Nice work, if you can get it

"Yeah, I was punched in the stomach once in Brixton, and another girl got spat at," Mikayla says casually when I enquire if people ever get nasty towards fundraisers.

There are three of us around a watercooler "talking shop".

"Not to me, maybe 'cause I'm a guy," says Rory.

A twenty-something, red-headed Irish guy, Rory is an old-hand as a clipboard-wielding fundraiser. You know, one of those people who stand on the street and ask for 'one minute- just one minute!'
He used to work full-time for another fundraising company but they wouldn't let him have Saturdays off to play Gaelic football, so here he is with me, trialing for another company.

We've just completed a half-hour stint on the street. We had to stop and ask people for their top five favorite films. Apparantely we're not being tested on how many people we get to stop, but how we get them to stop- how we 'engage them'.

"The trick is not to ramble on about the charity. You've got to gain their trust, befriend them, get them to trust you. The longer you get them to stay, the more likely you are to get them to sign up," Rory tells me.

See what I mean about an old-hand.

Mikayla swore she wouldn't get back into fundraising after losing her old job. But the money is too good and the hours too flexible.

"I would ring up and tell them I was hungover and they'd give me the day off- and they'd pay for it too," she says.

The company we're trialing for today is offering 350 pounds for a 40 hour week, which will increase to about 500 pounds after we've been with them for 12 weeks. That's about $1000 a week. Definitely enough money to minimalise the pain of being in one of the world's most hated professions.

You have to meet quotas though, surely?

Apparantely not, Gerald, the company's recruitment officer tells me.

He says if you focus on trying to get numbers then you tend to rush people through the process of donating and it's more likely they'll change their mind. Or complain.

There are lots of complaints.

"I nearly got fired because there had been some complaints about a guy named Byron, and they assumed since the names were similar, that it was me," says Rory.

Mikayla agrees, "I signed someone up to two different donation programs so they thought I was pulling a scam and I got suspended."

By the end of our chat Mikayla and Rory were both gainfully employed. I however, was not.

Something about seeing a crowd of people and looking petrified.

Well, it's not for everyone. But it's a fascinating job. Nice work, if you can get it.

Welcome to London

Something highly frightening happened to me last night. I was mid KFC gorging when I realised the emergency exit sign read, 'In an emergency dial 999'.

It dawned on me then that up until that point I had had no idea what Britain's emergency number was. Surely the most basic thing you should know about a country is what number you should dial in dire circumstances. And then I realised, I'd been spending so much time wrapped up in my own mini dramas that I wasn't really noticing London. All my blogs have been about me, me, me and I have yet to even introduce London to y'all, despite the fact that London features more prominently in this blog title then Kelly does.

So, London this is everybody, and everybody this is London....

This is Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park, just off Oxford Street. The idea is that anybody can come here and say whatever they like (embracing free speech).

And this is Hyde Park, pretty much my favorite place to go in the city because it's so big and green!

Second to Hyde Park would be Regent's Park which has an amazing outdoor theatre that I must visit one day...

This is Portobello Road...

This is the amazing red velvet cupcake I got from Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road....

And these are the houses on Portobello Road...

This is my favorite street- Great Portland Street- off Oxford Street. On the left is my tailors. One the right is Toni and Guy.

And if you face this way, Urban Outfitters is on the left corner and Topshop and Miss Selfridges is on the right corner.

After I'm done drooling over clothes, spending money or going for an interview, this is where I have my toasted avocado and turkey sandwich and coffee. They have free papers and the most delicious looking pastries.

This is the Globe theatre where Shakespeare used to put on his plays. (Actually it's a replica.) We had the cheap seats. Obviously.

This is the pub in Swiss Cottage. The food is as good as my mums.

This is Swiss Cottage

Stay tuned...

The trouble with fate

I've never been the religious type. I don't really know anybody who is. But I do have a very handy knack for explaining away the (good and bad) things that occur in my life. "It was meant to be." Or alternatively, it wasn't meant to be. This is commonly known as fate and closely entertwined with destiny. Fate dictates that you have a designated life path and despite what you may do to veer off it, everything that is supposed to happen, will. Eventually.

I pulled this little story off Wiki which sums it up nicely:

"Death speaks: There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, 'Master, just now when I was in the market place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw that it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.' The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, 'Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?' 'That was not a threatening gesture,' I said, 'It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.' "

So there we go. We use this convienent theory to explain away life's mistakes, life's lessons, life's more unsual paths, it's failings. Personally, I've used this phrase alot over the past few weeks. When homes I find are given to somebody else, I tell myself it's because there's a better one out there for me. When I don't hear back from countless job applications I tell myself it's to increase my motivation. When I don't get the job, it's because it wasn't meant to be.

But now I'm starting to wonder. How many times can we use this excuse? If it really wasn't meant to be then why didn't something stop me for applying for the job? If there really is a specific path that I am supposed to be taking then why does there seem to be endless detours? In practical terms, perhaps I should just kick back and take it easy. Stop applying for jobs, stop looking for homes. The right one will find me surely, if it's meant to be.

Wouldn't that be an interesting experiment.

A tale of two topshops

They say the most beautiful women in the world come from New York, Paris and Milan. I'm going to put my two pence in and say the most beautifully dressed women in the world are in London. Everybody except me that is.

One of the first things I noticed about Londoners, the women in particular, are how well-coiffed they are. Dressed to the nines. Extremely well accesorised. Not necessarily trendy or cutting-edge. Just very well styled. I feel positively frumpy around them.

But that is about to change. After an estimated nine months of starvation- and by starvation I mean shopping starvation- I have decided I am going to binge. And by binge I mean absolutely purge everything I own and start again. No holes, no stains, no fraying and definitely no weird suitcase smell. Everything must be new.

I'm so excited by this decision that I've visited Topshop twice in two days. I'm like an addict, hovering on the brink of a relapse. I walk past the entrance and think, 'Oh no, I'll wait until I have some more money and then I can spend a whole afternoon here.'

Then I double back. And I look through the doors. It's just purses on display. I can look at purses, can't I? And then purses turn into accesories and then accesories into shoes, and then shoes into underwear and then before I know it I've careerned my way through the store like a wide-eyed maniac and located the holy grail of all things beautiful and chic. My god, this afternoon I went so far as to cart five different items into the changing rooms. Thank god that I'd eaten so much pasta and gelato in Italy that I've become fat and couldn't fit into any of it.

It did make my resolve stronger though and now I have it all planned. Topshop have personal shoppers that will style your autumn wardrobe for free. (How ironic that I'm planning the splurge of a lifetime, yet I'm excited that the shopper will be a bargain.) I've decided that I simply must have a personal shopper. Sure, I could do it myself and keep the humiliation of not being able to fit into anything to a minimum. But I need a person. One of those weird fashion types that just looks at you and knows exactly what you need. The kind who throw really ugly items at you that somehow wind up looking amazing once you've got them on.

Whoever they are will need some serious stamina. Because when I mean wardrobe overhaul I mean serious overhaul. I need belts, and purses, and coats, and jackets, and scarves, and dresses, and jeans, and casual clothes, and going out clothes, and going to work clothes, and apartment pants. I'm shaking just thinking about it.

And when will this splendid event occur? Just as soon as I have a job. Employment. (Rolls eyes.) Some bloody money, in other words. It shall be a reward for months, years even, of positively grooming myself not to spend a dime. A pivotal step in the whole life make-over one might say. After that, all I'll need is a bicycle and a Portobello Road home filled with antiques and my transition will be complete.

Slavery in journalism?

Lets move to London and pursue a career in journalism. Or better yet, freelance writing. Travel blogging, food and wine reviews, investigative reporting, feature writing. Maybe even write a memoir. All the good stuff. The city is so inspiring and you are obviously such a talented, dedicated young thing. Yes, lets do it. Smoke cigarettes and drink copious amounts of coffee, while you positively absorb the city.



So whimsical. Wikipedia describes whimsical as 'lightly fanciful'. Which is a really nice way to put it. I would describe the above fantasy as, just that, a fantasy. Naivety at it's best. Which is why I never really decided to come to London to "be a writer." (The real sordid reason is another story...) And thank god for that. It's true the city is inspiring. It's about the most perfect city you could possibly hope to be a writer in. So much going on, so many lovely places to inspire, so many places to work. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't applied for any journalism positions.



However, there is some major furor in the UK at the moment, both to do with the graduate job market, and the media job market. And now I'm glad I haven't put any pressure on myself, or had any preconcieved notions about what I would be doing during my time here. (Me: Ummmm maybe something 9-5ish, so I can travel on the weekends. Maybe an office job so I can wear pencil skirts. Oooh, and wear, like, glasses.)



Currently, everybody in the UK has a degree. Much like the rest of the globalised world, a degree seemingly guarantees you a good, high-paying job at the end of your studies. A secure future. Maybe even some little letters by your name. And much like the rest of the globalised world, the more graduates there are, the more competitive the job market becomes as we all have exactly the same education and skills. And now the only thing setting us apart is our ability to be employable. In other words, our work experience. But how do you get work experience if nobody will hire you?



Two words. Unpaid internships. Internships aren't big in New Zealand. I never really saw any advertised. They were more like word-of-mouth, lucky if you landed one, 'I worked in my friend's uncle's fish n chip shop for a week so I could learn how to be a chef'. In the UK though, they are Big. There is an internship for everything. Everything. There are data entry and administration internships. There are internships at recruitment agencies for godsake.



And the problem is that they have become so popular that they are The Norm. Nobody just walks into a job after graduating anymore, they do a stint as an Intern, and then, suddenly, they are employable. And so as the unpaid internship becomes more desirable, the companies that offer them become more powerful, and the jobs become less work-experience and more, like, well, slavery.



Well according to this website anyway. GraduateFog (Google is your friend) is a staunch advocate for being kind to your interns. Paying them. And they have a point. According to one of their articles, Tesco's has offered unpaid internships for the grocery giant's magazine. Tescos. As in, billions of billions of profit a year Tescos. And they can't afford to pay their employees? Sad.



And why do I care? I have a point. I promise. For journalists work experience and internships are a rite of passage. Once upon a time it was your street smarts working for a small paper that got you the best jobs. Not the fancy degree. All talk and no walk. And since I've arrived in London and discovered that it is a Very Competitive Job Market, I have fancied the thought of doing an unpaid stint at a newpaper or magazine, and doing the pub thing at night.



I've discovered though, that the internship/ work experience thing is just as hard to get into as the whole job market thing. Figures. Can't catch a break, can I? Me, I can shrug it off and keep applying for other roles. But it made me think, when reading about these Poor, Exploited Graduates, how lucky are you really?



Pretty lucky, I should imagine. Some of us just want to write. Or photograph. Or film. Or watch others write. Or photograph. Or film. If somebody came up to me tomorrow and offered me an unpaid position at a magazine or newspaper or website, I would jump at the chance. What's the difference between being a full-time uni student and working nights and weekends to keep yourself afloat, or being a full-time un-paid intern and working nights and weekends to keep yourself afloat?



So long as your not this poor chap http://internsanonymous.co.uk/2010/01/20/sick-of-the-sunday-times/ then why not suffer for a week, a month, six months. And you know what they say. If you find something you love to do, then it won't feel like work. And of course, who gets paid to have fun anyway?

So there it is. My two cents. Back to the job hunt now though. Wish me luck. I really do want to wear a pencil skirt.

What do you want to do now?

One of the many things I love about London is it's infinite possibilites. It's impossible to ride the tube, read a paper or cross a street corner without being presented with various sights, activities, life-style changes and eatery options. Hire a Barclay's bike for an hour? Could do. Catch a show at the Globe Theatre for five pounds? Absolutely. Yoga classes, cooking classes, weekends in Ireland, visit the Science Museum for free, admire a new art exhibition at the Tate, read a book in Hyde Park, go vintage shopping on Portobello Road, have a pint in a pub, go for a run over Tower Bridge, scream at Angelina Jolie from the sidelines of a movie premier...

I'm currently reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and there is a pivotal scene near the beginning of the book where she realises, now divorced and therefore independant, that she can do whatever she wants. She actually asks herself, "What do you want to do?" She decides she wants to take up yoga, eat Italian food in Italy, meditate in India, buy some pencils. Cook.

This kind of resonated with me, because as I'm currently starting from scratch in this new city, I'm constantly thinking about what I want to do once I'm on my feet. Good motivational tool.
Here goes.

1. I want to go to the theatre. Regularly.
2. I want to take Yoga again.
3. I want a new hair colour.
4. I want to take long walks in all the parks.
5. I want to join a library and read lots of new things. I want to join a book club.
6. I want to cook everyday.
7. I want to eat yoghurt, fruit and honey for dessert like I did in Greece.
8. I want a bedroom with a big window, and a desk, with lots of perfume bottles and books and magazines and fresh flowers and clean linen.
9. I want to visit Scotland and Ireland and the Netherlands.
10. I want brand new clothes, shoes, accesories and underwear.

And maybe, just maybe, after reading this blog

www.guardian.co.uk/environment/series/bike-blog

I might want to buy a bike. If for nothing else than for the blogging material.

What do you want to do?

A weekend in London

"Approach finding a job, like a job."



Wise words from my visa program advisor. And with that in mind, I promptly took the weekend off, like eight million other Londoners. (Not that I consider myself a Londoner quite yet. Probably never).



The thing about weekends in London is that the public transport servicing the city pretty much takes two days off too. And as it turned out the two main tube lines servicing my current location in Swiss Cottage were down. Bugger. Walk? Too far. Catch a cab? Too expensive. Take....the bus?



Interesting fact about me: I don't take buses. Ever. Not even in New Zealand. I find they are always late, their routes and timetables are far too complicated and they always divert down little streets so you never quite know where you are going or where your stop is. Buses are for people who don't mind not knowing where they are going. I prefer the tube. I like to think of the tube as public transport for public transport neophites. The tube map is in bright, clearly marked colours. There are signs everywhere to hold your hand as you wind your way through the maze that is the Underground. You travel in darkness for several minutes and then - poof- you come at the exact location you wanted some minutes later. No random unscheduled stops. No traffic. And there are always free newspapers to read.



Buses? No.



"If you always take the tube you will Never Ever Really see London."



More wise words from said advisor.



Really? Never? Well I guess I'll take the bus when, you know, I know the city a bit better. When I have a leisurely few hours to reach my destination. When the buses introduce free reading material. When the buses have pretty, colourful maps. When pigs fly.



Fast-forward to the moment when I realise the line servicing Swiss Cottage is C-L-O-S-E-D.



Craaaaap. Okay, you know what? I didn't really need to go out. I can just wait until Monday to get all my errands done. It's cold anyway. Hey- what's that crowd of people over there? Hmmm. They're waiting for something. A bus? Might go have a look. Just a look? Just a look. Okay, four different buses. One is going to Oxford Circus. That's where I want to go. So I just get on the bus? And it will take me to Oxford Circus? Really? Seems too easy. Well, just get on and see where you end up. How hard can it be?



Ridiculously easy actually. Turns out every bus route has a number. Memorise the number, look up the number at any bus station and it will tell you where your stop is. And the fun part is you get to sit on the top of one of those bright red double decker buses and watch London go by. It's like a really cheap tour of the city.



Contemplate sitting on the bus all day long to see the sights. Decide this is childish. Do it anyway.

What they don't tell you

So it turns out I'm a lazy travel writer. I got all greedy with the amazing food and culture and sightseeing and decided my readers (if I had any) would be far more appreciative of travel pieces that had time and effort put into them. Not brief, mangled posts written at bus-stops and train stations and hotel lobbies at ungodly hours.



And this is what they don't tell you. That six weeks of travelling will undoubtedly be made up of the most mundane, impatient, long, gruelling, over-heated, sickness-inducing micro moments rather than 24 hours of amazingness a day.



They don't tell you that you will in fact get sick from bushing your teeth in crappy water in crappy hotels in barren locations. They don't tell you that you will wait an hour for the one bus that services an entire island. Or that 40 degree heat will make you want to do nothing but lie in an air-conditioned hotel room, even if the collesseum is mere metres away. That there are thousands of other people just like you at Every Single famous building, monument, painting or view. That you will queue for over an hour to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Or even that after awhile you will become completely desensitised to the pure fantastic-ness of your location. That after awhile all the little islands will look the same.



What they also don't tell you is that between every line of shoving tourists, after you've lost your last US$20, before the fiftieth Italian taxi driver rips you off and during the fourth stomach-churning ferry ride, something will happen. A moment of contentment. Goosebumps.



It's when your standing outside the Bellagio hotel in Vegas. It's midnight and you've left everybody else at the club just to watch the water show. It's writing postcards on a bus while your chugging down Route 66. Seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. Biking through the cobbled streets of Paris, in the rain, in a gaudy plastic poncho, trying not to get hit by traffic. The deliciousness of your first baguette by the Seine. Making like the Romans and having a siesta during the day and venturing out through the back alleyways at night, finding a piazza and devouring spaghetti, red wine, crusty bread, tiramisu. Black coffee. More red wine. Italian waiters whispering in your ear that they love you. The most amazing sunset you have ever seen in the most unusual spot. Deciding to head to bed straight after dinner in Ios but instead stumbling across a Greek band playing in the square, families dancing. Hours wasted.



It's looking back and realising that really, in fact, everything was just as it should have been.