A Misfitting Playboy

Take a group of young offenders. Dress them in orange jumpsuits. Place them on a grimy South London estate, tell them to get on with their community service, and leave them outside during an electrical storm. The result? Five superhero Londoners with a penchant for accidentally killing people and burying them in concrete.

I’ve been watching E4’s Misfits since it first started in 2009. The script is often brash, and certainly inappropriate for those of a sensitive disposition (think a great deal of swearing and allusions to sexual positions, preferences, graphic anatomical details… if its rude, you name it, they’ve got it) but is also hilarious pretty much every step of the way, and is absolutely filled with sharply witty comedy gold. A great deal of this wit and wonder is down to the cast, a group of young British actors who should be reaping the rewards of their hard work with film roles and red carpets before the year is out. Misfits itself has already won a BAFTA for Best Drama Series in 2010, and if the progression of the current third season is anything to go by, they’ll be collecting a few more at next year’s ceremony.

Sadly, for many Misfits lovers out there, in this third season we had to say goodbye to a dearly beloved character with a mouth like a drug fuelled ashtray and a sexual voracity only eclipsed by Hugh Heffner. I am talking, of course, about Nathan. Played superbly by Robert Sheehan, this character often dominated each episode by playing the comedy role against whatever slightly more serious situation there was at the time. While every Misfits character is wonderfully performed, there was something really special about Nathan, and fans duly rallied against his departure from the show. But when the third season opened, he had indeed been replaced by (I have to say) another actor equally capable of playing the necessary comedic role, by the name of Joseph Gilgun – but however funny he may be, he’s still no Nathan.

Sheehan’s decision to leave a show so clearly on the path to greatness could be criticised by some, but according to interviews, Sheehan was set on developing his acting talents in other mediums; first in film, where he starred in ‘Cherrybomb’ alongside Rupert Grint , and then in his first theatrical role, as the titular playboy Christie Mahon in J. M. Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World. Some friends and I decided to check out our favourite misfit in the flesh, and headed down to the bright lights of the Old Vic in the final week of the play's run. 

The theatre was packed when we arrived in Waterloo. Gaggles of school groups thronged the Old Vic's stately staircase, evidently a result of teenage girls badgering their GCSE drama teachers into taking them to see a relatively unknown Irish play. We headed up, and up, to the Upper Circle, where we squashed ourselves into seats directly relative in size to the amount we'd paid. There was also a sudden flurry in the shedding of clothing;  while preparing for a chilly November evening, most seemed to have forgotten that heat, in fact, rises. More so in a packed auditorium. Even more so when over half of said auditorium is comprised of young girls with rising flush levels. The curtain went up and the play began; no sign of E4's favourite rising star until a good ten minutes in. People shuffled. Currents of whispering around our (relatively) cheap seats; the Irish accents appropriate for the Irish play were evidently proving a tough nut to crack for young London ears. And then Sheehan stumbled through the onstage door, to a collective gasp of girlish breath, with an overly audible amount of high pitched squealing mixed in. Luckily, these noises weren't repeated much over the rest of the performance, as I'm a stickler for appropriate behaviour in the theatre (call it a result of being brought up in a very theatrical family). A comedy of heroism and romance in equal parts, the play details the story of a young man who arrives in a sleepy Irish village, claiming he has killed his father. and run away. He is lauded as a hero by the villagers, and captures the attention of the innkeeper's young daughter, Pegeen. They are about to be married when a sudden twist changes the outcome of the plot.

Sheehan's performance was commendable; despite resorting at times to a very similar characterisation as the one that's made him famous, he nonetheless conveyed a seriousness and depth to the role, and kept his comic timing. One personal gripe of mine was his apparent need to clutch his back - after many drama classes, its one of the main things I've always retained: never hold a limb to convey pain! The play overall was enjoyable, but sadly missed the mark it could have made, which I think was owing to the cast's slight unease and discomfort with the language. 

 There's certainly no doubt that a large portion of the tickets for this production were sold purely on the value of Sheehan's name. However, that fame has managed to push a gently amusing play into the forefront, and made theatre as a genre perhaps slightly more accessible to people who would normally choose to watch a TV show instead. Even if it's only some giggling girls ogling a celebrity face right now, that's still a group of people who may discover later on that they really enjoy the theatre. In which case, Robert Sheehan deserves congratulation for stepping outside his familiar acting zone, and trying something new.

The Playboy of the Western World

Soup Kitchens and Super Volcanoes

This Christmas, I'll be going back to school.  Not the one I attended in my teens - in fact, this is a boy's school a short drive away, which makes my visiting it all the more strange. Neither is it a chance to brush up on my times tables or relearn how to use a bunsen burner (although I do regret forgetting basically everything I learnt in those science labs). I'm heading to City of London School for Boys with a plethora of other Londoners, from all walks of life: some of us as volunteers, and some of us as guests. And the guests are the real reason I'm going. For basically the only time in any given year, they are given a different monicker than 'homeless', 'vagrant', or 'rough sleeper'; they are treated with respect and kindness, by an organisation desperate to give them some semblance of a good Christmas.

Crisis at Christmas are a homeless charity that spring into action over the festive period. Many people aren't aware that pretty much all of the homeless shelters, hostels and soup kitchens close their doors between Christmas and New Year, presumably as there simply isn't enough man power to keep them all running. At a time when many of the homeless are already feeling lonely, isolated and cold, it is incredibly detrimental to their spirits to have even less human contact than usual - and no beds, warm food or clean living conditions can push many over the edge. Crisis work with local councils to utilise offices, schools, and local buildings that have closed over Christmas, turning them into makeshift shelters. Over the years - the last forty, in fact - they have refined the way they plan the event each year, resulting in a range of different 'centres', such as the Women's Only Centre, the Dependency Centre and the regular Day Centres. In each of these centres, Crisis also invites as many professionals as want to voluntarily offer their services - and people sign up in droves. A typical guest at a Crisis centre can hope to visit a dentist, hairdresser, optician, doctor, masseur, and IT expert, as well as take part in art, drama, music and writing classes, play sports and board games, and pick up a variety of clothes from the clothes bank. Quite apart from all these services, they also know that, for the time they spend in the centre, they will be spoken to and treated like any normal human being; not ignored, not insulted, not looked down on, but given the undivided attention they deserve.

I've been volunteering with Crisis at Christmas for three years now, and every time I'm truly fascinated by just how meaningful an experience it is. Without sounding pious and preachy (my nearest and dearest will tell you I'm certainly not a religious person) you feel innately good about yourself after spending eight hours relinquishing all your preconceptions about the homeless. Although I was pretty nervous at my first ever shift. I found myself in an abandoned office building, standing with a group of wrapped up people who all looked more comfortable than me, probably because they knew what to expect. As the lists of volunteer positions were read out, I kept my hand firmly down by my side, unsure as to which experience would be the least formidable. Of course, the list ran out eventually, so I found myself with a group of nine others, being walked down to the canteen, where we were told to 'just ask guests if they've finished with their trays and clear up rubbish. Don't be afraid to chat, they'll all appreciate some conversation'. I couldn't say a word. Everywhere I looked, people in dirty, bedraggled clothes sat picking at plates of food, either engrossed in conversation with their friends, or looking gruffly down at the tabletop. Nobody looked like they wanted to talk. I somehow switched into waitress mode, and brightly asked people to pass me their trash, but didn't actually engage with anyone. I couldn't hold their eyes for too long. I was nervous that, if they actually tried to talk to me, I simply wouldn't know what to say.

And then I found a elderly man sitting towards the back of the room. He looked a bit like a deflated Father Christmas; bright white beard, craggy eyes with smile lines creasing at the edges. He was in an old tweed suit jacket and black trousers, quite thin, and evidently not very hungry from the food still left on his plate. I asked him if he was finished. He looked up.
"Oh, no.....

We talked about how he'd ended up at Crisis. He'd been a porter at a hospital, he said: then became a nurse, but who'd suffered from benign mental health issues over a period of years, which eventually led to complete alcoholism. He found himself living in a broom cupboard at a hospital in Bedford Square, and told me how he'd normally spent Christmas 'fading quietly away in front of the tv with a couple bottles of vodka' - until he'd discovered Crisis. The offer of a warm bed for seven nights meant the world to him, and he said he really felt like he was going to be ok - that 'everything's on track now'.

Over the next three shifts of eight hours each, I met a man whose dog was so good at talking that he'd flirted with the queen, a woman who was convinced of the existence of tectonic plates underneath the Thames that were eventually going to erupt, a young guy who kept drawing pentagrams with me in the air, and a lovely man who kept smiling at me whenever I walked past, culminating in a bone crushing hug on my final shift. Over the last three years I've grown more confident with every person I've talked to, discovering their family histories, life stories, secret passions and hidden talents. I have taken charge of arguments over clothing allocations, played some frenzied games of jenga, comforted guests when they've been emotional, and helped a young man put his poetry into a decorated pamphlet. This last one really hit me; even without being a poet myself, I was struck by how much this act meant to him. He'd spent the last few days typing and printing out his writing, and to put it all together into something presentable, something to be proud of, made me realise how ridiculous all the prejudices are. People are people, regardless of owning a set of housekeys or not.

This Christmas, the issue of homelessness is particularly poignant in the light of the Occupy Wall Street movement, which has seen copycat demonstrations spring up all over the globe. As winter draws in, the streets outside St Paul's Cathedral are still covered with Londoners voluntarily giving up their beds in protest of an issue they feel is more important. It's going to be even more interesting to see what the guests have to say about Occupy London; whether they approve or not, whether they've spent any nights there, how long they reckon it will last, whether it's a step forward in the fight to eliminate homelessness in London's streets. If anyone has a free eight hours between December 23rd and 30th, sign up to volunteer. It'll honestly be one of the most fulfilling things you do this Christmas.

Iceland Airwaves Music Festival: A Brief Review

It began in an airplane hangar, with an audience of only a couple of hundred people. Now in its 12th year, Airwaves draws thousands from around the globe every October to a city-come-village by the north Atlantic Sea, in order to present the feverish best in emerging Icelandic and international music.

The ticketed festival spans 5 days and kicks off in the early evenings, but the days are also filled with 'off-venue' gigs, and this is where Airwaves differs from your typical overtly structured, queue-monopolised, wristband-flashing music festival. These artists will play anywhere and everywhere; in coffee shops, libraries, cinemas, hostels, swimming pools, and sometimes even on the street. A casual walk through the city will often be derailed as you hear new music through an open door, and suddenly find yourself hugging a brick wall alongside strangers as you watch a guitarist fingerpicking happily beneath a coat rack.

This intimacy and a total love of music is what makes Airwaves so exciting. Many people, myself included, arrive with no prior knowledge of the artists or their music - but we know we'll leave with a plethora of new obsessions under our belts. The buzz in any given crowd throughout the festival - the nodding heads, closed eyes and tapping feet - certifies the feeling that you're among like-minded people with a thirst for new, unexpected, wonderful music.

Reykjavik is a small city, which makes it easy to move from club to bar as the night goes on, and you'll find yourself spotting the same familiar faces in different crowds. If you're lucky, you'll even end up jumping around next to the very attractive lead singer of the band who just played - a vast majority of the musicians really support each other's music and choose to attend the festival themselves, rather than sitting back in their dressing rooms.

This proves the festival's stalwart defence of homegrown talent, as international bands are only permitted to perform at one Airwaves. Ever. It means the focus stays strongly on Icelandic bands and their emergence into mainstream music channels. And there sure are a lot of them. If you think Icelandic talent only stretches to Bjork and Sigur Ros, you'd better think again. As the festival grows, there are more and more Europeans and Americans in attendance, all of whom are rapidly discovering the joys of Icelandic music. Mark it in your diary for October 2012, and get ready for a musical experience like no other.

Having Strength in my Convictions

I'm obsessively checking my inbox. About an hour ago, I pressed send on a very carefully worded email to my recruiter at the bar, saying that unfortunately I would no longer be able to start work on Monday. My stomach has tied itself into a knot, and I'm praying my phone doesn't start to ring.

It's pretty simple, really. Ever since I was offered the job - 10 days ago now - my mood has changed from jubilant to worried, and I finally realised last night that this was a feeling I really had to address. Despite my evident overthinking, it's not just nerves that's put me in this position. I'm giving up the chance to spring up and out of England at a moment's notice; giving up on two internships that have been offered to me, both of which will give me extra skills and insight into the travel industry; giving up my free nights for free days... And although I don't have the most booming of social lives, I do feel pretty strongly that I shouldn't be throwing away my chances to still see my 9-5 working friends. Particularly for a position that isn't actually necessary to me. Sure, it would be really fun working in a bar, I'd learn a useful new skill, something that I could 'utilise while travelling' (as I've told myself, my interviewer, and my father on numerous occasions) - but it suddenly hit me that if I managed to score this job on the previous bar background I already have, surely I could get the same position just as easily somewhere else, some other time? Fundamentally, when I'm in the mindset to happily dedicate 6 or 8 months, at the least, to working through the night, catching night buses, sleeping through the days and not actually gaining any skills that will be useful for my later career?

I'd thought about all this before, of course, but yesterday two things happened that really clinched it. First off, I had a phone interview at lunchtime for an internship. Somehow, despite knowing I had this bar job on my not-too-distant horizon, I still couldn't stop myself searching out relevant, exciting looking internships and sending off my CV (plus working in an office with no pressure has somehow forced me to spend a large portion of the last month refining my various pieces of writing) - and I've had replies to every one of them. The one I was phoning were offering an internship on a part time basis: my ears had immediately pricked up, as I reckoned I could probably juggle 45 hours of bar work across 7 days with 25 hours of a part time internship... Probably. When I talked to the woman in question, she asked about my prior experience, what skills I was looking to heighten, how I felt interning at such a place as theirs would benefit me... and then she reiterated my earlier email: that I wouldn't be free to start an internship with them until the new year, because I was starting a bar job. She brought it up, specifically.

"So... why... exactly? Are you working at a bar?"

I hummed and haahed in my head. I could hear the doubt in her voice, the confusion, and the - what was it? - scepticism.

I quickly came out with,"Oh... well, because I've been interning for a while and I need the money."

And, as I spoke, it hit me. Why actually am I choosing a job making drinks when it means I'm actively turning down experience in a field I will probably end up working in as a career? Why am I choosing a job people only do when they need a wage when I'm financially stable? And why am I committing myself to working in London for the forseeable future when I've spent the last four years of university proclaiming that I can't wait for the day when I disappear for a year at least, when I really travel?

Her reply was just as telling. With a slight laugh in her voice, I heard,

"Oh, so no huge aspirations to be a bartender then!"

That doubt in my chosen pastime, followed by relief when I assured her it wasn't my lifelong dream to work in a bar - that reaction really threw my whole mindset out of whack. Everything is stacked against working in the bar. I don't need the money, I don't like the hours, I don't want to make such a long and uncertain commitment, and most of all I don't relish the prospect that I'm willfully abstaining from opportunities that could really help me in the long run.

Yesterday evening, I met two of my friends for dinner, and relayed the whole nervous situation. They were amazing, supporting the points I made and also coming up with a few more of their own: that future employers are surely going to be more impressed with internships at relevant companies in the relevant field than bar experience, even if it does involve a dedicated skill like cocktail making. That this job is evidently making me unhappy before I've even started, and that can't be the best way to go into something new. That I got caught up in the application process, without really realising I'd be committing myself so fully to a job that left barely any room for anything else. That I can always get a job in a cocktail bar - but maybe instead of garnering training so I can utilise it abroad, maybe training when I travel is an equally viable option. They talked me out of my stress, and I talked to my dad, and they essentially made my decision concrete.

So I wrote down phrases on the bus ride home. I drafted an email. And this morning I sent it. Even though I'm scared of seeing the reply, I do think I've made the right choice. I'll potentially be interning for the next four months, putting me at the start of April, where I can make travel plans to be heading off to South America by July or August. There's a project in Bulgaria that I'm interested in, too, where applicants are fed and housed in return for training at SEO writing for three months. I would love to do that. I've applied to a travelling intern position that, if I get a place, would mean me travelling in Feb or March for a few weeks, in any given country they wish to send me to. I'm vaguely considering applying to EVS (European Voluntary Service). I have opportunities, and although they're only potential ones as yet, still I simply do not see the point in waylaying them all for the sake of a job in a bar which I DO NOT NEED right now. Enjoy, yes. Require, no. And that's all the convincing I need.

Iceland Ruminations

‘Do they have mountains in London?’ asked a girl from South Korea, as our breakfast boiled in a bubbling sulphuric hot spring. An odd question normally, but today we were standing in a cloud of natural steam on Iceland’s south coast; a country where a mountain is always in your eye line, and a double rainbow’s appearance is scarcely worth mentioning.

While many people know Iceland for its quirks -  the delicacies of fermented shark and sheep’s head, its lack of a standing army, Bjork’s wondrous hairstyles, and the location of an unpronounceable volcano whose ashy emissions caused air traffic uproar in 2010 - this little island on the Mid Atlantic Ridge also boasts a collection of the most incredible landscapes; boiling geysers, pounding waterfalls, black sand beaches and iceberg lagoons. Our volunteer group, based for two weeks in Reykjavik, had decided to visit as many of these places as we could.

Sitting in our hire cars, munching on freshly hard-boiled eggs, we headed next to Gígjökull, one of the glacial tongues now steadily melting after Eyjafjallajokull’s eruption last year. Part of the sixth largest glacier in the country, it hangs between two mountainous peaks like a draped tea towel. The sun was brilliant, the air crisp and clean, and though my fingertips and ears remained chilly, the exhilaration from scaling a glacier created more than adequate central heating. There are many tours offering hikes across the glacier, but we disregarded the need for crampons and ropes - my trusty fleece-lined Doc Martens did the job just fine as I leapt from icy peak to icy peak. Though, alas, not quite with the nimble agility I’d hoped for, as the black sandy dirt that covered these little bergs was prone to skidding. After unceremoniously falling up a particularly steep crest, I grabbed a handful of the offending stuff and discovered a pungent, ashtray-like aroma arising from it, not dissimilar to how my hair often smells after waiting at a smoky late night bus stop. This is actually volcanic ash, so fine it resembles sand grains, which still lightly covers parts of southern Iceland like blackened icing sugar.

We saw a dark space in the distance: the entrance to a cave, which had formed inside the glacier, due to the incessant melting. At first only big enough to crawl through (here my fear of small spaces immediately kicked in), the glacier soon expanded to allow us standing room in a spacious blue green cavern. A vast volume of frozen water hung above us, secured only by the sheer force of its own weight - and melting rapidly through its centre. The cavern looked more like a film set than the fleeting natural wonder it really was. 

Such is the nature of Iceland. Its form may often be transient, but the impression it leaves is firmly indelible - and every memory is normally dotted with the country’s ubiquitous sheep. The heads of which are, according to Icelanders, just as delicious as my breakfast eggs.

Shaken, Not Stirred

Next week I switch my timetable from working days to working nights. I am about to become ever so familiar with the London night bus system, and may not be seeing daylight for the forseeable future. That's right, ladies and gents: I'm working in a bar.

It's not just any old bar, though. Those who enjoy a classier night out in this city will probably have heard of Be At One, a cocktail bar reknowned for its happy hour and the potency of its drinks. With ten branches spread across London, its a perfect place to relax after work or meet up with friends in preparation for the night ahead. Be At One is famed for its 200 cocktails, all made with intricate care and skill, with bartenders who carefully taste test every drink they make to ensure it's exactly right. And, come Monday, I will be doing the same. Over the next two months I am going to be educated in the way of the cocktail, learning every single drink on the menu. Every one of those two hundred mixtures, from their ingredients and the order they're added, to the measurements and the glass they're served in. Despite having hankered after learning this craft for a long while now, I am ever so slightly terrified.

I'm not even quite sure why, really. I know it's something to do with being under pressure to learn so many drinks. I found out on my trial shift that we're tested twice over the course of the teaching; the first test, you can take repeatedly until you pass, but the second? If you fail it once, you're out. I completely see their reasoning behind being so stringent, but it's obviously a bit scary to know you can't afford to get things wrong, even once. The other thing that's getting to me is the fact that we're supposed to learn on the job. At one of my (many) interviews for this position, it was discussed that a combination of training would be given - sometimes on evening shifts, sometimes in a closed bar during the day. But I've been sent my first week's rota, and a significant part of my shifts are going to be when customers are very definitely sitting in front of me, demanding an impeccable margherita. And that worries me a little bit, as I quite dislike not being able to deliver when someone makes a request of me. That said, they must go through this with every one of their trainees, so it really shouldn't be bothering me.

The last thing, though, is both the worst and the most obvious. I'm not going to have any TIME. Pretty much every person I know - or see on a regular basis, anyway - works a typical 9-5. Up until now, so have I, and it's still been difficult to organise meetups around prior engagements and unforeseen events. Some of the shifts on this rota I've been handed start at 3pm and finish at 4. In the morning. Ok, so those shifts arent' mine (I think they're easing me in 'gently'), I can't even fathom doing an 11 hour shift - but even more, I can't concieve that I'll be able to do anything with the next day. Surely getting out of the bar at 4am means getting home by 5am at the earliest - sleeping after a bar shift is going to be 8 hours for certain - making it 1pm to wake up, eat some food by 2pm and get to work again by 3. For another potential 11 hour shift...

Ok, I'm obviously overthinking it. I'm not planning on working myself to death at this job anyway, so I'm sure I'll have at least 3 days off a week to sleep and catch up with people. But it's still something of a worry - not to mention having to book my friends into my diary approximately a month in advance and revering the occasion like it's gold dust. And ultimately, if I find it too strenous, I can always say the job is sadly not for me - although I hate the idea of quitting. I really I won't find it as hard as I'm portraying it. At the very least, I need to show off my cocktail making skills at all the Christmas parties I can find time in my rota to get to.

Too Many Pies

So I seem to have slacked off a little with this blog. And when I say a little, I realise that I haven't actually posted since before I headed off to Iceland... which, although it was only five weeks ago, seems like a significantly long time.

My life has got busy. I mean, even before I left, I knew it was destined to be busy on my return, but now I'm starting to panic slightly about the amount of pies I apparently have fingers in. I'm not overly sure if I have enough fingers. But let's start at the beginning, right? So I can type out my worries and frustrations, get them soundly out of the way, and move on to pastures new (hint: those new pastures are going to involve a lot more writing about more than just travelling!).

First off, I went to Iceland - Reykjavik, to be precise. I was there for two weeks, living in a communal house with plenty of other foreigners, all between the ages of 21 and 30, all cooking together, cleaning (or trying not to), coping with a volcanic toilet, a giant's kitchen and a questionable sulphuric smell whenever we turned the shower water on. It was interesting, sure, but it was also incredible, in every way possible. I met so many new people, saw some unbelievable sights, discovered some amazing new music, and decided that Reykjavik is the bolthole I will always know I can escape to when the going gets tough. Iceland's scenery is so awe-inspiring that if I ever run out of inspiration for writing, I know I can head out to the coast and find some again.

So Iceland was amazing. And in the back of my mind, while I was out there, I knew there was a travel writing competition running in the Guardian, the first prize of which was to journey out to Antarctica and experience the same trek that Shackleton made all those years ago. Within a few minutes of reading the competition outline - max 500 words on an adventure you've had in the past year - I'd decided I had already won, and started planning how many more layers I'd need in Antarctica than I'd packed for Iceland.

Turns out I didn't win. I was a little deflated, especially as it was already in my mental diary. Dates of departure and everything. But on reading the entry from the actual winner, a woman named Lucy Grewcock who had spent two weeks measuring the mouths of baby crocs in the Amazon, it was pretty obvious that she had structured her piece of writing much better than I had - it read like a commissioned piece for the Guardian itself. But no harm done. I realised that by sheer dint of entering that competition, I'd had a valid reason to really focus on a piece of writing, to hone it to the best level I thought I could. I started googling this winner (I can't help myself when it comes to a spot of casual stalking) and discovered that she is, in fact, a verified copywriter, who turns her hand to travel writing whenever she has the chance, and evidently manages to score some seriously reputable trips in the process. It really got me thinking; she'd gone from a degree in geography to teaching, had used that experience to be a trip leader with BSES, the Exploring Society that tragically lost a young member to a polar bear attack in Svalbard this summer, and now writes copy, editorial and journalistic pieces for a whole range of different places. Looking through her work history, I could see the kind of journey she'd taken to get to where she is now, slowly expanding and developing her areas of expertise - and I decided it's not actually too difficult to accomplish.

And so, with this new resolution in mind, I've made a concious effort to do as much writing as possible. It's upsetting that I haven't really had a chance to write anything poetical in a while, but for the time being it seems much more sensible to attempt writing in as many differing areas as possible. I've been interning at a Baby Directory for the past month, writing articles about baby swimming lessons, shape sorter toys and no touch thermometers. It certainly hasn't been as exciting as my Black Tomato internship, but at least there's no end to the writing that needs to be done, however simplistic or brief it may feel. I've also been keeping score of the places I eat at during this internship - Brixton Village Market is a stone's throw away, so I've attempted to visit as many different places as possible to sample their wares - and am in the process of reviewing them all on Qype. And lastly, I'm sending off writing samples to various online magazines, in order to get blogging positions on a regular basis. I've been asked to start writing for the Cultural Expose, a creative listings site for "hip & arty urban adventurers"; four posts a month and I'll soon have a backlist of articles to add to my vague portfolio.

It's time for my lunch break. More busy behaviour to come.