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.

All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.

"All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream." - Edgar Allan Poe

I'm probably one of the few people who hasn't watched every episode of Friends.

It's not that I'm not a fan of the show - far from it.

I actually have this weird thing with television shows that I love. I tend to think that if I don't watch every episode, the programme hasn't really finished. It took me five years to actually watch the last episode of Sex and the City - and believe me, I wouldn't have even watched it then were the film not shortly being released.

When I was a kid I actually said, on numerous occasions, that if I could do anything when I grew up I'd write episodes of Friends.

I asked my mother if that was a real job and how I could go about doing it. She said it was indeed, a real job, but she wasn't sure how to go about doing it. When I asked around, people said that television was too competitive and that I'd be better off just doing an English degree and getting something realistic. (For those of you who actually have an English degree, please list your subsequent job in the comments box below. I'd be interested to find out what you did with it.)

I stopped saying that I wanted to write for Friends after speaking to my careers advisor. I am fully, fully aware that I wasn't advised very well, which is why I'm writing this blog, but whenever I asked anyone what I can do with an English degree, the only answer I ever got was "how about teaching?"

I'd mention other things I wanted to do and for nearly every single job I wanted there was someone telling me to steer clear because the job market was too competitive.

And like an idiot, I listened to them.

In the end, I chose to do a joint honours in English Literature and Psychology. It was an attempt at keeping my options open, thinking maybe I could go into clinical, or educational psychology. It turned out the answer was exactly the same. Every way I looked there was someone telling me to settle for something less than what I really wanted, to get an easy life, an easy job (Ha! As if such a thing exists!) just to save the hassle of encountering competition, because there's always some one out there that's better than me.

No one actually told me that most things in life are competitive.

Although I finished my psychology degree nearly a year ago now I'm still very much intersted in the subject, and dream studies in particular. This last week I've actually been a participant in a psycholgoy study where I've had to document my day in 3 sections -

• 5 Main Points of the Structure of my Day
• 5 Things that I've found Personally Significant
• 5 Major Concerns

I completed the diary every night before bed for two weeks, then I'd document the dreams I had that night.

The first disheartening thing after reading back my fortnight day journal was how mind numbingly boring my day might seem to someone reading it.

• Wake up, avoid the gym.
• Have coffee, scold myself, vow to cut back the next day.
• Eat cake, scold myself, vow to cut back the next day.
• Avoid dissertation.
• Watch television until I fall asleep.

And repeat.

No wonder everyone was telling me to steer clear of exciting job. Why would anyone want to take on someone like me?

There was some differentiation on a few days. I started my BBC training for 3 days of those two weeks.I've also been fortunate enough to be offered the opportunity to try my hand as a production assistant for a seven week radio programme, Group Therapy FM, and both have been literally amazing experiences.

When it came to recording my dreams, I couldn't help but think of the person who would be reading them after I returned them to be analysed.

I couldn't help but ask, just as I would for an interview - what does this person want from me?

Dream of flying? Of being a big movie star? A model, actresses? My deepest, darkest thoughts as an extension of my inner wants, needs and psyche?

"The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened." James Arthur Baldwin"

I couldn't believe it. It turns out, when I actually sit down and document my dreams - I'm doing exactly what I'm doing in the day.

That night I'd re-done my BBC training in my sleep. I had nightmares about the gym where I was chased by oversized pieces of Sara-Lee. I transcribed radio documents long into the night, well after I'd switched off my computer.

I was worried about being boring and having to justify myself to a researcher because I'd go to bed every night and do the same thing as the day before. I couldn't help but wonder how was I going to be able to pave my way in a competitive job market when I was a living, breathing example of someone who was...

And then it dawned on me.

After all the ridiculous advice I've had, from people who have tried to put me off doing what I want to do in life, and others who have been plain rude about offering people help and expertise...

Hey - I'm actually living my dreams!

In some warped, twisted way at least. I took a long hard look at my dream diary, and couldn't help but ponder my life in general.

Some days, it can be all too easy to measure your life in negatives. The number of your scales. The cups of coffee you drank that day, the deadlines waiting on your desk. The people who try to put you down with back handed compliments. I know I'm not quite there yet, and I have a long, long way to go before I reach any of my true goals, but that that day, as I emailed off my fortnight to a stranger in a lab, I put on a new episode of Friends, poured myself a cup of coffee and helped myself to a really big slice of cake, and couldn't help but think to myself -

Things really ain't that bad.

So go out. Do what you want to do. Don't let anyone stand in your way, and if someone's advice plain sucks, go out. Get your own second opinion, based on your own experience.

And to all the people who say you can't have your cake and eat it too,

I say why not?

The Killer Pitch

I've just tried googling why they call it 'The Killer Pitch.'

I couldn't find the answer, but from personal experience, I'd say it's because it usually goes one of two ways;

You either knock em dead, or fall dead on your arse trying.

I'm quite ashamed to say this, but when I was at school I spent most of my time trying to rationalise my way out of maths lessons. I wrote blogs. Diary entries. Open letters to my maths teacher, detailing what a lost cause I was, and how much more enriched my life would be if I were simply excused from class. For the rest of my life.

The funny thing is, it worked.

By some fluke of luck, I happened to land upon (in my opinion) the best maths teacher in the world. One day I walked into the class, generically whinging about how nothing in that lesson was going to help me in the real world, and like some weird film scenario, my Maths Teacher turned to me and said "You have three minutes to tell me why I should let you leave the class. Go."

The first time it happened, I was shocked. Should I fake a dentist appointment? Feign a headache, and list all the reasons my homework would be completed faster if he sent me home to watch films and eat pop-tarts? But something about that option didn't feel quite right.

He knew that whatever I was going to tell him was going to be made up on the spot. 

A product of opportunity.

I knew it was a once in a lifetime chance that I was unlikely to ever get again. He wasn't interested in plagiarised sick notes and leg injuries. He, too, was fed up of algebra. He wanted escapism. A good story.

And hell did I give him one.

I walked into that lesson convinced I was never going to learn anything from it, yet I came away from it with two pieces of knowledge that, as a writer, I use to my advantage nearly every day of my life.

1) Never let an opportunity pass you by.

2) Know your audience.

When they've given you that opportunity, don't disappoint them with a rubbish story.

At University, I decided I pretty much never wanted to do maths again. When it came to my master's degree in Creative Writing, I spent some time learning about pitches; the right way to do it; the wrong way to do it. I recall one great lesson where we all sat around pretending to be the BBC, throwing potential pitch ideas around the room at each other.

I didn't know it at the time, but three months later, I would be at the BBC - pitching for real, but this time, there was no safety net to catch me.

From those University lessons, I added to my little list of personal tips.

3) Make a plan. Know your story.

I heard wonderful horror stories from my lecturer about people trapped in lifts with Producers for three minutes and having nothing to say. He advised there and then to always have a pitch handy, and as a writer, I feel like I'm pitching all the time. Selling myself, my stories, and tailoring each one to a new audience. Having confidence in yourself and your ideas isn’t easy , especially when you find yourself against stiff competition, so there’s something I always try to keep in mind.

4) This is your story. Make sure you're the best one to tell it.

When the day arrived for my Production Talent Pool interview I didn't entirely know what the day would entail. I didn't realise it at first, but I was given three opportunities to pitch that day.

The first time, I was with a group of people given a brief of TV timeslot, the target audience and time to make some notes. As this was a collaborative exercise, I found it was easier to get a pitch together from the wealth of ideas bouncing around the table - which eased the pressure a little.

The second time, I was given a brief of a radio programme where I had to come up with a Killer Question and  choose the backbone of the content for the show. Nothing too difficult there.

The third time was the unexpected pitch. The one I didn't plan for. I was in my personal interview, ready with my Writer's CV of all my accomplishments; the succinct bullet points full of cleverly thought out quips, designed to stun and amaze.

Then came the question. "Why are you the best candidate for the job?" I smiled politely, clearing my throat and nudging my paper in the direction of the interviewer.

"Well, as you can see here...I've--"

"I'm not interested in your CV," smiled the interviewer. "I want you to tell me, why you're the best person to do this job."

I was trapped in a lift, with nothing to say.

Mentally, I added to my list of pitch tips there and then on the spot.

4) Learn about pitches. Never be without one. Be prepared. Then throw it all out the window.

My mind flashed to a Carrie Bradshaw Quote I'm rather fond of. "Five minutes of Bodice-ripping material out the window. So I did what any writer would do. I pulled an idea out my ass."

I left my interview feeling shocked, stunned but in all, feeling pretty damn good. I'd spent the day talking about programme ideas that I wanted to hear. That I wanted to make. That I, personally wanted to watch. I did something that no other job had let me do.

I got excited about it.

I spoke to other people who also wanted to get excited about it. It was a good feeling. They didn't ask me about my weaknesses (algebra), what I ate for breakfast, or any other ridiculous interview questions I often come across that are just there to tick a box.

They wanted to know what I was good at. And I was the only person who could tell them.

I only had two options. I was either going to knock em dead, or die on my arse trying.

And so I did it.

All in three, succinct minutes.

First Day at BBC Production Talent Pool Training

I like gold trousers.

There – I said it. I like gold trousers, and when I say gold, I don’t just mean shiny pants. I mean, these things are the kind of gold that when you walk, sparkles fly out your ass.

Except, that’s not what happens when I wear gold trousers.

Somewhere along the way, I bought into the belief that skinny trousers look good on chunky thighs. Saying it now, outright, I realise the glaring error of my ways, and wonder how I’ve never really thought this decision through before.

I guess that’s because I’ve never really given much thought to my thunder-thighs. As the years passed by and I stopped growing upwards, but my legs continued their epic journey outwards, I decided to simply ignore mirrors. Perhaps that was the problem.

I didn’t try on the trousers. It was an impulse buy. One of those – I have wanted these for too long to turn back now, onwards to the cash-desk! – buys, that, like others preceding it, was doomed to failure from the start.

At home, I emerged from my bedroom to my own personal catwalk – the celebrity front row consisting of my mother, my boyfriend and my cat. There was a hushed silence as I pranced down the runway (stairway corridor) displaying my glorious gold trousers for all to see. I stopped and posed, waiting for the cameras to flash, the model deals to rush in, the autographs and pictures I’d politely giggle away – “Oh no! Thank you! You’re all too kind! But I am no model; I am but a mere writer, albeit in fabulous, fabulous trousers...”

But something very different happened. My mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat. My boyfriend coughed. The cat blinked; a fur-ball lodged in its throat. It was a wake up call. I was certainly no D&G model.

 I had become the elephant in the room.

And it was wearing gold trousers.

I looked in the mirror, at the end of my makeshift runway, at my thighs. It was the first time in years. Suddenly, I felt flushed. It turns out, something else happens when you wear tight, shiny jeans when your legs are a little larger than life.

You squeak when you walk.

It’s for moments like this that led to the decision to go quiet on this blog while I applied for a position on the BBC Production Talent Pool, a process which, quite frankly, terrified me. What if they read my blog and decided, quite rightfully, that I was some kind of moron? An idiot? A frumpy twenty-something with a taste for ridiculous trousers?

There were over 2800 applicants this year, and with each passing round, the blogs got fewer and more conserved, terrified of opening my big, cake scoffing mouth. Social media is a tricky one. Personally, I believe it opens doors, creates links, gives immediate feedback, and bridges you with people you may never have had the opportunity to speak to in real life. It connects the people, unites the weak, and creates leverage for professional stalking... 

But for every great, witty tweet, there’s that drunken one that can ruin your life – and this blog is a lot longer than 140 characters.

So I set up camp. I watched from afar and posted only what I considered ‘safe’ material.

After finally receiving the congratulatory email, yesterday was my first day of BBC training. Sitting in reception I noticed a woman walk past me in a pair of wide-legged, fluorescent pink trousers. I looked down at my own bland pair of skinny blue jeans and felt a pang of envy.

We were directed to the hospitality suite where we were to receive our initial training using a number of different programmes on the intranet. As someone who’s spent a lot of life hours poring over web-pages searching for travel information and vetting hotels, I was thoroughly delighted to discover how organised the systems were, and how user-friendly they appeared to be – a phrase I am sure will be put to the test at some point.

When it came to the topic of social media, I waited with baited breath for the imminent closure of my blog. It was an issue which was discussed at length. Although there are lots of rules and regulations, as I have found with nearly every organisation, it turns out; no one here really wants to silence me.

It was a humbling, yet reassuring moment. For the first time in my life I was surrounded by a group of like minded people, who didn’t really care what colour my trousers were.

So to all my regular followers and a big thumbs-up to all my new ones – here’s to the next part of my adventures. Keep your eyes peeled for my sparkly gold bum poking around on set, it’ll be squeaking away with the best of them.

(These views are all my own, and not that of the BBC. I haven't asked them their thoughts on gold sparkly trousers. Yet.)

Yard Games - Short Story

Yard Games

The name of the hamster, Sir? Yes, I remember the name of the hamster, Sir. It was Carrot.

            I named it.

Why did I name it, Sir? Well, Miss Summers, the Sunday School teacher, she asked me to. She said it needed a name.

Oh, you mean why did she ask me to name it, Sir? I guess I’m not so sure, you’d have to ask Miss Summers. You’re asking me? Well, I’d have to think.  I certainly took a liking to it, Sir. I liked it very much. You see, I’d never had a pet before...

You want to know the name of the boys? But you know the name of the boys? Alright then... the boys were called Jeremy and Fred. I suppose there were other boys there too, Benjamin, but he said he’d grown too old for Sunday school, said it was for kids. He just liked to draw funny women on the desks. He said Jesus Christ a lot too, because he said it was allowed, said it was Jesus’ name, and so it wasn’t a swear.

You want to know more about the boys, Sir?

Did I like Fred, Sir?

Why I certainly did. Fred was about the most popular boy in class, I’d say. He could catch, throw and kick a ball – further than anyone else in the class. He didn’t speak much, and I don’t think he’s very good at reading or anything, but that didn’t seem to stop people following him. I followed him. Yes sir, I liked  Fred.

Jeremy, sir? I don’t really know what to say about Jeremy, Sir. You know what he looks like – scrawny, pale, glasses... like he doesn’t go out in the sun very much. Very different to Fred; he looked like he was out in the sun all the time, kicking a ball or chasing rabbits through the grass.  Jeremy was definitely smarter than Fred though, I used to see him read a lot. He used big words in class, like when Miss Summers would talk about sinning and stuff. Jeremy would say that people have no consciousness of sin, and Miss Summers would tell him to be quiet. She said that people knew when they were being bad, and that they were lying if they said they didn’t. That’s what happened that day of the argument, Jeremy was arguing with Miss Summers, so she told us to pack up our things and go outside. She said had to do something. I don’t know where she went, Sir.

Fred stood up and asked Jeremy why he was trying to make Miss Summers cry. I think Fred liked Miss Summers. Most of the class did; she was a pretty lady. Jeremy just laughed and told Fred he was going soft. Fred looked annoyed and started kicking up dirt. That’s when he found the woodlice.

Jeremy had been talking about something to a group of boys sitting around him. I was there, but I wasn’t really listening. He’d said something about aliens, and that we’d sound stupid trying to explain to an alien that on Earth, something that defied all reasoning was considered to be the highest truth. I didn’t know what he was talking about - so my mind wandered, and my eyes noticed that people were slowly trickling away from Jeremy’s sermon and were drifting over to Fred and his dirt pile.

“I’m going to drown them,” Fred explained to the group, and he started unscrewing the lid of his water bottle. I looked down at the cracked soil at the handful of woodlice. Jeremy looked over at the sound of Fred’s voice and abandoned his remaining small flock to observe the show.

“That won’t work,” he scoffed. “The ground’s too dry. It’ll just pour straight through.” I looked at Fred to see if he had understood. I hadn’t, Sir. I never really knew what Jeremy was talking about, but a funny thing happened when Fred poured the water on the ground.

It disappeared.

Fred said they were the woodlice of God, and they were performing miracles. That’s when Jeremy said we should start playing a game, and we could all be people from the Bible, and the woodlice could be Jesus’ disciples. Fred pinched Jeremy on the arm and said “I bet you want to be Jesus then,” and pushed him. Jeremy stumbled a bit and looked as if he might have liked to kick Fred, but that would have been silly. Fred’s a lot bigger than Jeremy.

Jeremy said that it was fine for Fred to be Jesus, and everyone looked surprised. Then Jeremy started naming the other boys, and a fight broke out when he said the twins would have to be prostitutes. They said they didn’t want to be girls, so Jeremy said it was ok for men to be prostitutes too, and so the twins nodded and carried on with the game.

What name did they give me, Sir? Abraham. They said I was Abraham.

When Jeremy was done giving everyone their parts, Fred asked Jeremy who he was going to be. Jeremy said that he’d be whoever Fred wanted him to be, and so Fred tried to think of a name.  “You can be Mary!” he declared, and the crowd laughed, but Jeremy said there couldn’t be any more boys playing girl parts, so Fred tried to think harder of names from the Bible. There were none left that he could think of. Jeremy smiled.

He said that he would have to play God.

Fred tried to protest, but without knowing any other names he was stumped. Jeremy said he needed a sacrifice, and Fred quickly forgot all about Jeremy trumping his status.

“The woodlice!” Fred cheered excitedly, and prepared for the massacre.

“No!” said Jeremy solemnly. “God does not want woodlice, they are no sacrifice. I want something bigger!” he jeered.

The group quickly scattered, and went in search of objects from the church yard to please their God. When everyone was done, they dumped their twigs, sticks and oddly shaped stones in front of Jeremy. None were good enough. Some boys started emptying their pockets, and a few placed conkers, elastic bands or chewing gums in front of him. He shook his head.

I wandered back in the class to speak to Carrot because he was on his own,  so I decided to take  him outside to join in the quest being as Miss Summers wasn’t around. When Jeremy spotted me, his eyes widened and his arms both shot up in the air.

“Yes! A worthy sacrifice!”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. I quickly put Carrot in my pocket and tried to walk around him to try and get to the other side of the yard, but Jeremy put his arm out to block my way.

“The hamster must die!” He screamed, and the other boys began to cheer. They started to chant alongside him, “The hamster must die!” and pushed me into the middle of a circle in front of Jeremy. They pushed me to the floor and someone handed me a stone.  

“I don’t want to...” I mumbled, trying to keep Carrot in my hands without him running away. He must have known what I was going to do.

“Insolent minion!” Jeremy bellowed in my ear. “What is your name?”

“You know my name...” I babbled.

“Not that name,” he hissed. “What is your playing name?”

“Abraham,” I mumbled, and he smiled. He took a step back and looked at me.

“Ah, Abraham.” He sneered, rubbing his palms together. “Abraham, you must sacrifice your child for me.”

“I don’t have a—“

“The hamster!”  He screamed.

I didn’t know what to do, Sir. He said that I had to, that he was God, and I was Abraham, and Carrot was my son. He said that I had to do what he said, because that’s what happened in the Bible. So I held Carrot down with my palm, and with my other hand I lifted the stone.

That’s when Miss Summer’s broke into the circle, Sir. She probably thought there was a fight, Sir, because of the circle around me. I’ve never seen her look more shocked, Sir. Or angry.

But I didn’t kill it, Sir. Miss Summer’s – she broke into the circle, Sir...

You know that, Sir? Well, why do you want me to tell you what happened again?

Was I going to kill the hamster?

Did I know what I was doing?

Why was I doing it?

He told me to, Sir!

God told me to.