A Brief History of Time and (lack of brain) Space

I’ve won the lottery.

That’s not an exaggeration, or a ploy to grab your attention or anything. I really have won the lottery.

I’ve just misplaced the ticket at the moment.

If I try retracing my steps to where I might have put it, I remember back to January 2011. I was coming out of my English PGCE interview - my sights set on becoming an English teacher. I was reflecting on my interview performance, wondering whether I’d made it through, when I developed this horrible lump in my stomach. It was a twisted sort of hope.

Hope that I didn’t get it.

I squashed the feeling down for a while. Subdued it with vast amounts of chocolate and junk-food. I was searching for happiness at the bottom of a Big Mac when the only thing that was going to get rid of that dread in my belly was admitting to myself what I’d been trying to keep a secret.

I didn’t want to be a school teacher and read out stories to ungrateful teens.

I wanted to be out there developing my own.

For some reason, the hardest part was telling people that instead of getting a respectable, decent job, I wanted to carry on living as a broke student. When I first started uni, I was kind of terrified that one day I’d drop out, and have to explain to my mother that I’d decided to quit my degree and become a hooker or something. I didn’t realise that telling people that wanting to continue my studies after three years undergrad would be met with such similar gasps and looks of confusion.

I figured most people would accept that I was going into further education providing I worded it right, so I tried it out on a couple of old friends when they’d ask things like:

“Hey Kels, final year! Must be scary to think you’re not going to be a student anymore. Any thoughts on what you’ll do next? Did you get on to the teaching---“

“I’m going to be a student.” I’d reply.

“Huh? No, I mean next year, when you finish—“

“I’m going to be a student.” I’d say, folding my arms.

“After graduation—“

“Student. I’m going back. I’m going to be a student.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“But, that’ll be four years!”

“I know.”

“You can’t be a student forever!”  

“I know.”

“Is this because of the recession?”

“No.”

“Have you considered becoming a hooker?”

"Yes..."

And so on.

I guess it might have been easier if the respective course had booming future job prospects, but as in the case with most Arts subjects at the moment, there wasn’t a great deal of support around so that I could educate myself on what occupations my course might help secure.

“What are you studying?”

“Creative writing.”

“What’s that?”

“How to write, creatively.”

“What will you do after that?”

I have no freaking idea.

Surprisingly, it was the people I was most worried about telling – my boyfriend and my family, who were most supportive.

I walked in while they were all sat on the sofa watching Superman and told them that we needed to talk, just as I’d done in my faux “Mother, I’ve dropped out of Uni” fantasy. Then I prepared for the onslaught. “I’m so disappointed! / My child is a hooker, I mean, a student, again! / How can you do this!” etc.

But it never came.

Dad told me he was proud of me, and my mother they just wanted me to be happy. My boyfriend said I’d be saving the world, but I’m not quite sure he was following the conversation at that point. I took it to heart all the same, and the next day, I enrolled for an MA in Creative Writing.

That year I worked four jobs during the Christmas period in order to pay for my tuition fees. It wasn’t easy.  Sometimes I’d go straight from a shift as a Sales Assistant in a clothing shop, to another shift as a waitress in a Mexican restaurant, and then if I was lucky, I’d polish it off with a few hours as a bar-tender in a nightclub – all in one night. It was good practise for a job in media. (The longs hours and bags under the eyes, I mean. Not the Mexican moustache or the tequila, although they do liven things up mid-week in the office.)

In January 2012, I interviewed for an English PGCE again as unfortunately, I had no freaking idea what jobs I could get as a Creative Writing graduate. I couldn’t quite face telling people that after four years studying I planned to sit at home and write chick-flick novels while tenderly pruning my money-tree.

In February I applied for the BBC Production Talent Pool. I had no experience in television, no real work experience outside of my Mexican Restaurant, no clue what I was doing really, but I really, really love story-telling. It was all I had to offer. By June, I’d been accepted on to the pool.

In August I bought an eight week lottery ticket.

Then I hid it somewhere.

(Don’t ask me why, this blog honestly isn’t long enough to explain the true extent of my stupidity.) Let’s just say, it’s in a safe place, I just don’t recall where that is right now.

After being accepted on to the pool, I secured three short-term runner jobs in Factual and Music. People had been talking about the Production Trainee Scheme, which was a fast-track route into the world of television production which was only available this year by getting onto the Production Talent Pool first.

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to apply, so I did, but my lack of experience made me severely doubt my chances of getting on to the scheme. In the meantime, I’d been accepted on to the English PGCE, which was an achievement in itself as I thought the PGCE admission process was an incredibly difficult one. But, having been given the offer, I had to accept it. One week before my Production Trainee Scheme interview, much to my horror.

With my support blanket well and truly pulled out from beneath me, I had to make a decision.

I always believed that one day, I would win the lottery. Not being a maths genius, I always said that if I won £x amount of money on a game-show or something, I’d spent my winnings on lottery tickets, as with that many tickets I was bound to win.

When my boyfriend sat down and explained it to me, I was utterly deflated.

“Kels, it doesn’t matter how many tickets you buy, the winning ticket isn’t just out there, that’s why you get roll overs. Sometimes, no one wins.”

I couldn’t believe it. What if I would never win?

It was a tough decision. I could play it safe, go into teaching, earn a decent living, or pack it all in for a job I may never get.

During my week of limbo, I decided not to tell anyone that I had dropped out of my English PGCE, as the only explanation I would be able to give people when they asked what logic possessed me to do such a crazy thing was “You’ve got to be in it to win it.”

It as a conversation I didn’t want to have, and luckily, I never needed to, as somehow, I managed to get on the scheme.

I’m not quite saving the world (yet), but despite all the odds I’ve managed to secure my dream job. If I could go back in time, through all the stress and tears, and tell myself that a year later – particularly in those shifts at the Mexican Restaurant- everything would work out ok, and that one day I would wake up in the morning and feel happy to go to work, I’m not sure I’d believe me.

But it is true.

If I stop thinking about to the last twelve months, and think ahead to the future, it’s really quite mind-baffling. It’s only been two months but I’ve already worked on two of the BBC’s flagship dramas. I’ve had both practical experience as well as some of the best training the country has to offer. To top it all off, I have one of the best mentors through this process that I could have asked for, and met some incredible people (like Simon Wright, Don Kong and Kate Hoyland, who have been like surrogate parents throughout this whole process) Most amazingly, some of the most inspirational people I've met are actually some of the other members of the scheme, who really are some very special people.

Last week, my mentor asked me what I would have done if I hadn't got on to the pool, and I explained the story to him, more succinctly than this of course.

"Oh my god!" he said at the good bit, when I told him that I had to make this massive life changing decision whether to go for the Production Trainee Scheme or whether to start my Teacher Training. "What would you have done if you didn't get in?!"

I stopped for a moment. I didn't really have an answer.

"I've got no idea," I said quietly. "I'd just hope it all worked out..."

That’s when I knew that I’d won the lottery. I’d won the lottery, and I couldn’t find the ticket.

Because that was sods law, surely, when (in my opinion)-  life is pretty amazing right now.

So I can only conclude that my winning lottery ticket is lurking somewhere in my room.

And I’m not even looking for it. 

I guess that’s when you know you’ve really hit the jackpot. 

The Valleys are Coming. So when do they Arrive?

I’ll be the first to admit that I was originally very excited to hear that MTV were focusing their new programme on The Valleys.

 

I thought it would be great television. I know my own town, Maesteg, holds some very interesting characters, many of which have influenced my own writing over the years. After hearing a number of stories about a friends ageing mother, I believed they were far too comical to keep to myself. After arranging to meet and chat with the lady herself, I created the character of Dilys, the main protagonist for my Valleys based play, Baby Steps. When her mother recently passed away, Mrs King told me that she was so grateful that I had written the play, as she felt that a part of her mother would always be alive whenever her story came to life on stage. It was one of those moments that made me feel as a writer, that I’d served a purpose.

 

Which sadly, leads me on to MTV’s The Valleys, whose own purpose seems to have got lost somewhere along the way.

 

 There’s a very marked difference between highlighting interesting characters because they have compelling stories, and that of simply exploiting communities with a camera crew. My hopes of seeing beautiful scenic shots of rolling Welsh hillsides and familiar landmarks were sadly replaced by the grubby interior shots of Glam nightclub and the cast’s apartment. Unfortunately, even in the dwelling, it appears to be the unmade bed in ‘the cwtch’ getting the most airtime. 

 

Many have said the television show will promote a negative view of the Valleys. Personally, the antics on Geordie Shore have never made me assume all Geordie’s replicate this behaviour, and I like to think that the general public have enough sense to realise it is a show fuelled by a camera crew. The real inhabitants of the valleys don’t act like a bunch of sheep, nor do they necessarily have them tattooed on their vaginas.

 

I don’t have a problem with easy viewing television, and don’t wish to slate The Valleys because of the way it’s portraying the cast. I can’t deny that I have pockets of friends that act in a similar manner to the characters on screen, and try to take everything with a little bit of tongue in cheek – despite it being the most foul mouthed scripting I’ve ever heard.

 

The problem for me lies in the fact that MTV have somewhat portrayed their advertisement in a way that would make viewers believe the show is indicative of Valley life. That’s why most of the South Wales communities tuned in to the first episode, hoping to see their home towns and dialect on television for the world to see. The programme delivered something very different.

 

They told us “The Valleys are coming.” So when do they arrive?

 

All we see a bunch of stereotyped personalities inside four walls being ploughed with alcohol. They could have been anywhere, so why say it’s the Valleys?

 

There’s a lot of good in South Wales. A real sense of pride and community. They may have ignored our beauty, culture and history but as they say, they can take away our pride (and I know, they’ve certainly tried) but they can’t take away our spirit. The one thing MTV have managed to fleetingly capture is the determination of the young cast in order to succeed. There is a belief in something better, and strength to continue against all odds.

 

Which, despite all else, is completely, and utterly, Valleys.









*Want more? Head to Dirty Protest, Cardiff to see my 10 minute play in response to MTV's The Valleys. Follow on twitter for more info!*


Next blog: 24 Oct

So, are you a writer?

It was such a long and difficult battle between pride and self doubt that it actually took me a while to get the words out. It was silly really, looking back at how worked up I was over it. But sometime last April, I realised it was actually preferable to refer to myself no longer as a 'student bum', as I have done for so many years - but to instead reveal I am a writer.

I was terrified that someone would laugh at me and call me a fraud, like it was something I wasn't allowed to do because I wasn't good enough yet, even though it's something that I've always done.

In my earliest childhood memories where I recall school bus trips to farms and coal mines, I think of all of us piling onto the bus in single file. Jammed into cramped rows of scratchy seating, which would irriate the skin near my knees if my skirt wasn't long enough to pull down and cover it. I'd peer over the shoulder of the person in front and try to catch a glimpse of whatever text they were reading. Then I'd try to guess which novel it was from.

I'd rarely take my own on trips, although I favoured Enid Blyton enormously. Instead, I'd have a pen and paper and would make up my own tales, with a particular fondness for the extended adventues of a little mouse named Malcolm. When each story was over, I'd whip out my colouring pencils and illustrate the damn thing. By my own admittance, I was one freaky five year old.

But even so, being an early starter didn't mean I was actually any good at it.

When I made the decision to enrol in a Creative Writing MA at uni, it was because I knew I'd only ever really allow myself one shot to dabble in a career as a writer. I decided I'd give myself five years where either I put my name out there and got something back, or I'd wrap the whole thing up and continue to write short stories to myself about Malcolm on the Megabus.

In the early days, when I was first sussing out the scene, I often encountered writers who thought of themselves as tortured artists. No doubt about it, these people were a lot better at it than myself, but it always seemed such a shame to me when they talked about having no inspiration. No passion or desire to sit down and create something - they made it sound like such hard work. As if they were somehow being punished for being blessed with the gift. Or something.

I don't have a gift, but I'll be damned if that's going to stop me.

I write because it's fun. I amuse myself. But I do know I'm a long way away from being anywhere near a "good" writer. I realise it's a long process, and believe me, I'm working on it. I'd love for other people to enjoy my writing too, which is why I'm making an effort to put myself "out there" but hell, the day I sit down at a typewriter and bleed is the day I pack it in.

I don't mean that in the sense of meeting deadlines. I know they're difficult. I've had my days where I've considered balling it up and eating the script as opposed to re-drafting it. But it's a process I crave, and something I enjoy doing.

October has been a bit of an amazing month. I handed in my final dissertation and am going at full speed trying to get a completed novel written in the next six months. I've also had two opportunities to show my work in front of a live audience. The first was at a Scratch that Itch! NTW Event at Monkey, Swansea, and the other was actually today at theatre Na'nog, Neath. My fantastic month will then be topped off with a final performance being shown in Cardiff at Dirty Protest.

In rehearsal, I've often been warned not to tread on anyone's toes, and to remember that "you are the writer, so let the actors act, and the director direct."

I couldn't agree more.

That said, when you're working with such an amazing team, such as the people at Theatr Na'Nog today, it feels good handing something over and knowing that the end process is that the performance is going to be the best it possibly can be. It's not often I'm given the privilege to see people doing something they love, which also happens to be their job, and doing it really bloody well.

It was not a hard or ardous process. I didn't need to add anything, as everything I wanted to say was down on my script, and these individuals brought it to life in a way my solitary scratch marks on paper has never been able to...

And it's bloody brilliant, aye!

The best thing about live theatre, for me, is the immediate audience reaction. It's a feeling that leaves me buzzing for days, and ultimately craving more.

Now, when people ask me what I do, I leap at the chance to tell them I'm a BBC Production Trainee -- and not just because I don't have the option of 'student' to hide behind any more.

Often, people seem to think that because I've gone into production work, I'm suddenly no longer a writer, but that's not the case. I write because I have ideas. I have stories I want to share, and it doesn't matter how long I try to supress them, they find a way of getting out. Whether I'm scribbling whilst sat on the back of a motorbike, writing on receipts when I'm supposed to be tidying coat hangers in work, or trying to entertain myself on the Megabus.

I'm a story addict. Anyone's story. Yours, mine...I write because it's the most basic way accessible to me. With a pen and paper I can tell people about a whole different world!

But production brings it to life. And to me, that's a gift.

Not something I suffer or struggle against. Something I revel in. And a process I'm so proud to be a part of.

*Next Blog Update - 17th October, where I'll have started my first week training as a BBC Production Trainee in White City, London*

Quick Update

Hi everyone,

Thanks to all who are checking back regularly for updates.

September has been a month that has just blown me away - there have been lots of exciting goings on which have made it difficult to update, but now my dissertation is out the way (hoorah!) I'm hoping to bring out a new blog post every Wednesday, starting this week.

So once again, thank you to everyone for showing your continued support by checking the site. I have so much fantastic news to tell you all, I have a feeling this week's blog will be a long one! But over and out for now x

Why I love the Production Talent Pool

I woke up this morning, stumbled out of bed and tripped over a pair of shoes.

In the moments of transition from being vertical to a sudden horizontal, I questioned why the shoes were there in the first place. I hadn’t been slovenly and left them there, nor had I been brain-dead and forgotten where I stored them. They were a pair that I had picked up a few months ago and left in the living room with a note for my family to find.

Dear family unit,

As my birthday is fast approaching, I have purchased a pair of shoes that I would like.

If you’d like to take the shoes and leave the sum of money, I won’t know which of you have been thoughtful enough to buy them for me. I will get the shoes, and you will get the satisfaction of getting me the present I want and it still being a surprise. Win, win.

 

As predicted, the shoes were removed from their display, the money left in their place, and I had altogether forgotten about the incident -until they appeared this morning, underneath my feet. I didn’t need to question the matter for long, as it turned out they had been left with a note which was now stuck to my face.

 

Congratulations on getting the job :)

 

I was more baffled than when I face-planted the floor.

This week, there have been a few terrific success stories in my family–with my boyfriend starting his very first teaching job as an NQT and my sister being accepted on to the ACCA (the next stage of her mission to become a Chartered Accountant.) So why were we suddenly celebrating a job that I managed to get four months ago?

 

I went downstairs and found my generous sister, whose handwriting had been responsible for the note.

“Lauren, why have you given me my birthday shoes, two weeks before my birthday?”

“Didn’t you read the note?”

I nodded, “Yes, but what new job? I’ve been on the Production Talent Pool since June?”

            “Yes, but now you’ve done something better, haven’t you? Something with BBC4?”

            I fell silent for a moment as I began to piece together what she was saying.

            For those who don’t know, the Production Talent Pool is a Pool of 123 individuals across the UK who have been trained by the BBC. They are then offered a number of short-term contracts, usually with Runner or PMA based roles.

            While there is no guarantee of work, once your CV has been circulated to different Talent Managers, it’s likely that you will discover a number of different opportunites after being offered your first contract. The nature of the business is that people generally want to work with good people they’ve used before, so providing you work hard and create a lasting impressive, it’s likely you’ll get that highly desired call-back.

            The Production Talent Pool is also now the only route on to the Production Trainee Scheme, an intense eighteen month training scheme that will fast-track successful applicants into the world of Production. I’ve recently been fortunate enough to secure a place at interview for the scheme, which I recalled telling my sister about while she was watching television a few days ago.

            I thought about a similar conversation I had with her some time prior to this, where I told her about a short term contract I had managed to get with BBC4. She’d been doing her make-up at the time, ready for a night out.

            “Aren’t you going to London this month, too?” she said as she applied her lipgloss.

            I continued to tell her about the short film I was involved in (see previous Coffee-based blog!) and obviously hadn’t noticed her eyes glaze over as I told her about my numerous adventures.

"And the writing thing?"

"No, that's different," I said, "That's with the Sherman Theatre. They're performing one of my stage-plays as a rehearsed reading."

"In Swansea?" She asked.

"No, that's 'Scratch that Itch'' I tried to explain. 'That'll be a different piece being performed."

"The one about the hamster?"

"No, that's radio, for the PTPodcast..."

            “It’s a lot to keep up with,” she fluffed her hair in the mirror, and I paused for a moment.

            “Actually,”I said, grabbing my laptop “It’s a lot easier than you’d think, look at this new organiser I’ve just ordered!”

            I pointed neurotically at the screen. My sister smiled.

            “Lovely,”she said, obviously  not sharing my blatant love of all things stationary. I debated buying the matching expanding folder as she disappeared out the door in a whiff of perfume.

 

I guess for her, listening to my short snippets of conversation, and not really understanding the nature of what I’m doing at the moment, it was a pretty easy mistake for her to think that I’d secured a new job. It's been a busy month, but I've been having the time of my life. While I had celebrated the BBC4 contract in my own little way, I’m hoping there will be lots more coming my way in the near future.  I soon realised that my sister's recent enthusiasm had just been a series of relevant head nods and smiles. It left me with a few things to ponder.

Was she really going to buy me gifts every time I got a new contract?

And more importantly, how long can I keep this up for?

 

I looked back at my sister, whose attention had returned to the television.

            “Yep, that’s right.” I said, without correcting her.

            “I don’t really understand it all,” she sighed. “But what you’re doing is good, yeah?”

            I nodded and sneaked back upstairs with my shoes.

            I decided this is one blog I won't be forwarding on to my sister.

           

 The Production Talent Pool: the gift that just keeps on giving.

When is a Cup of Coffee ‘just a Cup of Coffee?’

“A cup of coffee is never a cup of coffee...”

                I was at the Spread the Word writers course in Neath, scribbling down what my tutor had just said. The lecture that day was on ‘coffee’ and I slurped down on my mug as a faithful student.

                “Interviews in this industry are very relaxed. It’s very unlikely you’d be called for an ‘interview’ as such. It’s far more common to be called in for a ‘chat’ or a ‘cup of coffee.’” He tapped his cup as he spoke. “So don’t be fooled; have your idea ready. If they ask you what you’re writing at the moment, don’t just pull an idea out of your ass.”

 The writers in the room suddenly flushed red. It seemed the gift of the gab was a common platform among my trade.

“But!” He stressed “if you don’t have an idea, definitely pull one out of your ass. Don’t sit there with nothing to say.”

                I looked up worriedly.  This suddenly seemed harder than physics.

 “What if they don’t ask you what you’re working on?” I asked, alarmed “What if it’s just a cup of coffee?”

“Then it’s just a cup of coffee.”

I blinked.

Then it’s just a cup of coffee... I scribbled. My mind flashed to Freud’s defence of his dream analysis theories to his critics. “Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”

It’s been roughly four weeks since I started my BBC Training for the 2012 Production Talent Pool and although I learnt a lot from my experience as a writer, I guess there really is something to be said of the knowledge gained through practical experience. It’s been a flurry of tax forms, learning how to write invoices, googling relevant freelance templates and handing out the majority of my ‘business cards’ to my friends while drunk.

There have also been a few trips back and forth to London where I’ve manoeuvred my way through the damn tube system (I hate the tube. I have an irrational fear that it will set on fire one day while I’m in there and now I’ve typed it to the world, it will surely happen).


I’ve also managed to catch the Megabus home, although it has been, every time without fail, a race to catch it from Victoria Tube Station to Victoria Bus Station. Although on the plus side, the run is definitely improving my fitness.  

The last trip I took, a few days ago, left me with a few hours free. I had my laptop in my bag and three pieces I’d been working on that morning which were ready to be looked at again.

The problem was I am an addict. I have a secret addiction I've been keeping from my friends and family. I just haven’t really come to terms with it yet. Every morning when I wake up, I promise myself today will be the day I give it up, then life hits me in the face with a baseball bat and I go running back to my old habits. 

I needed a fix, but London was such a big city I didn’t quite know where to start looking for one. I knew if I started walking, I’d probably find something sooner or later, but a little voice in my head had other ideas.


I was working with the theory that next time I was in London and I needed “something”, I might not be in Victoria Station. I could be anywhere. I needed something close to a tube station, so that no matter where I was in London, I could just hop on the tube and find it.

That’s what addiction is; blowing off deadlines and facing your ultimate (but ridiculous) fear of being burnt alive on a tube in order to find the most conveniently placed Starbucks to get a Grande Caramel Frappuccino.

So like any self respecting Welsh woman visiting London alone, I rode around on the tube, dodging through tunnels and getting on random lines in no particular order. I must have spent about forty minutes riding around, having great fun, before getting off at Bank. I didn’t know why I chose that destination, but I did. I was somehow drawn to it, and loe and behold, I got off the tube and there was the glowing green mermaid; beckoning me in on a wind of caffeine.

When it was eventually time to meet my contact, I swigged down the last of my coffee and whizzed back on the tube to my destination, where I spotted a carefully placed Costa. Naturally, I dipped in for a quick latte before she arrived.

I’d been working on a show as Production Assistant and had been invited up to see the practicalities of how the radio station worked. I met my new buddy for the day outside Borough Market, where her first words were something along the lines of “Shall we get a coffee?”

So we did. I got another latte, a decision I wondered if I’d regret later that night, probably somewhere around four in the morning. We chatted for an hour before the show about various different projects and ventures we were working on. Cheesy as it sounds, I genuinely love these kinds of little meetings, where I can talk to people about exciting and interesting projects, as well as telling them about my own things I’ve got going on. Often, in industries I’ve been in before, like the pub trade, the only conversations I’d have were from local alcoholics, stag do’s and pervs. Like I’ve said, many a time before, it really is great talking to exciting people who share the same interests.

That’s why I wasn’t too disappointed when the radio show got postponed unexpectedly by the station. It meant spending another hour or so talking with my contact, as well as a number of contributors from the show. The information I learned about how the other contributors had gotten to where they were today proved invaluable. Naturally, we headed back to Costa... I was starting to worry a little, as I’d already had a fair amount of coffee that day. Addict or not, I was pretty sure one more would probably tip me over the edge into caffeine induced sweats and heart palpitations. I couldn’t help but wonder; if the media is run on informal chats and cups of coffee, how does everybody actually cope with that much caffeine?

“I’ll have a green tea please,” said the producer. From there, it all seemed to click into place as I followed suit with my healthy, social beverage. She started chatting about a film she was planning on making in the next few months, and the concept of it really gripped me.

After an hour well spent, I raced back to the Megabus in Victoria Coach Station from Victoria Train Station – a distance I’m now managing to cover in three minutes, although I’m sure this number runs in direct correlation with the numbers of coffees I’ve drank that day.

I wiped the sweat from my brow as I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. It’s always good manners to text someone and say thank you for meeting them, regardless of whether you were taught it in a lecture or not.

“Hey Kelsey, how’d you like to get involved in this little film project?”

I was stunned.

Had I just had a cup of coffee, without realising it was a cup of coffee?

I texted back to say that I’d love to get involved and very soon had the script waiting in my inbox ready to get the ideas flowing. When I thought about it – although I’d spent a lot of time corresponding with this woman, face to face we’d only met briefly for about ten minutes before that day, and if you’re working with someone on a project you need to know whether you can stick all those hours filming with them. Sometimes perhaps someone might have an idea of you and how you work in mind already; it just takes a few minutes over a cup of coffee to confirm (or contradict) this.

For now at least, I guess the caffeine kick will have to wait.

My first Day as a Runner

I felt incredibly British last Friday.

It was the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games held in London, and I was a runner.

You can wipe the sweat from your brows – those last two facts weren’t linked, I won’t be losing any races for us Brits.

No, I was feeling incredibly British yesterday because I was standing in a queue waiting for a cup of tea.

It was fairly early and I hadn’t had a great deal of sleep from the night before. It was my first runner job and I was unsure what to expect. I don’t have a media degree or any real practical work experience and practically begged the lady on the phone to give me the job. I think she must have heard the desperation in my voice because thankfully she decided to give me a chance. I was grateful, but nervous. I’d never done anything like this before and television is a notoriously difficult business to break in to. Camera equipment is expensive, and I am a bumbling idiot.

I needed to get prepared. I printed off my Runner’s Checklist from The Unit List and began to pack my bag. My mother looked shocked at the sight.

“Are you going on a Duke of Edinburgh walk?” she enquired curiously as I double bagged its innards with waterproof sacks, trying to prepare for every eventuality. I’ve been involved in the award since I was thirteen, so it was an easy mistake to make - especially since I was there struggling to fit a blowtorch and ice pick in my rucksack.

“No mother, I am going to be a runner. Do you have any black tape? “

She shook her head and wandered away, leaving me black-tapeless and alone with my gigantic wares. My boyfriend tried to console me saying it didn’t matter, they wouldn’t need black tape; we were filming inside a hospital, it would be far more beneficial to me to just get a good night’s sleep. So I lay there drifting in an out of my nightmares; running after celebrities on sticky black tape floors next to a river of coffee...

*

“Hi, I’m Kelsey. I’ll be your runner for the day!” I tried to sound chipper, without being sickly sweet.

“Hi Kelsey, runner of the day –do you have any black tape on you by any chance?”

My heart sank. That was it; my big opportunity. Blown.

“No bother, would you mind popping across and grabbing us a cup of tea?”

It was a task I could do – I immediately flipped my notebook out of my bum-bag (Re: later awkward conversation I would have with the team ‘Do you call it a bum-bag or a fanny-pack?’ ‘I call it a bum-bag. I think the American’s that call it a fanny-pack, and today I am being overly British, because of the Olympics.’’ “Oh... that’s nice. You don’t see many people in bum-bags anymore...”)

“Shall I get an order in, what does everyone want?” I had five pens in my hand, all different colours - just in case the order got confusing and I’d need to colour code it.

“Just a cup of tea please, does anyone else want a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes, I’d love a cup of tea!”

“Yes, cup of tea for me as well please!”

I stood there panicking about the overly uncomplicated order. “Milk semi, skimmed or full? Any particular brand of sugar? No lattes? No syrups? What about sandwiches? And bacon rolls?”

“Oh, three bacon rolls would be lovely, thank you!”

I shot into the lift and punched the ground floor button. I looked at my blank looking sheet of paper. Three cups of tea, as they come. Three bacon rolls. I can do this...

 I thought of my last ever shift as a waitress last week. I was used to complicated orders; people screaming in my face; getting burnt by sizzling pans and hiding out the back whimpering while my table tried to get discounts for their meals by complaining to my boss. Sometimes I’d wonder why I did it. Why did I endure such awful behaviour from some members of the general public?  Waiting might be about as thankless a job as they come – but it did give me the experience I needed to remember orders and prioritise tasks.

I stood at the coffee stand about to give my order. I still wasn’t sure why I’d stuck my previous job out so long when I disliked it so much. It was nice to be the other side of the counter for a change. I looked at the barista; he was roughly about fifteen, a few teenage spots freckling his features, work hat jutting awkwardly as if it might fall off and sweat starting to form on his head. There was a woman shouting at him.

“I want my baguette!” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I-I-know...” stuttered the poor boy, confirming he was aware of this. “You said you wanted it heated-“

“I want to eat it!” She bellowed. The boy’s hat quivered. “Now!”

The boy flung into action and ran toward the bread oven where her sandwich was being toasted. He uttered a string of apologetic woes that fell on deaf ears as the woman scowled and walked off.

I couldn’t believe her attitude. It was the same sense of stunned disbelief I felt towards customers who had shouted at me in the past – people who seemed to forget that the folks serving their beverages aren’t merely functions. They’re people. The kid could be working towards a degree in aerospace engineering for all we knew – or not. It didn’t matter, he’s still a person.

 I wondered whether I should say anything to the woman to make her realise how she had treated the boy, but figured it would make little difference to her. Instead I settled by rolling my eyes and sharing a knowing smile at the boy as I gave my order. As I thanked him, I threw a little something in the tip jar next to him to try to make up for the awful woman’s attitude, knowing it would lift his spirits at the end of the shift.

Perhaps that’s why we stick it out? Why we brave the fire-breathing dragons; for an extra quid at the end of the night.

Maybe it’s so we can develop our suit of armour.

A reminder of the rich variety of people we meet in this life.

Either way, it didn’t prepare me for my first day as a runner, where I would be involved in a project with cancer patients.

I’ve got a pretty bad confession to make here. A few years ago I travelled to India where I was given the opportunity to work with a number of NGO’s. I feel really awful saying this but when we were given the list of possible choices we could volunteer to help at, I put down every other possible option other than speaking to the cancer patients. I simply didn’t know how people could do it. When the list of names were called out determining where we would complete our placements, the only thing that went through my mind was Please, not the cancer patients. Please, not the cancer patients...

I’ve never admitted that to any one before and I have no explanation as to why I thought that way, other than, I simply didn’t know what I could say to them. How could I talk to these people? I couldn’t make it go away. I was scared of it, of the people, the illness. It was the big C word.

I was terrified, and I’m ashamed of myself.

A little while later when a friend of mine developed cancer, I didn’t know what to say to him either. I didn’t know how to act, what to ask. So he took the lead. Surprisingly of all the things, he asked how my blog was. He said he didn’t really get out of the house much anymore and he’d been enjoying reading it. He’d gone through every single post I’d ever written, and wondered why I hadn’t updated it in so long.

 I couldn’t quite believe it.

I realised then that although things were different, we were still the same people. He didn’t want to talk about the cancer; he wanted to talk about normal, every-day life. So we did. It turned out I’d been pretty busy, so we had a lot to talk about.

My friend did eventually lose the battle with cancer. It took me a few days for me to realise that I hadn’t actually updated the blog since the very first time he asked me – even though he asked me about it every time we had met since. It was something very small, but I felt very sad about that, for a long, long time afterwards.

That’s when I decided that I would actually keep to a blog, whatever criticism I may encounter. Even though I go through phases of how frequent I update the blog, I do write them, even if I don’t publish them. I’m not pretentious about the influence or the content of these blogs, but you never know who’s reading, and I guess I have the belief now that for some, even if it’s only for a brief moment, me talking about my crappy days are, for some, escapism from their own. It’s an opportunity for us all to laugh about it together.

When I greeted the first man on the production, I didn’t know for certain whether or not he had cancer. I found myself looking at him, and saying to myself, He doesn’t look like he has cancer... the man was tanned, well built, and well dressed. But what exactly does a cancer patient look like?

I found myself being engulfed by these people’s incredible stories. I’m unsure how much I’m allowed to say about different productions I work on, so I’ll move on very quickly, but suffice to say I am very, very much looking forward to seeing the finished product of this documentary. I learnt a lot about myself that day and I guess I finally conquered my own small fight with the C-word, and hopefully, I can lay it to rest for now.

I came away thinking about how my first day had gone. I’ve heard the phrase “glorified tea-girl!” being thrown around when people talk about runners, and I’ve been warned not to turn my nose up at the prospect of being asked to make a cup of tea, which always surprised me, but perhaps that’s because I’d been used to getting the orders in after all these years.

All the same, I’d just like to set the record straight and say to anyone who is generous enough to tell me their story – my kettle is always on.

Whatever my profession.

And to Matthew, if you’re still reading buddy – thank you. You were the push I needed to get this thing rolling.

Power Walking through London Town

“Do you play a lot of sports?”

It was my first time at the BBC London Building. It was a pretty big deal for me, as I don’t often travel to the big smoke from my little town in South Wales. I spent a large percentage of my day searching for a green and yellow train on the Circle and District line, which disappointingly never came. All around me there seemed to be tutts and moans about the Olympics, and everywhere I looked there seemed to be a logo, a graphic, or catch-phrase that related to the games in some shape or form. It didn’t particularly bother me. I wasn’t in any way interested in sports.

This was the first time anyone had mistaken me for someone who was.

I suppressed a laugh.

“No, I don’t engage in any form of sporting activity...”

But that wasn’t strictly true.

Anyone who’s read my previous posts might recall that mine wasn’t a very conventional school (although it did have the best math teacher in the world.) I never had a detention during my five years, but that wasn’t because I followed the rules.

It was because I knew how to bend them.

For the small minority of the class who didn’t wish to partake in gym class, myself included, it was standard practise to forget your gym kit in order to be excused from the class. It wasn’t a sadist school; you didn’t have to run around in your knickers and make a mockery of yourself in order to deter other potential skivers. It was a sports competitive school and I suppose, to some extent, it merely made it easier to weed out the weaker players that might lose the game for those who took it seriously. Anyone who forgot their kit was given a standard detention and the whole thing was forgotten about until next week, where the process would repeat.

I was frequently among those sitting on the grass during gym class, but I wasn’t playing tennis. I spent my early teenage years well and truly addicted to Meg Cabot’s The Princess Diaries series and am adamant to this day that it was time well spent.

The first time I forgot my gym kit was a genuine mistake. There were a few gobby girls in my class who thought the teacher was going to come down hard on me, and indeed encouraged the act like some strange public hanging spectacle. I saw the teacher struggling to control the gaggle of blood thirsty girls and was ready to deal with my punishment. I was quite happy to spend my lunchtimes reading my book inside a quiet office, as opposed to a noisy canteen. I saw the teacher’s eyes rest on my book as I stood there apologetically.

“Can you tell me what lethargic means?” she asked. For a moment, my cheeky little twelve year old brain started to wonder what they paid these gym teachers for as I explained the meaning of the word to her and the rest of the uninterested class.

“You can go sit on the grass and get on with your reading.”

We were stunned.

“Oi, miss! Tha’s not fair!” mouthed a hairspray clad tangerine between mouths of chewing gum.

“Can you tell me what ambient means?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. The girl fell silent.

“I think it’s important to improve your knowledge of words.” the teacher said. “It’s how you communicate with the world. “

My eyes lit up: I couldn’t have agreed more. “Miss?” I asked, carefully treading the line of a child who had forgotten her gym kit and got off the hook but who was still trying to have a sense of humour about it, “Do you know what facetious means?”

The teacher looked at me with an expression that said she’d heard of the word, but didn’t fully know the meaning of it. “I’ll find out by next week.”

Each week my gym teacher and I played our word game. I grew up to become an adult who ran an abnormally high risk of heart disease, but a rather good scrabble player.

And so it became, from that day onwards, the only sport I would take part in for the rest of my life would be running after busses. School busses, holiday busses, Megabusses...

In some freak form of karma, my body later decided to rebel against itself and I developed the skin condition chronic urticaria and angiodema. If you don’t want to google it, I’ll summarise.

If get too hot I explode.

Or something like that. Sadly it’s a condition that is little known and the Megabus, with its broken air-con system, was no exception. It’s for that reason that I usually always have some type of mobile fan system with me, for occasions like today where I’m left sweating to death in unseasonably hot conditions. Worse still is when you are sweating to death in near desert like conditions when you discover the batteries for your portable mini fan have run out.

Cue my sole mission for the rest of the day to find batteries in London, and I do love London. It’s a city where you can blend in; become part of the crowd. People get a coffees alone. They don’t talk on tubes. They don’t run through tube stations. They don’t stand on the left hand side of the escalator, and if they want batteries, they need to bloody well need to search for them.

It very soon became my catch phrase. “I need to find batteries...”

The girl I was travelling with gave me a strange look, but mercifully joined my on my quest to find a shop that sold batteries so that I could save myself from developing elephant like features while around members of the general public.

We found them just before we sat in the coolest, darkest pub we could find, and where I remained waiting with the rest of the Production Talent Pool until the networking event we’d been invited to started, where we could meet Talent Managers and talk about potential work projects and contracts.

It turned out I didn’t the batteries after all. I bitterly disposed of them inside my handbag. I looked around the room at all the other people talking and contemplated jumping out of the fourth floor window. If there was a Networking class at school, I must have been hiding in the toilets because I suck at it. In the most obvious of ways; I find myself word vomiting the most inappropriate information.

“Hi, I’m Fat Bradley. In twenty years time my GP will announce I’m at serious risk of Type Two diabetes, nice to meet you!”

“Hi. I need batteries...”

 

I didn’t quite know how to sell myself yet, but I decided not to let that spoil what had turned out to be a pretty exciting day for me. I decided that rather than go hunting for contacts and contracts, I’d use the time to get to know people on the Pool. Everyone I spoke to seemed to come from a totally different kind of background, everyone had an interesting story to tell. I poured myself a glass of wine and got networking.

Strangely enough, lots of people seemed to pick up quite quickly that I was from Cardiff (which I’m attributing to my exceptional good looks, which can only derive from the secluded/inbred Welsh Valleys.)

“Are you from Cardiff?”

I nodded. “What gave me away?”

“You sound like Gavin and Stacey!”

Ah. I sound like Gavin and Stacey, which technically was incorrect. I didn’t sound like Gavin, only Stacey, and if we’re being honest, I sound more like Nessa, which I had already been told earlier on in the day on my battery quest.

“Fat_ Bradley, you’ve got to stop saying you need batteries out loud...” announced my exasperated travel companion as we trawled the highstreet. I shot her a queried glance. “Have you ever seen that scene from Gavin and Stacey? Where Nessa says ‘Oh, Gwen, I need batteries...”

The scene registered in my mind.

“Go on...”

“Well, that’s all you’ve said all day! I just keep seeing the scene over and over – ‘It’s alright, Gwen. Turns out I didn’t need them in the end...”and she’s standing there with her hair all over the place!”

“Are you insinuating that I---“

*

“Do you like Gavin and Stacey down in Wales?” The girl asked back at the talent pool meeting, “Or is it like, cringe because everyone talks about it?”

For what it’s worth, I do like Gavin and Stacey, and I’m very glad to have the Welsh accent branching out more on television. I’m also extremely proud of the Roath Lock Studios in Cardiff, and the fact that there is so much great British television currently being made in Wales.

I began my lecture, and very soon, realised I was going to be late for my bus.

Despite giving myself fifty minutes to navigate my way back to Victoria Station, I took a wrong turning rather early on which left me travelling in the opposite direction to the tube station, adding twenty minutes to my journey.

I had half an hour to make it from White City to Victoria Coach Station, still vouching on a mythical green and yellow train to take me there.

As the clock began to tick, I felt myself start to sweat.

It’ll be fine, you won’t miss the bus... you never miss the bus... things like this never happen to you...

Suddenly, I was fifteen again and all the language trivia in the world wasn’t going to save me from an hour wait in Victoria Coach station with a dead phone battery. Slowly but surely, I stepped from the tube station and moved towards the escalator. People were noticing me. I was shifting from my anonymous safety net and quickly becoming visible again. I stood on the left side of the escalator and began my final mission.

When I reached the top of the stairs I couldn’t breathe. I looked around. I had no idea where I was going.

I looked at my watch, 21.56. I looked across at a poster of a woman with bulging leg muscles in a pair of tiny pants sprinting, the Olympic logo printed on the inner corner. I took in a deep breath of air.

Then I ran.

I ran until my legs were jelly. I ran until I couldn’t speak to ask for directions. I ran because there was a strange man on a bike following me and shouting in strange accent that he was going to take me home.

I ran to the Megabus, and I made it.

Before the last of my phone battery died, a message flashed up. “So was it good, or was it a wasted day?”

I thought about it as I searched for an empty seat of the bus where I could curl up and die with dignity (and lumpy skin) in my own privacy. I’d discovered there was no green and yellow tube train. I came away with some interesting tips for marketing my novel towards the publishing industry, and I’d had some extremely exciting news about getting more involved in Group Therapy FM.

I sat there, sweating, and looked at my watch.

True to form as I looked out of the window there was an Olympic logo winking at me.

21.59. I made the bus.  “Nope. Definitely not a wasted day.” I replied.

I sat there, red faced and sweaty, with my hair a crazy mess and a smile on my face. I reached into my handbag.  

Turns out I did need those batteries after all.