Young Apprentice(s)

I never thought the words would be coming out of my keyboard, but I feel that the time has come to admit that I really, really like Young Apprentice. (I didn’t feel like writing ‘the’ was appropriate, seeing as there are several of them). For some reason that I will doubtless never fully comprehend, I have chosen the time in my life where I have the least free time, to become addicted to a programme the subject of which I care very little about. (I have very little regard for the business world, although I do like the suits). I had all the time in the world to watch Apprentices both miniature and adult when I was a student, but apparently my brain has come to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that squeezing it in around working full time as an intern at a busy marketing agency, finding paid employment, making friends, getting to know London and generally trying to juggle everything I can lay my hands on is by far the most sensible way forward. And who am I to judge?

So anyway, back to the programme itself. I think I watch it because it both disturbs and depresses me- two emotions I evidently wish to put myself through of a Monday evening. For me, watching the young business minds of the future in action is akin to watching one of those ‘freak of the week’ let’s all show how terribly understanding we are by feeling a bit sad when actually we’re just happy we’re not them documentaries on Channel 4- only without the guilt. The range of emotions inflicted upon me by the Young Apprentice (as in the programme, not necessarily the eventual winner), I think occur because on the one hand I manage to be totally appalled at the arrogance and conviction of some of them that they are the world’s next business tycoon, despite the fact that they wouldn’t actually legally be able to celebrate their victory with a glass of champagne. Yet on the other I can’t help but be unbelievably jealous of the sheer balls and drive they clearly have in bucket loads.

I’m muddling along at nearly 22 with only the vaguest idea of what on earth I’m doing from day to day (I often count it a small miracle if I get out of the house on time wearing matching shoes), and there they are at not a day older than seventeen sat in a boardroom with Sir Alan Sugar. The closest I’m ever going to get to Sir Alan Sugar, or equivalent for chosen career, is sugar.

I can only assume that this creates a sort of emotional see-saw effect, whereby I one minute despise the contestants for their unwavering confidence in their own abilities, and in the next second want to emulate and learn from them for exactly the same reason. Finding myself wanting to learn from sixteen year olds is an odd enough experience as it is, especially sixteen year olds who understand the phrase 'getting on brand' more than I do, have smarter clothes and wider ranges of ability.

 I’m not, however, going to let  this emotional turmoil get in the way of finding out who wins- I am after all only writing this whilst I wait for it to appear on iplayer.

Four strikes and you're out.

When the great Samuel Beckett sat down to write Waiting For Godot, I truly and honestly believe that he was thinking of a plumber.

I know this, because being in the possession of a shower without any hot water, I, too, am waiting for a plumber.  I haven’t the foggiest where Vladimir and Estragon have got to but I have two flatmates so they can fill in.

We were told Godot/the plumber would be here last Tuesday evening. He was not. We were then informed that he would be here last Wednesday evening. He was not. We were then informed that he was in fact ill, and would not be with us until Saturday evening. On Saturday evening we were informed that he was unfortunately detained by a plumbing emergency, and would thus not be with us until Sunday (he wasn’t), as we were not enough of a pressing appointment in comparison.

Personally, I feel that he should explain that a lack of clean, hot water is not a pressing matter to medieval sufferers of cholera, or a pneumonia victim in need of being warmed up, as he will not find them any less angry about the situation than me when needing a hot shower post-exercise.

It is now Monday and I am still waiting.

If David Cameron was to not turn up for work four times in a row there would be (amongst some relief) a public outcry. He’d be sacked. If a waitress didn't show up for work four times in a row- she'd be sacked. If a footballer didn't turn up for four games in a row, he'd be sacked. I fail to see why tradesmen are allowed to channel Lord bloody Lucan whenever they feel like it, but the rest of us have to show up on time. It’s not on and I would like my SHOWER FIXED!

Have I told him any of this? Of course not, I want him to show up.

Winter.

There's a lot to be said for being warm and comfortable.

The cold weather is definitely moving in over London. You can see it- a murky grey mist gliding damply in to replace the harsher black smog of pollution fumes. The smoke's Arctic cousin. Perched on top of the buildings, spilling over into the teeming streets.

Aside from my somehwat Dickensian description choices, however, the main reason for this post was to firmly establish, once and for all (well, until Spring) that I am turning my back on my Autumn jacket collection. Surely not? I hear you cry but the time has come. I ponder 'The Great Coat Debate' every Spring and Autumn, but still never manage to time the change quite right. Today, however, if I even removed my scarf for so much as a second my neck felt horribly naked and vulnerable. I also returned from the office
with a very real concern that I was about to lose half of my face to frostbite.

Definitely time for the winter coat.

Welcome.

After much deliberation, hesitation and general digging in of heels, I have decided to set up a blog. I’m hoping the general aesthetics of it will improve as I get my technologically challenged head around it a bit more. Bear with me.

Anyway true to form, I haven’t entirely decided exactly what it’s going to be as yet. I’m intending to use it as a sort of virtual noticeboard for general musings and opinions (god help us all) as I navigate my way around  life and London, as well as a sort of archive for any sparks of creativity I may happen to produce, and reviews of anything that takes my fancy. Theatre, Musicals and Books, most probably. Inspirational quotes from individuals of varying levels of madness may well find their way here, too. In the unlikely event that I figure out how to upload audio, I will also post any of my radio work from my student days. Although I wouldn’t hold your breath.

Any comments throughout the life of this blog will be hugely appreciated. If there’s ever any work you think I can do for, or you for me, don’t hesitate to drop me a line.

 I do genuinely hope you enjoy anything you come across on here. Even if it’s just a sentence.

And if you’ve got to the end of this post, we’re already half way there.