Employment

Hello? *taps screen*

Oh boy, I nearly fell down the back of the innernets, didn't I? It's been nearly 2 months since I posted last, and what a 2 months it has been. My birthday was on the 17th of this month and I am now a little closer to 30. Am I really bovvered? No. If my school photos are anything to go by, I get better with age, baby. I'm still writing (professionally if not recreationally), and it feels weird to know that I'm being paid to do something I genuinely enjoy.

The last 10 years have seen me take on a variety of incarnations:

Factory worker at a clothes factory in Stoke Newington. It was shit: 2 pounds an hour, shit music on the radio, and me listening to Craig Mack on my Walkman, which distracted me from work and eventually got me fired. I was glad of the work, as it kept me in copies of More and Cosmo magazines. However, I must reiterate: it was shit.

Nail technician. Not the obvious choice for a reformed chronic nail-biter, but once I saw the benefit of long talons over chewed, raggedy stumps, I soon saw an opening for artistic potential. About 5 years before everyone else was doing it in the UK, I was giving my fellow college students nail extensions and nail art. Never formally trained, I was even paid for my efforts, with real money and everything!

I was obsessed with the art side of it: 2-inch talons (all mine, natch) painted with designer logos and decorated with rhinestones and piercings - my favourite one saying 'I DO NAILS'. That worked better than any business card I could ever produce. Acrylic stinks, though.

Barista. Bah-reeee-stah. Italian for 'underpaid and overworked coffee-house person'. In the early 2000s there was a sudden craze for coffee shops and double half-caf/decaf wet skinny mint lattes. Highlights of this job included being tipped £5 for serving this guy an orange juice, flirting with the guy who worked in the Italian coffee bar opposite my shop in Canary Wharf, hanging out with this really cool Serbian chick and her husband, then deciding I could no longer face being there for one second longer, then never turning up for work again.

Temp. One of my favourite jobs, to this day, was working in a warehouse with a bunch of guys. This was down in Clerkenwell. I started at 7, but was frequently late. I ate lots of donuts. Then there were other low level jobs and much creativity with timesheets. And so it went on, until I managed to nab a position working for Tower Hamlets Council. Then another one. And another one. I was like the slag of all temps: anytime, anyplace, anywhere. Just tell me when and where to show up.

Recruitment-type. Now, I've never been a recruiter in any way, but I worked in recruitment advertising, dealing with job applicants. Then I moved into recruitment proper, and after I proved myself utterly inept at anything sales-orientated, I became the 'face' of a media recruitment firm in Soho. I loved working down there: spotting celebs (Skin from Skunk Anansie, Marc Almond, Jonathan Ross in a pink suit), hanging out in Golden Square, and quietly slipping out of the office for hour-long shopping trips in Fresh & Wild and the odd sex shop, when I knew nobody would notice I was gone. Oh, and laughing at the various Barleys who sauntered through the doors, resplendent in box-fresh Adidas and Bathing Ape. And another perk - and I was perky - was the odd hella-fit candidate, a couple of whom I flirted with. But I was on reception and bored, so when I quit I went back to temping.

Now this is where things got interesting for me. Instead of working reception desks, suddenly I was a PA, which made me uncomfortable at first. You see, a world in which I am the organised one is a world you don't want to live in, but I got over my initial reservations and got good feedback from people, which led to more work and more cashmoney, naturellement. So I thought, 'Hey, maybe I can do this'. I hated the first place I worked at, partly because I was crap and partly because the place was DRY, not to mention the biggest arsehole since Goatse worked on my team. However, it was the all-important foot in the door of the hallowed Meedja.

I then made a second home for myself at another creative company. That has since not worked out - let's just put that down to a personality clash. On a more positive note I also got to achieve my dream of working in advertising, for a lady who was lovely but swore like a motherfucker, then I worked for 2 TV companies. Television is quite mad, like advertising; I'd go back to either quite happily.

In my present incarnation is where I'm happiest, though. But I'm at the beginning of another career, the one I actually want to be in. This poses a number of questions: at what point do I call myself a professional writer? After years of experience, or after my first paycheque of the first ever gig I get? I mean, what's my mum supposed to tell people - "She's a... er, oh."

What do I do next? Where do I want to be? If my life pans out like it has done so far, I'm better off not answering those questions, just following my nose and seeing where it leads me. Actually, putting it like that... I'd better get cracking on that 5-year plan.