I work in Publishing, darling...
...and as everybody knows, unless you're a) blonde, b) female, c) horsey, d) female, e) called Lady Pandora-Fenella ‘Fennypoos’ Posh-Posh McPosh, f) squealy, g) female and h) the niece of one of the directors, it's rather tough to get a foot in the door.

However, I’d inexplicably chosen to do a degree in Linguistics, and so thought it might be the only way to avoid ending up a) teaching Poetry Appreciation to psychotic 12 year olds in Bradford, or b) teaching EFL to psychotic 12 year olds in Gabon.

So I applied to do 2 months of work experience at one of the snootier publishers in London. With my degree, thought I, they’ll be fighting to employ me. I can spell and everything! Unfortunately I don’t fit many of the criteria above, being resolutely un-posh and something of a speccy twat to boot.

So after 1 week in Fiction sticking out like a sore, gangly thumb, I was quietly dispatched to Reference (Home of The Oddball) where they thought my talents would be 'better used'. And spent the rest of my placement alone in a windowless basement room, counting words in the dictionary. No computer. Just a dictionary, a bit of paper and a biro. And all joyfully unpaid.

Adding it up, with rent, travel and food and subsequent therapy, seems I paid them over a grand to be locked in a cupboard for the summer.

I’m still there now (though we’ve upgraded to a cupboard with windows, thankfully), and after 3½ years it’s as fun and glamour-packed as it always was. Kids, don’t do it. Especially if you'd like your monthly experience of opening your wage packet to be slightly more enjoyable than being arse-raped by an enraged donkey.

Can anyone lend me the money for a ticket to Gabon?
(no way hose is staring unemployment in the face on, Fri 11 May 2007, 12:41, Reply)