White Lies and Green Screens

Sometimes you have to lie.

I mean, not all the time. And not about big things. But socially.

Sometimes.

It’s just easier. Or politer.

Or sometimes even god damn essential.

It’s a bit like watching green-screen. You know that what you’re seeing isn’t actually happening, it was all super imposed in some studio somewhere, but for the purposes of what you’re watching, it just helps to further the story along quicker if you see a man flying through the air on a dragon than explaining exactly how he got to Mordor. 

It’s the same with lying.

“Kelsey, did you borrow my dress/eat the last cookie/ accidentally drive over my motor-bike?”

I’m not going to return the dress (if it suits me) and confessing to my crime won’t bring the cookie or the crumpled motorbike back. So I just further the story along by saying no and changing the subject so that life can return back to normal.

Except this method doesn’t always work at job interviews. Especially not when the job you’re going for is totally out of your comfort zone. And definitely not when someone is asking you if you know what “metadata” is.

I was at Broadcasting House, London, being interviewed for a possible placement at Radio 4 Interactive.

“Er, no.” I said, clearing my throat. “I do not know what… um, microdata, is.”

“Metadata.” The man said promptly, as it began to dawn on me that I was probably going to be sacked from the placement before I even got the job. “Do you use facebook?”

                I nodded.

                “Tweetdeck?” Nod.

                “Tumblr?” Nod.

                “So you use the internet quite a lot then?”

                The butterflies in my chest began to relax as I realised that maybe I hadn’t blown it. While I’d never, ever, consider myself a computer whizz, I do have a wide range of experience in social networking sites. For a bit of a strange reason. And it’s kind of a weird thing, for both parties, so I’ll just come right out and say it.

                I’ve been talking to an online stranger for ten years.

                It’s not like I’ve purposely been keeping track of the time, but those are the facts.  And once you get the weirdness of the situation out the way, it’s really quite refreshing.

                We were both blank, faceless strangers. We didn’t know the first thing about each other – he could have been stereotypical-fifty-year-old, child-grooming-paedophile, and I could have been eighty-seven-year-old-crazy-cat-lady. Suddenly, our real lives actually became the most interesting thing that we could learn from each other.

There was nothing to be gained from slipping in a few social lies – like I was a size ten, not a twelve, or that I didn’t understand the fundamental principles of algebra, and instead used my maths lessons as hourly therapy sessions with my best friend to talk about boys. Instead, all I actually wanted to say was the truth.

                And I mean the whole truth.

                Because there comes a certain freedom with talking to a stranger, and once I’d started, I could hardly stop.

It all came tumbling out.

I talked about my relationships, which haircut I was getting, what possessed me to date my ex’s, who I didn’t like at school, why I thought Carrie Bradshaw should have got with Aiden, not Big. Even my grandest, most carefully thought out life-plans to foster troubled teenagers when I became a grown up and save the whales with Greenpeace (which is almost the same as being a Trainee at the Beeb, right?).

                He talked about music, and books, and the girls he liked. He was fifteen and in love with a girl called Alice who wouldn’t give him the time of day, but whose hair he said smelled like peaches. It was great because when I turned fifteen and began dating myself, this thing called the mobile phone had really taken off. My online metaphorical big brother was no longer confined to the computer. I remember once being mid-date and sending out a frantic text saying:

“Quick! He’s asking which bands I like, what do I say to sound impressive!?”

 I then awaited an instant response from my internet pal, while I flicked my hair in the poor boy’s direction, which I’d rubbed peach scented bubble bath on (the only peach thing I had) before leaving the house.

“Greenday, Muse, Pearl Jam. Probably not The Dixie Chicks or Tatu. Though Tatu are ace.”

                There were plans to meet, of course. We both went to university, and discovered what it meant to have independent freedom, student loans and endless summers. Sadly, both our lives took us to separate corners of the globe and some years into the friendship, I mentally closed the door on the possibility of meeting.

We didn’t need to.

Instead, we remained content with our interactive world. We had Hotmail, Facebook, MSN, Bebo, Skype, mobile phones, webcams and keyboards – who says communication is dead?

                If anything, with the advancement of technology came the broadening of our friendship. I remember my excitement when his sister won a webcam in a dancing competition, which meant I could finally put a moving, albeit pixelated, face to the person I spent so much time typing to. We had hours of fun trying to understand each other’s accents when we both picked up computer microphones, as he’s Irish and I’m Welsh.

                When we both finally grew up and left the comfort of uni, got jobs and found we could no longer stay up and talk all night about random crap, naturally we didn’t speak as often as we had done when we were teenagers. Msn had died, and like most others we moved into the land of Facebook messaging to keep track of each other’s mile stone life events.

                Which is why I was so shocked when I got a message, not long after my Interactive placement interview:

“Hey, guess what! I’m coming to England. What do you think, would you say it’s about time we met?”

               

It was like a ton of bricks to the face.

                My interactive, non-existent person wanted to meet.

It’s one thing talking to a stranger online, but it’s definitely something else to have them step out of the computer and sit down next to you. Even though I always knew, deep down, there was a person at the other end of my keyboard rants, I just kind of…

Forgot…

After all, all I’d had in front of me was a screen.

                How much do screens remember about personal details you might have disclosed over ten freaking years? I’d told him practically everything! Things I just wouldn’t tell someone who was sitting next to me!

And besides, what if he really was a fifty year old paedophile and this was all some kind of weird, elaborate ten year scam to try and groom me?

No. That wouldn’t be right – I’m twenty three, for Christ’s sake.

At least I could prove I wasn’t an eighty year old cat lady…

                Oh god.

                He’d definitely know I wasn’t a size ten.

It turned out that his sister, Claire, was moving to England for a short time on a job placement, and so he was coming over to lend her a hand lugging her stuff. Coincidentally, it happened to be the very same week I started my new placement at Interactive.

                For the first time ever, we’d be in the same spot of the globe at the same time.

We decided to meet in a crowded pub.

(OK, it wasn’t actually the plan to meet at the pub... they gave me a meeting point and I couldn’t find it, and in the end I took so long they ended up ducking into the nearest pub and waiting for me there. But if I were talking to you face to face right now, this is a fine example of a white lie I would tell in order to move the story along…)

At first, when I couldn’t see them, I thought it was game over. I’d either missed them, or he’d seen me, realised I was some kind of loon and jumped on the next flight home.

It turned out he was standing at the bar, right next to me.

“Wow…” I said, totally shell-shocked. “You’re in 3D!”

My friend of ten years, who I’d never met.

I’d say that was pretty much the weirdest moment of my life.

Ever.

He introduced me to his sister Claire and for a few awkward minutes no one really knew what to say. After all, there wasn’t much ground we hadn’t already covered in ten years. We pretty much knew all there was to know about each other. Would launching in to a conversation about my life seem strange? How much would he remember?

                Should I mention the weather or something?

                “How’s work?” he asked, politely.

                “Oh, it’s er, great!” I said smiling.

                “What do you do?” asked Claire, who genuinely looked interested.

                “It’s er,” I began to fumble, “computers…”

                There wasn’t much more I could say. The guy opposite me had listened to me drone on about how useless I was at technology for the best part of a decade. He was far more qualified to be talking on the subject than I was, and we both knew it.

                For a moment, I thought my deepest fear had come true. That by meeting him, we’d somehow ruin the friendship.

                “That’s cool,” grinned Claire.

                That’s when I realised that Claire probably knew nothing about my life. She was safe ground to talk to! Like a normal person! We could have a great ‘getting to know you’ conversation in this nice little pub, whereby, neither one knew anything about the other. Fantastic!

                Except, I kind of did know a little about hers…

But that was also weird. So, for the sake of social normality, I would pretend.

                “Yeah it is!” I beamed. “What are you studying at university?”

 

A few beers on and conversation was flowing. All the worries I’d had about meeting my friend had totally disappeared. They were both normal, actual people, and I was enjoying my night. So much so, that I began to tell them about an incident that had happened earlier that week, where a friend-but-not-friend of mine had been unfortunately sacked from her job.

                “Yeah, it’s such a shame.” I sighed. “It’s so difficult to find anything these days, I feel really sorry for her…”

                I trailed off. My internet friend (who I’ll refer to as Adam, now that he’s a real person) had a funny look on his face.

                “Gosh, that’s terrible.” said Claire, and I nodded sympathetically.

                “She’s a great girl though, so I’m sure she’ll find something…” I said shrugging my shoulders and gazing for a moment, as if I was thinking of her terrible plight.

Adam began to snigger.

                “Hey…” I said, puzzled. “What’s so—“

                “Kelsey, she’s a ghoul!” he laughed. “You can’t stand the girl!”

                My mouth hung open for a moment as I began to remember all the conversations I’d had with him. Every time she’d ever backstabbed or wrong footed me. All the things I’d said about the horrible, snidey, cow.

                Shit.

                “Hey, and I always meant to ask you,” he said, rearranging himself to face me. “What about that time…”

                Oh god.

                He remembers.

                He remembers it all…

I mentally tried to scan through everything I might have ever said to him. Drunken student nights, where I’d come home and poured my heart out about some boy who didn’t love me. Sober days, where I was being rattled by boys who I didn’t love, and everything in between. There had to be some safe topic.

        I changed the subject fast.

        “So,” I said, trying to compose myself. “How are things with…”

Adam’s face began to flush. He looked over at Claire, as if they were sharing something.

        Wait a minute… was there something he wasn’t telling me?

        Claire began to look amused. That’s when I twigged. She was as much his personal lie detector, as he was mine. Because I guess in life it’s natural to want to edit stuff, to try and make ourselves look better. We do it all the time. We gloss over the crap stuff about ourselves, like the fact we look great in a dress because we’re wearing four pairs of spanks. It’s human nature to want to present our best side – like saying we eat a healthy fruit breakfast every morning, and not mentioning that it’s just a banana muffin from Starbucks.

But all that disappears when you’re with someone who knows you really well. When you’re out with your best friend, or your sister, or this random bloke you’ve been chatting to online…

Well, maybe not quite.

But still, it was a pretty weird situation to be in – sitting around a table, where no one could lie. Not even little ones about people you have to pretend to get on with, even though you secretly think they’re a bit of a numpty.

 

I met up with Adam and Claire for a few days after that first meeting at the pub, until I finally had to go back to my job. Claire had stayed at home to watch the final minutes of Doctor Who (I'd dutifully pointed out which scenes had been greenscreened, having worked on the show), while Adam walked me to my bus.

                We carried on chatting, like we were friends of old, until we got to the bus stop.

                Normally we’d end the conversation with a ‘Speak soon!’ or ‘I won’t be online tomorrow, so catch you later!’ But there was no ‘See you soon” in this relationship. Who knows whether we’d ever actually see each other again? What do you say?

                I was wondering how to end things, when Adam turned to me and said “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” My stomach did a little flip as I ran through all the things he might say –

                This was weird. Do you think it’s better if we don’t speak anymore…?

                Did my disguise fool you? I’m really a mass murderer…

               Why do you tell people you’re a size ten? When you’re blatantly…

“Uh, nope, ask away!” I said nervously.

“We’ve said a lot of things over the years,” he said, looking at me. “Not all of it, that great…”

That’s when it fully hit home that he did really remember everything. Even if over the course of us meeting, he’d been too polite to say anything. When I was a teenager, I was my own harshest critic, and I didn’t make life easy for myself. I knew there were things that I’d said that just wouldn't normally talk about, that I haven’t told anyone. The kind of thing you can only really say to a faceless stranger. And even then, they’re not things I’ve ever said out loud. They’re just things I’ve typed into the nether of cyberspace. And at the same time, I realised how lovely it was of him to have taken the time to get to know me, to remember all these silly little things, for all these years, and still want to meet me.

“Are you happy?” he said, looking at me.

My mind swirled. There were a million things I was happy about. I have a great job, a great family, a wonderful boyfriend. I was happy that I wasn’t still trying to struggle on as a size ten trapped in a size-much-larger’s-body. I was happy that every time I got off the tube and began the walk home to my little flat in London, I see the skyline of canary wharf and think how it hardly looks real. Like it’s just been something green-screened and dropped in. Like it’s not part of my life. It takes my breath away, every time, without fail.

It’s the kind of thing people ask all the time, without really caring what the answer is, yet somehow, it was one of the most personal, honest questions anyone had ever asked me. The kind of question I usually relied on using my keyboard to answer for me while I hid behind a computer screen.

But there was nothing there for me to type on, or click, or anything. For all our wonderful technology today, there was no telepathic machine so that he could find out the answer. Somehow it was like as if he’d asked some kind of taboo question by asking it out loud, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether things would be the same, that we wouldn’t share things with each other now that we had met face to face.  

Even still, it was a question that required an answer. I nodded my head, just as my bus arrived.

“Yep,” I said. “I’m honestly, really happy.”

"Good." he nodded, and I got on the bus.

I waited until we turned around the corner until I pulled my mobile out of my pocket and opened up a Facebook message.

“I wasn’t always happy though, and it took me a long time to get here. So thank you, for always being there for me, no matter how weird it was.”

The truth was, I didn’t know how the meeting had gone. Perhaps the whole weekend, Adam and Claire had just been passing the time with me. Behaving politely, telling little white lies just because it was easier.

 Politer.

Or even god damn necessary.

It wasn’t until I received a message back in a familiar online font:

            “That was the weirdest thing I had ever done…that was weird, right?”

And that's when I knew that our wonderfully weird and unconventional friendship would be just fine.

In fact, we've already started making arrangements for our next meet up, in March 2023.

Make Do and Mend

Recently, I’ve felt rather let down by an old friend of mine.

We hadn’t seen each other in a while. It was a friendship that took root back when I was about fifteen, or sixteen. I spent my teenage years growing up with her. She was older than me, and understandably in a different stage of her life. She lived in a big town, with a real job, and wore actual Gucci. Not fake knock off Gucci from Turkey. Through her, I could live vicariously.

It was the start of my “lust affair” with expensive high fashion.

Not that I could afford any of the wonderful clothes she wore. But somehow, at that moment it was enough to just see her wear these beautiful things. It planted the seeds for what would later grow into an unhealthy spending habit. It was something I could aspire to one day, when I grew up, which seemed so far into the future, back when I was only fifteen.

Now at twenty three, “growing up” seems so much harder to define. If I’d asked my teenage self to pin-point at what stage in my life I’d become this lucrative ‘grown-up’, it would be a fairly straightforward answer.

It would be a life after university. In a land where I was no longer a student. I’d have insisted that Future Me would live in a castle, but would probably have settled for just a house. I’d have a car, a job, maybe a partner, and be earning enough to buy myself a pair of real (not Turkey) Jimmy Choos.

It certainly wasn’t a world where I had to source my own cheap car insurance. Or pay for my own dental check-ups. Or discover how costly wooden flooring is.

“Oooh, look at that!” I said, pointing at the stunning dark cedar panels. “That’s what I want in the conservatory.”

I left my boyfriend to load up the trolley, as I marched off in the direction of soft furnishings. Something shiny caught the corner of my eye, and I stopped to admire some bath taps.

“Bath taps! Why, I’d never even thought about them before!”

It wasn’t that I needed new bath taps as such...

It was just my first day “home” shopping since the purchase of the house. In one swift exchange of keys, gone were the days where I’d prefer to drill holes in my eyes than wander around B&Q. Now, I needed to put my own stamp on things. It was essential that I added a personal touch. To everything. Suddenly, even the most mundane things like floorboards had this new, glowing allure…

“Glowing…” I muttered to myself, interrupting my own thoughts. “We’ll definitely need new light shades.”

“Are you sure you we can afford new light shades?” my boyfriend asked, managing to grab my arm before I disappeared down the curtain aisle.

“Of course we can afford new light shades!”

“But the floor comes to over four hundred pounds. Why do we need new bath taps?”

I came to a halt.

“The floor comes to over four hundred pounds?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s just…flooring?”

“Yes.”

“How can they charge that amount of money for something I’ll just walk on?” I asked, genuinely flummoxed.

My boyfriend held my hand as I gingerly removed the bath taps from my trolley. It was a similar story that took place across numerous home and garden stores around South Wales that month. None of which left me as devastated as when I discovered I could only afford to buy half of my dream settee suite.

“But it’s the perfect one!” I wailed. Tears streamed from my eyes, as my boyfriend tried to work out a payment strategy that would allow me to sit comfortably, in my otherwise empty house. (With distinctly average floorboards.)

“It’s just stuff…” I said sombrely. “How can they charge me so much to use things I didn’t even acknowledge I used before?”

My boyfriend sighed. “We can buy half of it now, and the other half later?” he suggested, while I wondered how the hell my friend had ever managed to afford so much designer clobber.

After we’d handed over the money for our half-sofa, me and my boyfriend decided to make a pact. We promised each other that one day, sometime in the future, a long time from now, when we were rich – we would buy the other half of our perfect sofa suite.

When we got the lone half home, I tried to convince myself that my new sofa was a fabulous purchase. A sexy and wonderful buy, that my friend would have been proud of.  Even envied!

But try as I did, there was only so much I could do to convince myself that my new sofa was a cool purchase. And that was by deluding myself.

I hopped on the new sofa, popcorn in hand with my boyfriend next to me, and turned on the telly (which was skilfully balanced on our Move-In boxes.)

That was the moment when my old friend, Carrie Bradshaw (also known in real life as Sarah Jessica Parker) stepped out onto the stage at the BAFTA's.

I felt the deepest pang in my stomach.

It’s not that I was upset with her. I was just disappointed.

Stunned, I turned away to gather my thoughts. Because it is tough trying to pave your way through life. We have bills to pay. Floors to buy. Food is expensive, and even cheap food isn’t necessarily guaranteed to be what you think you’re buying. Fuel, apparently, takes up sixty percent of an average person’s income. We simply don’t have the money to spare on things like personal enjoyment. Sometimes, we have to live vicariously.

So we set ourselves goals. We hold on to our dreams. I believed that one day, I’d have those damned Jimmy Choos. And nice bath taps. And a full settee suite. But until then, I’d keep going. Because life isn’t always glamorous, and when times are tough sometimes we have to make do with staying in, making our own fun, and catching up with old friends.

So there I was.

Sitting on half a sofa.

Envisaging our reunion.

And she couldn’t even be bothered to put on a sparkly freaking frock?

I turned the telly off and began to think to myself.

Maybe it was time to wake up. Maybe now, I was a grown up. Maybe it was time to live my own life.

I began to draft my own television series. I’d make it a better, truer to life reflection of the modern age girl. Who moved to London, and continued to eat Smash every day of her life in the hopes of one day owning a pair of designer heels, but until then, would make do with the cards she’d been dealt.

I’m calling it Sex on the Sofa.

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