Musings over a Graduate Application

LIVING IT UP IN LIMBO

Warning: 
If you suffer from Graduatewithnojobitis you should know that this post does have the ability to improve your mood. But if you stop in the middle you could end up suffering from the following conditions: moodiness, sense of impending doom, anxiety, nausea, anger, grief, inexplicable terror, nightmares, insomnia and uncontrollable weeping. 

If you do experience any of these symptoms scroll straight to 

the bottom of the page for a video of funny cats. 

*

Yet another application is in, another deadline met. Tomorrow I will finish the next one. And at some point I will write something poignant for my Master's degree, pen an article for the university newspaper and then embroil myself in the editing needed for a client's novel. I've quickly realised that whilst being a postgraduate is fantastic, in eight months time I'll be out on my own, dipping my toe into Real Life. 

This is slightly terrifying. 

Especially when Real Life doesn't seem to want to give me, or a load of my equally qualified friends, a job. Not because finding a job is hard - it's ridiculously easy to find a job using Milkround or Guardian Jobs or the newspaper or just a cursory internet search using key terms like 'Graduate Publishing' or 'PR Entry Level' or 'Marketing 2014'. Earning that job, that much desired position, that omg-it-actually-pays-a-salary role: that is the tricky part. 

So far I've only met with the Apologetic Email of Doom and the Utter Silence of Rejection. 

And yeah rejection kind of hurts. Maybe only a little the first time. Better luck next time right? The third, fifth and tenth time it niggles a little, stings a tad. Then by the twelfth or the thirtieth, it's hard to keep yourself from wondering "what’s wrong with me?!". It's incomprehensible. Because you’re great. Really you are. You deserved that administrative assistant role with a retail company you’ve never heard of because you’re actually a wonderful human being and there’s no explanation as to why you’re not having any luck attaining that precious J. O. B. Thus, by the time you’re on the umpteenth rejection email, you’re probably reassessing priorities. Maybe thinking... well... Costa will tide me over until someone hires me. Only COSTA rejects you as well. Because when 1,700 people apply for 8 jobs at a Costa, suddenly it’s not so simple.

In fact, it’s kind of grim. There’s thousands of us desperately scrabbling away at the job market, studying our carefully reworded cover letters and our personalised CVs, wondering what we’re not doing that Jennifer with the purple handbag from that philosophy class in first year did better than us.

So what do we do? How do we change this? Is it even in our power to change things or are we stuck in the rut of our economic climate? Should we be blaming the reputations of young people as bad timekeepers and over-dreamers, expecting to waltz into their ideal job at 22? Should we be eyeing up our international counterparts and believing they’re stealing our jobs? Or should we be readying our boots to kick out the 'old people' who are living longer, working longer and therefore holding onto jobs for longer? A fair few are happy to simply point out ‘At Least It’s Not 2009’. Yes, therein lies our silver-lining, fellow graduates, it’s not the beginning of the worst fiscal crash in decades. 

I can see your frowns: surely there HAS to be something better than that? ....

A New Yorker Cartoon by Mike Twohy

YES THERE IS GOOD NEWS.

Firstly, the economy has improved and with any luck it'll keep improving. Plus, all those traditional jobs that were cut down during the fiscal crash - they're not the only options anymore. There are loads of start ups, groups of young people with big dreams who are keen to see the world working slightly differently. Things aren't as bad as some of the stories suggest. And whether it takes six days, six weeks or six months - statistics say that IT WILL HAPPEN. Don't give up. 

Which leads me to Point the Second: our age is digital. We can do LOADS using our shiny computers and fizzbubbling interwebz. Not only can you make your CV look awesome and google great cover letters. You also can literally stalk companies using online media too, because if Little Miss Brilliant or Mr Great-Is-My-Middle-Name from That Awesome Company leaves to start in Another Pretty Fantastic Role then there's a new vacancy. People might move up and create a vacuum for little intrepid graduates to slope their way into. And then there's things like Linkedin. Sure we've all heard it before - USE YOUR CONTACTS, SAYS EVERYBODY ALL THE TIME - but now you can really track what everyone you went to university with is doing. So if your friend has a job at a place you think sounds interesting, you can ask them about it. You can find out what they did and what they think of it now. Even if they can't give you a knee in, they might be able to give you some tips. 

Thirdly: you are not alone. We're all in the same boat. We're young, soon-to-be-unemployed-non-students and whilst the boat might look like it's chockablock and about to sink, it's completely natural to be in this position. Some will be thinking OOOOOOO SO MUCH LOOKS AMAZING I JUST CAN'T CHOOSE. And others will be frowning at the Jobs List just praying that one day something comes up that they Actually Find Interesting. The point is that after some self-analysis and brutal honesty, we will figure out what to apply for, who to apply to and whether we actually want it or if we're driven by desperation. We will make it. Eventually. One person at a time until our younger siblings have caught up with us. And then we'll go try Australia. 

So basically, there are things to look forward to and whilst we're all panicky because we're freaking out (secretly, on the inside, all the time) we do have the option to take a little bit of time and figure ourselves out as well as our jobs. We don't have to be fully-fledged-fifty-somethings until we are fifty-somethings. And even then I doubt we'll worry too much about actually being fifty-somethings. We have the time to misspend a little bit of this limbo period working things out. It will suck at times. It will hurt at times. It will probably be the most depressing thing you've ever experienced ever sometimes. But the silver-lining is that there's always the chance that next time you'll receive the email that says YES. WE WANT YOU. YOU'RE HIRED. Because we'll plod on together, hoping and dreaming and wishing that that email already arrived, and we'll make sure the boat doesn't sink by watching videos of funny cats. Like this one. They bring out videos every month. BOOM. 

MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOUR. AND MINE.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,

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Durham University - FAQs for the Curious

Welcome to Durham. 

My third university in five years. 

I've begun to realise these past few weeks that somehow I've a tendency to live in beautiful places surrounded by history and brilliant people. 

I grew up outside of London, surrounded by fields and with a view of the night sky, then I went to school in a rather idyllic spot on Hertford Heath before I fled north for university. There, I settled into the Jekyll and Hyde wonder that is Edinburgh and after two years, I took a break to travel West. All the way to the sunny blue skies of North Carolina for a study abroad year that inspired the creation of this blog. Of course, after returning to my beloved Scottish home-away-from-home for my final year, I graduated, worked all summer and ended up moving for my postgraduate year to here. Durham. Another beautiful city swathed in history both ancient and less ancient. 

But before I tell you about any of my adventures thus far, here are some rumour-based Frequently Asked Questions that required an answer: 

DURHAM IS A SCHOOL FOR ANTS Everyone has a habit of thinking of Durham as a tiny wee town in the middle of no where, but compared to Chapel Hill, Durham is a thriving metropolis. Plus it's right next to Newcastle so when a dose of city life is needed, it's not too hard to hop a train to somewhere a little bigger. Also, when I think about how many places students used in Edinburgh, it probably averages out - only it's all in one place here... rather than a slog down Lothian Rd. 

DURHAM STUDENTS ARE OXBRIDGE REJECTS Ok so this may have a kernel of truth in it somewhere, lots of people both undergrads and postgrads seem to have at least considered either Scylla or Charybdis whilst they were applying. And 'Never Have I Ever Applied to Oxford' is a regular laugh. But then a huge number of my Edinburgh friends were also post-Oxbridge applicants. And several people I know who attended Manchester or Exeter or went overseas. Durham's not really so different from any top university in this regard.

EVERYONE MARRIES EVERYONE ELSE Admittedly, I happen to know one of the cutest examples of Durham Marriage statistics (they're currently retired and coming up to their 30th Anniversary) but I'm not sure if it's completely true what they say about marrying your Duzza boyfriend or girlfriend. As of now, I've heard that 1/10 students marry their S/O from Durham, that 1/4 marry their S/O from Durham, that 1/5, 1/25, 1/100 marry their S/O from Durham... I think we need a statistic that everyone can agree on.

Rah Rah Rah Blahblahblueblah

COLLEGES ARE LIKE GENTLEMAN CLUBS One of the questions I'm most frequently asked is whether or not the collegiate system is elitist, exclusionary, prejudiced towards certain characters etc but so far all I've really noticed as a postgrad is that I love the people I live with because we're all work hard, play hard types and that being part of a college is a little like being part of a student society with the nights out, formals, intramural sports teams (or in this case intracollegiate) etc. Perhaps this is different for undergrads.


DURHAM STUDENTS ARE ALL BLUE-BLOODED I've yet to meet a lord. Actually, I've yet to meet an heir/ess of any kind. That's not to say they're not here (I know my sister has a couple friends with lives straight out of Made In Chelsea) but they don't inundate the market square. Especially not on a Friday.  

BUT THEY ARE ALL SOUTHERN RIGHT? There are a lot Southerners here at Durham - myself included - and even those people who aren't RP-English speaking folk from the Home Counties somehow speak like they are. It took me all of three weeks to realise that one guy in halls is actually Welsh because he speaks like Prince William and no matter how many times I'm told that another boy is from Cornwall, I just can't hear it. As it turns out, despite the neutralising effect Durham Cathedral's shadow has upon dialectal differences, there are people from all over the country and all over the world. 

DURHAM IS HOGWARTS. Yes and No. The cathedral was used for various different parts of the Harry Potter films. Dumbledore fell to his death from the top of the bell tower. McGonagall's classroom is just off the cloisters. The cloisters are the setting for the famous Harry/Hedwig scene (and potentially that bit with the Grey Lady - a ghost also claimed by Durham). The Cathedral Library actually could be part of Hogwarts. And when you're walking home along Framwellgate Bridge, it's hard not to believe you're in Hogsmeade. But technically, Hogwarts actually belongs to George Percy.


So there are some of the rumours and some of the truths. I will tell you adventures next time.

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

Travel, Trains and Teeny-Tiny (Uni) Towns

Travel, Trains and Teeny-Tiny Towns

A Rather Long Post About How A Book Made Me Realise I Love Trains, Visiting Small Towns And Referencing The Thirteenth King Who Can Time Travel. 

Settle in for this one. Make yourself comfortable. Set the scene - with a girl dressed for winter on your average East Coast Train, crappy biro in her hand and a little notebook full of incomplete anagram circles. 

The last few weeks I feel like I started to explore this lovely land I call home. I've been hopping on and off trains: to St Andrews, Glasgow, Durham - and realised how much I enjoy it. Similarly, I've also begun to noticed that those teeny-tiny towns (or itty-bitty-city in the case of Durham) have a delicious appeal. A fortnight past, I stepped off at Leuchars having meandered down the coast from Edinburgh, thrilled to visit Charlie and his incredibly wee kittens. Yesterday, I jumped out of the carriage onto the platform and gazed down the lush verdant hill across to Durham's Cathedral before, with a grin and the sun on my face, ambling into town. Both Saturdays were glorious. Bursting sunshine winked down from the sky with a bright, cold eye and the buzz of being somewhere new made me shiver with delight. There I stood, in the role of stranger, ready to see someone else's haunts and havens. 

As I mentioned, Charlie met me at the bus stop when I popped up to St Andrews but when I went to Durham it was to see my sister settled into her new room in Hatfield College's Rectory, so in this latter case I was meeting my family. Now, both of these places are home to world-renowned universities, hugely successful and prestigious colleges for some of the best and brightest students. Both are also ancient - buildings in both areas range from the medieval to Norman, histories going back even further. In terms of universities, St Andrews is much older, but that hardly detracts from how we should view Durham. Town and university merge in their respective centres and the both have that slightly odd feeling of locals vs students. 

But now, having been at Carolina for a year, I don't look at either place with the scorn or derision that used to curl my lips at the mention of small university campuses. Muttering judgementally, I'd make comments like 'they're just like school', or 'they're too bubble-like and insular' or 'they're full of the same people' - I imagined everyone decked out in Jack Wills and signing off (as one girl actually did on my sister's facebook) "#Durham #YAH". Well, I think I can safely say that I am an idiot and am very glad that UNC has opened my eyes. Squirrel.

It meant that whilst wandering in my happy daze alongside the nattering Mr Wild, I could laugh at myself, face to the bitter sea breeze and love that in that place and that time I seemed part of one of the most beautiful places in Britain. It meant that looking round Durham yesterday, twisting and turning through its higgledy-piggledy streets, I had to fight the urge to break off from my rag-tag family and go explore all the curious nooks and crannies. Yes, I think I'd be restless in any town as small as these two and I think I'd be mad if I had spent four years at either one straight after Haileybury. But I can see why my sister fell in love with the Cathedral and Castle. And I think there's a certain appeal in the small everyone-knowing-everyone atmosphere. Driving into her college today, we were clapped and cheered through the gates and the excitement of starting university somewhere like that was infectious. And you know... those 'Sylvia Plath cliffs' beneath crumbling stones that Alice described to me years ago... they're rather wonderful too... and I can't deny that living by the sea has enormous charm.

There's a couple more things to mention. 

Returning home from Durham, my pen finds itself in my hand. I finally finished a book I've been dipping in and out of over the last couple of weeks. It's an Ian McEwan novella - although it reads a lot like a collection of short stories (and there's something about them that makes me read it in the voice of that time-travelling master of the universe) - and it's called The Daydreamer. Vivid, fantastic and written with such insight to the way the dreaming, wondering, wonderful mind works, I sat for the remainder of the journey in a nostalgic, whimsical stupor, watching the dull green fields fly by beneath curling wisps of cloud and rain. 

In the aftermath of McEwan's words, I'm remembering things. The final chapter, 'The Grown Up', whisks me back to days down in Dorset when The Houseboat Gang raced the tide in,  building our castles higher and higher and moats deeper and deeper into dark wet sand, mornings spent splattering down the beach from Bounty to Sea Shanty and evenings wriggling sandy feet into sleeping bags. We would spring down the shoreline, nimble, weightless, flying through the dunes, making up games that would make any writer envious of all their miraculous storylines. There's a paragraph when he writes about how: 

'the sun sank... and the families gathered in one of the gardens for a barbecue. After they had eaten, the grownups would be far too content with their drinks and endless stories to set about putting the children to bed, and this was when The Beach Gang would drift away into the smooth calm of dusk, back to all their favourite daytime places. Except now there was the mystery of darkness and strange shadows, and the cooling sand beneath their feet, and the delicious feeling as they ran about in their games that they were playing on borrowed time. It was way past bedtime, and the children knew that sooner or later the grown-ups would stir themselves out of conversations and the names would ring out in the night air -' 

(McEwan, Daydreamer, 128-9)

As I read it I was back on Bramblebush Bay, barely aware of the echoing chink of the chain ferry down the beach, covered in white and black sand with Vicky, George, Rollo, Tom, Rosie and everyone else. It was our names on the end of the sentence. Every story has that wonderful allure, that assessment that's so perfect and evocative. Things like the 'Useful-Things Draw' (aka. the family-man-draw) that's inevitably full of junk like the tops of bottles, too short string and plain old peculiar 'stuff'. Or the contrast between a cat's morning and ours. 

The Houseboat Gang
Ludo, Rollo, George, Tom, Georgie, Rosie, Vicky and Me

At about this point, I realise I have a good couple hours left on the train and my face is twisted in a nonsensical smile that I'm sure made the boy sitting opposite me a little nervous. I also realise, watching the world disappear along the track, that I really enjoy travelling by train. That sentence could be followed by one that takes you back to the beginning of this post, back to Durham and the girl curled up on a train. What I failed to mention is the bubbling enthusiasm and sense of adventure that I've begun to identify in the last couple journeys. Standing on the platform, the time ticking down and the train about to approach - there's something in the anticipation. With a train, its rattle promises adventure. There's a hint of new places, new faces, new things to discover and explore and of course there's a little bit of risk too. Will you actually find your way to the right end of the line? Will the train take you where you want? Have you hopped on the right one? Who will you sit with? Who will you meet? You can meet anyone on a train and there's that feeling of infinite possibility... the same feeling I often have when crossing the Meadows, knowing you could bump into brilliance.

 So that's the last thing I really wanted to mention - how brilliant I've realised trains are. That's it. I won't write anymore. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
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