working, writing

I now work on music editorial for Oh Comely Magazine, doing interviews, playlists, features etc:


pre-work thoughts

my life at the moment seems to evolve around going to sleep when I’m not tired and getting up when I am.

and all these internet distractions preventing me from writing essays: the daily cold shower of depressing news, a drunk Japanese businessman persistently trying to wander down an up-going escalator, an overdose of human/animal babies on facebook, pictures of people drinking coffee in cafés.

I want to watch Homeland, bathe in wine and stuff myself with pasta until I can’t breathe, but instead I accomplish nothing in an attempt to do uni work and end up feeling guilty about it all.

I’m in such a bad mood that I just screamed at my boyfriend for boiling an egg.

my generation

the beginning of 3rd year and I’m dreading graduation. only a few months lie between a perfect landscape of late night creativity and the seemingly endless uphill struggle of full time work. what if dreams fail. what if future plans are swallowed up by a smothering void of youth unemployment. people often ask me what kind of jobs you get with an English lit degree. perhaps you don’t get a job and have to move back home, suddenly revisiting your teenage past, drinking filter coffee, dodging tram fares and owing people fivers.

after paying a fortune for education I’m really looking forward to the next career step; making my mark in the competitive world of unpaid internships.

i gotta go to work, then hurry home

att döda tid på jobbet, våldsamt hugga av minuterna blodiga med en klädhängarkrok. att cirkulera ändlöst kring smyckesställ i komplicerade formationer utan att väcka uppmärksamhet, omorganisera halsband i symmetriska mönster, att ha miserabla kafferep och prova glittrande örhängen framför provrumsspeglar i ett försök att uppbringa Liza Minellis livsglädje under nazihot. men ack förgäves.

att sälja saker är som att sälja sin själ. min personlighet krullar ihop sig som ett torrt löv, spricker och försvinner. jag spricker och försvinner av total meningslöshet. min kropp darrar ständigt i luftkonditioneringens obehagliga andetag medan smyckena skallrar på sina krokar ihåligt och metalliskt. ibland närmar sig små kunder med förnumstiga frågor och irritationen stiger mellan deras välansade ögonbryn när de inser att jag inte kan, inte vill, att mitt jobb skulle kunna utplånas och ingen någonsin märka någon skillnad. alla är de förmögna turister som villat bort sig från harrods tjusiga interiörer till en medelmåttig high streetbutik för tonåringar, en meningslös medelpunkt där tiden tycks stå still. så jag dödar tid som krälande ohyra och önskar att sommarlovet vore slut.

oxford circus circus

it’s topshop saturday rush hour. pre-Christmas consumerism chaos in what seems like an unsupervised mad house. although I’m not employed by the mega brand, but working for one of its struggling concessions, I’m acquired to do one hour fitting room service.  free labour seems strangely attractive to multimillion corporations.

while assisting screaming adolescents trying on identical dresses in five hideous colours (but who will ultimately purchase a tiny bottle of topcoat nail hardener for £3), I‘m simultaneously sensing the stern presence of a polished professional accustomed to less mess and quality customer service. blonde sendré highlights, lip coloured lip stick, faultless autumn nails, the powerful thighs of a horse, leather ankle boots prepared to step on you. she locks eyes with me, inhales the level of my insecurity and injects shot after shot of blame into my pathetic bloodstream. the word sorry flows like red wine-sick from my brainless mouth. “I’m very sorry about that, it’s store policy”, “sorry, there are only six items allowed in the fitting room”, “I’m sorry that someone poked me with a maternity hanger.” my soul gets drained from apologies and ultimately regresses to a disposable fork.

the occasional self-proclaimed humanitarian suffices among the consumer mad. clusters of Gestapo fashionistas are common. once they reported on a ‘disgusting anorexic’ avoiding the fitting room queue by changing on the shop floor. I ignored this so called issue and yearned for more people like her. the nudity stimulates an endless chain of restless children/bored lovers/wealthy grand parents that would otherwise succumb to the manipulative top shop pop music. but most importantly it decreases my work.