I have, dear reader, finally been a bona fide freelancer for the last few weeks.
After weeks of moping around the house, not working, moaning about everything and smoking a lot, my time came.
I've decided that it has little to do with experience, talent, skills, or event pestering. I think some unknown force, the Broadcast God, decides it's your turn and picks you. Sometimes, he gives you an amazing job in London. Sometimes, he gives you a rubbishly paid job in Skegness. Sometimes he gives you a freelance shift at the other side of Yorkshire. I took that.
So, it is with glee that I can tell you, a radio station in Leeds have been giving me plentiful shifts and paying, yes, PAYING for me to be a journalist.
I get to drive round in a brand new Honda civic, interviewing all kinds of interesting residents of Leeds; from bank managers to the producer of Spooks, from the late Pat Regan's best friend to competitors of GMTVs Battle of the Bride, and from a British Olympic nuitritionalist from Leeds to a Child Psychologist.
I get paid the same as a BBC freelancer.
And whilst the driving is plentiful, the SatNav takes me the wrong way up one-way roads in Leeds, and sometimes I answer the phone with the name of the wrong station, the work has reminded me why I want to struggle to be a journalist.
Cos it's fun.
Saturday 16 August 2008
Sunday 3 August 2008
The Devil's Arse, Lord of the rings and clotted cream tea
After much discussion, my boyfriend Chris and I decided that we couldn't afford to fulfill our dreams of travelling round South America, we couldn't afford a week partying in Ibiza, hell, we couldn't even afford a weekend in Blackpool. But we really needed a holiday. So we packed our bags and drove twenty minutes up the road to camp in a field for a night.
The beautiful village of Castleton is a popular camping destination for families of four and little old ladies looking for a countryside retreat. It is rarely a holiday location for a couple of recently graduated students with a penchant for partying, travelling and being a bit wild. However, we decided that the popular Peak District haven, boasting the 'Devil's Arse' caves and an underground boat trip through a cave, may just instill a little excitement to tide us over.
The Devil's Arse was, of course subjected to photographs featuring Chris's bare arse beside the sign. (Picture to be uploaded...) Once paying the £6 fee to get in, we were looking forward to our little tour round the "unusual rock formations, the eerie sound of running water and echoes of a bygone age". What actually happened was we giggled hysterically at our dumpy yorkshire tour guide, who's accent was so strong, he sounded like he was speaking in some historic coded language to confuse us. The limited information (that we could understand) that he gave us into the history and insights of the Peak Cavern was the following:
Some bloke called Neil died there 50 years ago, and he mentioned him "out of respect, because it would be disrespectful not to."
On a paticular trip into the caves, our guide and a man named Richard were cementing the ground, when Richard's dog Jake left paw imprints in the cement, and they l
eft them there in the hope tourists would think it was a cave monster.
Our guide informed us: "I love fossils, me."
It was very informative.
After our exciting day, we went for a traditinal english pub meal, followed by several pints and several Jack Daniel's. This was followed by a 3 mile walk, uphill through vast cliffs, in the pitch dark, as cars zoomed past. After giving up on hitchhiking, we pretended we were in 'Lord of the Rings.' It took about an hour to get back to the tent.
The underground caves were fun, though our 12 year old tour guide looked like he'd rather be at home smoking pot, and seemed extremely bored as he regurgitated appaulingly unfunny jokes and subjected us to shouting at another boat, pretending we had been down there for two weeks. Chris told them they were dead. We were frowned upon by the families and dear old ladies, partly because Chris was smoking in the queue, but largely because we are a young, unmarried, childless couple.
The highlight of the holiday was definately a good old fashioned cream tea, with clotted cream and jam, in Rose's Cafe. Delightful.
The beautiful village of Castleton is a popular camping destination for families of four and little old ladies looking for a countryside retreat. It is rarely a holiday location for a couple of recently graduated students with a penchant for partying, travelling and being a bit wild. However, we decided that the popular Peak District haven, boasting the 'Devil's Arse' caves and an underground boat trip through a cave, may just instill a little excitement to tide us over.
The Devil's Arse was, of course subjected to photographs featuring Chris's bare arse beside the sign. (Picture to be uploaded...) Once paying the £6 fee to get in, we were looking forward to our little tour round the "unusual rock formations, the eerie sound of running water and echoes of a bygone age". What actually happened was we giggled hysterically at our dumpy yorkshire tour guide, who's accent was so strong, he sounded like he was speaking in some historic coded language to confuse us. The limited information (that we could understand) that he gave us into the history and insights of the Peak Cavern was the following:
Some bloke called Neil died there 50 years ago, and he mentioned him "out of respect, because it would be disrespectful not to."
On a paticular trip into the caves, our guide and a man named Richard were cementing the ground, when Richard's dog Jake left paw imprints in the cement, and they l
eft them there in the hope tourists would think it was a cave monster.Our guide informed us: "I love fossils, me."
It was very informative.
After our exciting day, we went for a traditinal english pub meal, followed by several pints and several Jack Daniel's. This was followed by a 3 mile walk, uphill through vast cliffs, in the pitch dark, as cars zoomed past. After giving up on hitchhiking, we pretended we were in 'Lord of the Rings.' It took about an hour to get back to the tent.
The underground caves were fun, though our 12 year old tour guide looked like he'd rather be at home smoking pot, and seemed extremely bored as he regurgitated appaulingly unfunny jokes and subjected us to shouting at another boat, pretending we had been down there for two weeks. Chris told them they were dead. We were frowned upon by the families and dear old ladies, partly because Chris was smoking in the queue, but largely because we are a young, unmarried, childless couple.
The highlight of the holiday was definately a good old fashioned cream tea, with clotted cream and jam, in Rose's Cafe. Delightful.
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