Enemy On the Door

I'm at war.

I'm at war with the man who guards the door.

He hates me.

Won't let me passed unless I shake my plastic pass,

In his face: what a waste.

He's got the hump - someone please give him the bump!

Then I can get on with my lunch,

But may still need to punch this most terrible grump.

He really seems to care that I don't meet his stare.

But I don't dare: I'm too pressed to care.

Too pressed to care.

Stop with the sneers, it won't win you cheers!

Just let me through, clear of you.

To the door, and on to the call-floor.

To help the poor.

Selling Lives

I am currently in the business of selling lives. Children's lives.

Every ten to fifteen minutes from 1 pm until 9 pm I must try to act my way through a script that is designed to make people part with £18 - a month.

I must tease/manipulate/induce guilt/empathise/cajole people whilst remaining 100% impartial and committed to the cause at hand. Do not deviate. Big Brothers are watching. There's one Big Brother per 'grad bay', though there may be more listening: every call is recorded. We can get fined £5000 is a 'declaration clause' is not tacked on to the beginning and end of every call.

It starts with: "This call may be recorded for training purposes", and ends with something reassuring the caller that we only take £337,000 in admin costs for "calling people like you."

I have to talk to the elderly: the unemployed, the terminally ill, the students, the time-wasters, the insane, those too young to commit, yet eager to answer the phone whilst mummy struggles with the youngest. All walks of life and the others you forget about. The ones everyone forgets about - that's why they're the worst to interrupt as they've been storing up all their jaw-mangling spite just for you because you're the first person insane enough to call them. Not my fault: the system picks numbers at random.

It's not uncommon to talk to the same person three/four times in a day, (partly due to others pressing 'Call Back' when they can't be bothered to record a proper outcome) but as you've already spoken to many faceless voices in between... you're stuck in auto-pilot mode and they get the impression that the bond you formed earlier was a false pretense. Well it was.

And yet the numbers keep coming, and there's barely a moment to regenerate you self-esteem and bolster confidence levels.

Some people here have been 'on the phones' for between 5 to 12 months. On the phones. Reading a script. How is that possible?

I have no desire to be here longer than it'll take me to re-claim the training hours we put in (three days worth)... but clever people above the Big Brothers only dispense that after a month on the phones. On the phones. Clever, very clever indeed. I need that money: I must count down the days before it is mine.

I've never done a job like this before: I never will again. I'm a creative not an actor with a heart of gold. I respect the cause, I enjoy the lunches in the park with the other 'Grad Bayers', but this is not real life.

This is selling lives.

Have you guessed what I am yet?

The Village Within

I'm sure many people have pondered the benefits of villages within cities. My fresh eyes have only just been warmed by such a concept.

I like the proposition very much. I like this village very much. It is but a short (but vertically challenging) walk from Hotwells, and it has everything I could possibly ever want. If I could site all the best ingredients for living somewhere, Clifton would roll out of the 'best places for Holly to be' tombola. I fell in love today. It's a village within a city, it has GREEN spaces, water, a massive bridge, a Thai deli, posh charity shops, a spiffingly quaint fruit and veg market, an antiques/vintage archade, a Thali Cafe, model-Georgian architecture... oh the list could go on and on and on - and I've only actually spent one morning there thus far. I get excited about these things, and I'm not going to apologise. This is exactly why I moved to Bristol: to find my own little piece of heaven (a place like home in the countryside, but with more choice) in a vibrant city.

It's almost a bit too perfect... (ventured there on a blissfully lazy/sunny Sunday morning) so I'll have to see if I can lift the veil and hunt for nasties in the week... maybe in the evening. Maybe Clifton turns into a chav ghetto on a Friday night? Or (more realistically) maybe I'll out the guerrilla organic society planting tomato seedlings in the raised beds of their well-to-do yet ignorant neighbours?! I doubt either are true, but I will certainly be spending more time in Clifton before I can officially crown it king of the burbs.

I am a country girl at heart... and although I think I'm coping well with my week-day trips to work in the big cider apple - I will certainly relish the slower/quainter west side of the city. So very happy to find such a diamond of a place such a short amble from my already ideal abode. I'm in danger of becoming as smug as a Shoredich trend-bender, but without the style fascism. What I mean is that though I won't be flouncing around with a pug in one hand and a coffee in the other... I will be enjoying the quiet self-satisfaction one feels when one becomes a chameleon (after spending many years in practice at matching its surroundings) who finally finds its perfect backdrop.

I shall make it my absolute mission to fix the heights of Clifton as my permanent backdrop before next year's spring has sprung.

Goodbye Countryside, Hello Big Cider Apple

Well, I've finally gone and done it. Moved. To the. City. Bristol City, cider capital of the West country. Not at all surprisingly, I feel right at home already.

For a start, I can see patches of green and many trees from outside all of the windows in my flat. The traffic noise is a bit of a give-away, but aside from that - I don't feel as much 'out-of-water' as I thought I might. (There was a loud dog-fight in a court yard close by on my first night... the owners seemed to be at war along with the dogs, but aside from the menacing bickering I felt safe peeping from a safe distance four flights up and hidden behind a tree.)

On the fourth floor, to the north I can see the city, the masts of the SS Great Britain, a bit of the river and some green space. From the South facing windows I look out onto a reasonably busy one-way system and above that, the splendor or Clifton. I hope soon to excel upwards and migrate to this place of designer charity shops, delis and running clubs. One day, Clifton - you will be mine.... If I can ever find a good job.

In my rush to leave the countryside in pursuit of something a tad more cosmopolitan, I didn't think it necessary to secure a job. I thought get there first and the rest will follow. Not so simple in times of recession. Also, I neglected to take into account the ratio of over-qualified post-grads to meager media jobs. I sent a CV and cover letter for a writer's position on a magazine, thinking next step, at the very least, I may be invited to interview. Oh no. Nothing is ever that easy. Due to the "volume and high standard of applications... we've set a brief for you to prove you're really interested in the job" The director wanted applicants to provide a 30 second piece-to-camera video (cut, and edited by applicant) and to send it back in a week. What? So I have to invest my time and money producing a film so you can see my face on camera... before I get an interview?! No, I don't care about the job that much. Maybe the wrong attitude, but before an interview? If I had gone to them for an interview - if it went well and I liked the staff... well maybe then I'd be prepared to make a video. Bloody hell, I'm a bit scared. What if there's that much competition for every job I go for?

So, unemployed with new city bills to pay and a new lifestyle to up-keep, I was in a bit of a panic... and also suffering a mighty bout of self-confidence bashing. Not only have I been out-of-the-loop (larking around in the French Alps) for effectively nearly two years, I can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm for following a story like I did when I first entered the world of words. I'm perfectly happy to blog (even though my followers can be counted on one hand) - hello? Is anyone out there? But, when it comes to even thinking about pitching a feature idea I can't energize my mind into motivation. I blame it on the crap rates for freelancers. I blame it on the competition. But what is it really? Well, as much as I hate to admit it: it's a money thing. Right now, I need stability. Writing features, or even pitching features can take days away from me, writing the bloody things takes me at least a week. So why should I spend a week and a half on an article for less than £200? I'm just not going to do it... unless rates increase and journalists get proper recognition for their art. Never going to happen. Not in the 'digital world'.

So, I am rather ashamed and ever so embarrassed to admit that I am temporarily (ONLY temporarily) working in a call centre. But it's not as bad as you're thinking. This is a call centre for charity fundraising campaigns. So, basically I'm a street-botherer... but on the phones. There... I've said it. Well, when you're in severe financial meltdown (blame it on living in the snow), and you've signed up with all the agencies in the city, and you've handed your CV out to all and sundry... you have to take the job. Immediate start... paid weekly... commission for sign-ups... weekends free. There are perks!

I was so reluctant to go for the interview, but my doubts were lessened when I spent time in the office. Turns out this office is full of people like me: creatives struggling to get creative in their chosen industry... having to supplement their living by calling people to talk about sponsoring children half-way across the globe. Funny old world. I like to think it's going to be character building. I'm prepared to do most things if I'm in good company. I think this motley crew of artists, musicians, filmmakers and odd-bods from business redundancies are going to be amusing. They will also doubtlessly provide me with some gold dust for scriptwriting. I can't wait to witness the micro politics. The relationship patterns, oh the conflict... gossip, it's all going to come out.

I'm supposed to be contracted to 13 weeks here, but I don't know if I'll be able to last it out on the phones. I know how annoying it is to be called at home by a cold-caller... I know a lot of people only have the attention span of two seconds... can I handle the rejection? The put-downs? The ignorance? We'll see.

I will of course, be on the look out for more appropriate jobs in the meantime. But it looks like I may have to be prepared to take a few steps down the ladder in order to gain my place on the Bristol scene. This will also be a confidence demolisher, but I'm of strong stock. I can take it.

Second day of training tomorrow. World Vision: I am your minion (for now).