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

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.