islands just off the coast of Senegal, 14 degrees above the equator.

Rouen suddenly looks less awesome.

In case I don't do a blog tomorrow please accept my apologies in advance, and have a picture of a man who looks like Ant and Dec at the same time. 

Can't be unseen.

The same tired old refrain (Some swearing)

PR is a fast-moving, forward-thinking industry. In my opinion it simply has to be; you cannot stand about waiting for stories to break or a friendly journalist to take a sudden interest in your story.

Politics (I thought) was similarly fast-moving and forward-thinking; indeed, there shouldn't be many people thinking further forward than politicians.

And yet today I feel like both of these opinions have been utterly squashed. The first was by a PR firm for whom I otherwise have great respect for and the second was by the Conservative party, who are apparently trying to out-shit even their own bloated caricatures.

Firstly, the PR firm. I understand the argument that is suggested, to whit: you are getting an education, and as a result, you should pay towards the cost. I disagree with this idea for a couple of reasons: first, I'm producing content. I will grudgingly accept that I ought to put some cost towards my university fees, although £9,000 (I know, technically I pay only a fifth of that, but I am speaking generally) goes a little past ridiculous and into the realm of the truly ridiculous. All three of my students today, one French and two Russian, expressed utter disbelief that we had such an insane system. Mind you, the Russians also needed convincing I was British because I was, in their words, "Too animated."

It's nice to see the stereotypes of Britain as a nation of stick-up-arse, stiff-upper-lip, what-ho-Jeevesing chaps and chappesses has absolutely not gone anywhere. In any case, the education I receive at university is entirely linear; I am taught, I produce content, but none of it is going to add to the prestige of the university - the books on which we write our essays have already been examined in minute detail, which I imagine is the point. It gives us, the students, more data on which to base our conclusions, thus ensuring our essays have at least the semblance of a well-researched piece of work.

An internship is entirely a two way street. I am still receiving an education, except this time the work I produce will go to directly padding the bottom line of the company who have interviewed me and decided that I am good enough to work for them. They have, presumably, satisfied themselves that I am not going to defecate into an envelope and mail it to their clients. They have faith, I suppose, that I am not going to take photographs of my genitals and post them to the official twitter feed. And while these are extreme examples I also hope that they understand that they are taking on someone who has no more skill or ability than a graduate in this area - and that occasionally they will need to go over my work, as they would the graduate's, because nothing will be perfect first time.

The only difference seems to be that the graduate would be paid his wage, and I would receive £100 per week as expenses. A monthly ticket to the office from my rent-free parent's house would set me back £440. The minimum wage would mean paying interns just under a thousand pounds a month, and increase of £600. That's at minimum wage.

He has a point.

So come on PR firms. Be forward-thinking and awesome like I know you are, and pay your interns what you think they're worth.

And if you really think they're worth £2.50 an hour, then I suggest you fire whoever's recruiting them.

I've nothing to say about the Conservative party, save to share this little nugget where the guy in charge of collecting tax explains how to avoid paying tax.

It should be noted that of course this is young Osbourne. He may have radically changed his ways and not done any of those cheeky things like, say, flipped his house for £400,000 of profit.

Depressing day.