I'm sorry... no, I'm not.

I am currently employed. Hooray! I am a telemarketing operator, to quote my full and complete title. What I do is I call people - "Good morning, Henry Sparker, please." - and then guide them through re-registering for the magazine I'm working for on that particular day. If Henry's not there, not a problem. Either it's "That's okay, can you help me update his details on his behalf?" or, if he's actually left properly, "Okay, I need to speak to your *insert high level job person*" and then get them to do a full registration.

From the first day of my job, I had the idea that I might be quite good at it. Not the best in the world, but I immediately took to the work, found my rhythm and within a day or so, I was already at the level of the girls who started last week.

We get targets set by the hour. At the moment, my target is 10 successful registrations an hour, occasionally 11. A successful registration can be a short re-registration, or a longer full registration with someone new.

(Interestingly, if I am registering the same person but the postal address of their organisation changes, that means I have to do the full registration process, even if the company is the same and their job role hasn't changed.)

Since being set 10 an hour, I've only had a few hours where I've not reached it. Usually, I exceed my target of 10, or hit it right on the nail in the final minutes of the hour. Once, I managed to get 15. I'm not sure how, but people just kept saying "yes, I can help".

Now, the interesting part of what I do happens when Henry himself is not available to do a registration; all you need is a secretary, or a PA, or a colleague of a lower job rank. To get higher numbers per hour, you need to learn how to deal with people who aren't the direct subscriber. Sometimes they don't feel entirely sure they can answer the questions. Sometimes they are busy. Sometimes they've already received five calls already and they're tired of questions. In all cases, my job is to lead them through the questions, as quickly as I can, occasionally feeding answers for some of the questions that can be problematic.

The question that often trips up a registration is called "Digital or print registration?" on my data entry form. What I interpret that as is, "Henry's currently receiving the digital version of the magazine, shall we stick with that format?" You don't give them a choice (paper is expensive, we'd prefer them to take email), or hint too much that this is indeed a registration for the magazine, because for some reason, PAs get very nervous when they sign up their boss for free things. I can understand why, but it is my job to convince them that it's okay, because it's entirely free of charge and this miracle magazine material has useful stuff for any level of management in any size organisation. Plus, you'll help me reach target and get an extra 5 minutes of break.

Occasionally, by the time I get to the last question, which is an auditing question (to prove I'm not just making up subscriptions), the on-their-behalf subscriber sounds very quiet, and a little nervous. I hang up, and for about five seconds, while filling out the call conclusion form, writing S for Short in my time form, and starting a new call, I think about the little girl, Miss Susie Haynes, or whatever, in her office, not entirely sure of what's happened, or what she's done.

Don't worry, Susie.

The challenge of my job is dealing with Katies. Let me explain: I call for Henry Sparker, and instead, Katie picks up the phone. Either Katie's company has a no-name policy, or Katie's on a switchboard and she's incredibly busy and just can't talk, or she can't give details over the phone, or they do all their registrations by email. With these, it's not really Katie's fault, so I let it slide. I have to.

Sometimes Katie knows all the details and is the PA/secretary to Henry (i.e. perfect to do the registration), but refuses to give her full name and/or title. The last Katie scenario is the worst. She can give me that delightful little S on my time sheet, but she refuses to because of some misplaced idea of what security is. You tell strangers your name and job title all the time at parties, Katie, I'm sure; you just don't want to tell me these things because I'm not some anonymous hot bloke in a suit that you can physically see in front of you. As for Miss/Ms/Mrs, well, you'd tell Hot Bloke all that too, but with your low-cut top or your buttoned up "don't talk to me, Johnny" manner.

I know, I'm being harsh here. Katie's not being a twat for no reason. But, I guess people are afraid to be linked to doing anything. Especially when they're not sure they should be doing it.

So, this post is incredibly long so...

TL;DR - I have a job. It's going well, but I need to improve on working with Katies who can help but won't because they're afraid of security. And, in general, I need to continue to work on adapting my approach more to each phone call, developing a flexibility for each situation. I would apologise for being that person who calls on behalf of X Magazine, but, it's my job. I have to do it. So, I won't apologise. So there. :p

I'm surprised at how much I've learnt here, actually. What seemed like a simple, and mind-numbingly boring job has actually become very interesting.

"Is competition for graduate jobs too tough?"

So, as all graduates have known for ages now, you basically need a 2:1 for most graduate jobs now. I even said it a year ago. According to a recent article, some graduate employers are refusing to interview anyone with a 2:2 or lower. So, the BBC asks (on its ever delightful Have Your Say section), is that too competitive? Should we lower the criteria, make it a bit easier for graduates to get a job?

Here's a fact for you. It might shock some of you, but, here you go.

Graduates do not deserve jobs just for being graduates.

There! I said it! But, it's true. People, not just graduates, should get jobs because they'll be able to do the tasks required of them in the job. So, things like relevant work experience and interpersonal skills help. A degree doesn't in and of itself give you the relevant work experience or important skills required for most jobs out there.

In the past, you could leave school at 16, and then just head out, get work, apprenticeships, and all that. Nowadays, if you're not seen to be entirely hopeless at school work, it seems like you're expected to follow a conveyor belt of school, then Sixth Form, then uni. Uni is just something you do, another three years of school on top of the 12 you've already done, a rite of passage of sorts.

Seems quite sad that just because you're smart enough to do university, you're expected to do it. I know several people who would have been much happier just getting stuck into work from the age of 16 or 18. Admittedly, I know that certain degrees can open the door to certain jobs (you can't work in CERN without some really tricky science under your belt!), but you don't need a degree to lead a team of people, and it seems like you could probably get most qualifications as you work anyway.

So, where am I going with my ramble? Nowhere. To be honest, I'm unsure of what my job prospects are. Sure, I'm smart, I'll probably come out with that golden 2:1 (or even a First!), and I've got some experience from my time on the exec, and I've had employment before. I'm a hard worker. I'd hope I was employable.

However, I know that my module choices so far (i.e. choosing pure over applied) have meant that rather than having things that might be more useful for an employer, I've chosen fun, abstract things that don't immediately have a use, if they have a use at all. I take responsibility for that choice. I chose interest and fun over practicality and use. If that makes me less employable, I am not going to yell about my right to employment because I graduated from a top university.

I guess it's my responsibility to make myself employable. Find something that I can do for society, or learn how to do something that makes me useful to society.

Bulging brides, snap solutions.

I've been watching a show about women who buy their wedding dresses a little too early, and snack like fiends, so they put on weight. Oh no! So two exercise demons from health hell itself come to get our "bulging" bride down to size before the Big Day.

The first time I saw the show, the lady was a former figure skater. She wasn't actually overweight! She was just a little plump on the hips, which isn't a sin. Worse still, her measurements were tiny, and they tutted over her having a butt worth a damn. Maybe Exercise Demon Girl was jealous because she has no boobs and boy hips.

The show basically encourages the brides-to-be to restrict their diet for six weeks, and combine that with really hard work outs. So, salad leaves for lunch, chicken with one teaspoon of rice for dinner, 5k run.

It's not sustainable. I know, it's not supposed to be. It's supposed to be a quick-fix to get you into that perfect shape for the day when all eyes are on you. But, I know that these women will immediately pile on all the pounds once they reintroduce all the carbs, cake and wine they missed out on their 6 weeks of hell.

How about a show when you say stuff like "Stop eating Doritos *all* the time. Just have a little bowl, and leave the packet in the kitchen".

Or perhaps "Eat less cheese, but you can still have it".

Shock, horror, you could even say "Cake is not banned! Just don't eat a whole cake."

I simply don't believe that you need to get rid of all cake and wine and pasta to be able to stay fit. To get a seriously athletic figure, I admit, you'll probably need to get yourself some sort of plan designed for $28123o by some Dr Whatever in London, or LA. But, if you're just a regular sort of person looking to be a size 12 again, I reckon cutting down on the bad stuff, not eliminating, would be sufficient, as well as exercising, of course.

I've got the first half down. I'm eating normal sized portions again rather than the huge American portions I ate Stateside. Most of my old favourites are back, but I'm not eating cream cheese every day (delicious sacrifice, sadface).

Now I need to get the exercise bit in.

~~~

Turns out the show Bulging Brides have a Wikipedia page. Something tells me that there may have been some editing here.

No woman wants to be a bulging bride! (except those women who are confident in themselves, and believe the marriage ceremony is not about looking like a pretty princess, but instead about two people joining their lives together)

Right on!

I just had to tell someone...

... so let me just tell the whole internet.

I've been away for a few weeks now (might write about it later, might not). Currently staying at a hotel in Orlando.

And I have the biggest crush EVER on the guy who works the front desk at nights.

There. I said it. He's so tall, and gorgeous. And he said my accent was cute. AND he said he liked my new t-shirt (it's MIB-inspired).

I still like my boyfriend. I promise.

But this man is just so good-looking. He has a good voice as well, deep. Southern accent. Just makes me want to ruffle my taffeta and my long skirts and invite him to my impossibly large mansion for lemonade on the porch. (Yes.)

Maybe I'm just starved of that sort of attention. So when I've not seen my boyfriend for a month and an attractive man comes along, does his job (i.e. he's competent and friendly) and tells me that English accents are cute, I'm going to notice him.

I didn't do anything though. Don't really want to. (Window shopping is much better.) Although when I asked him to help me find my brother in the bathroom tonight (he'd gone missing), there was a lady who was like "What's the problem?" and I'm like "There's no problem" and she's like "Suuuuuuure" and I KNOW she thought I was going to have one with him in the bathroom. That's kinda gross. (If it's going to be public, choose somewhere more hygenic, or more inventive, while you're at it. The gym? The computer room? How about a conference room?)

I'll forget about him soon, no doubt. He'll just be a gorgeous hazy memory after we check out on Friday.

But, it doesn't stop him from being some very good eye candy for the next day.

I want my boyfriend back. Sadface.

Kylie, cocktails and boys.

There was a good piece of news recently, marred by a weird statement from the judge who created said good piece of news.

Good news: queer people actually have a chance of getting asylum in the UK for being persecuted because of their sexuality. Two men from Iran and Cameroon got the right to asylum after having been refused first time round. Quote from the article:

They had earlier been refused asylum on the grounds they could hide their sexuality by behaving discreetly.

Now, that's not fair, is it? A straight couple can hug each other, kiss each other on the cheek or hold hands in public. People would be in uproar if someone said they weren't allowed to show small signs of affection to their loved ones in public. And yet, it's okay to tell a queer person, "Well, given that you can just have a relationship behind closed doors, I don't see there's a problem."

Putting aside the inequality, rumours spread fast, especially in small communities. An unmarried person who solely entertains members of the same perceived gender to their house, well, it's not the norm, is it? Questions like, "Why does Woman X always have Woman Y over? Why doesn't she have a husband yet?" are inevitable.

Anyway. So, now the judge has ruled they can come in to the UK. Hooray! His two cents on the matter were:

Just as male heterosexuals are free to enjoy themselves playing rugby, drinking beer and talking about girls with their mates, so male homosexuals are to be free to enjoy themselves going to Kylie concerts, drinking exotically-coloured cocktails and talking about boys with their straight female mates.

I think that this is the sign of the journey that people are taking, when it comes to learning what LGBT+ people actually are. 50 years ago, we were abominations, nasty people with nasty lives, godless, decadent, wrong. Now, people see that, just like heterosexuals, we're people too. We have lives that we want to live. Some of these lives are more fabulous and glitter-laden than anything you could ever conceive, that's true, but not all of them. In the same way that not all straight men shag or fight everything they see, not all gay men wear glitter and sequins to work and say everything is fabulous.

But it's a start. It's a stereotyped start, but it's a symbol that says that progress has been made. I think that a lot of people in the community are too quick to say "This is bad, this is wrong, this could have been done better, I'm offended now." We need to look back, and see where we've come from.

We're not where we were. We're further on. We got somewhere. That's good!

~~~

On a slight tangent, I've been thinking about campaigning. Breaking down barriers like racism, sexism, queerphobia, etc. is like demolishing a wall. The first step is to get a bulldozer and ram it. Hard. Little chips here and there from hammers won't help. You need to get some strong force behind it, and break through. Now, once you've broken through, then you need everyone to get a hammer and start to chip away at the hole you made. If you try to use a bulldozer again to work, then people think, "Why do you need a bulldozer? That's overkill." and then, no matter how important it is to break down the wall, people only think of the fact that you used a bulldozer to knock over a few bricks.

What I'm trying to say is that we've had our Stonewall riots. Queers are doing relatively well today. Not as well as we could be, but we're doing well. We need to be more subtle in the way we change hearts and minds in places where we are doing especially well, such as the UK or America (of course, in places where queer people are still being killed, we still need to keep a bulldozer handy). Illustrating that queers are just normal people with normal lives, rather than constantly pointing out how we are SO DIFFERENT, will probably help with the whole "Treat us fairly" aspect of our campaigns.

I do my bit by just showing my friends that my queer life is pretty much the same as theirs, except sometimes I want to fuck people that have the same genitals as me. But that's just my two cents.

Questions of science, science and progress.

I got my third year results yesterday. 74 to the nearest whole, that's a First. It was what I had hoped for, and I think it's what I deserved, given how hard I worked, and how much I had to put aside and overcome to get there.

One more step to ascend. One more year, then I'll have done it. I'll have a Masters degree. Master of Maths. Sounds kinda awesome. (Not quite as good as Master of Physics, which is what my boyfriend now is. YES!)

I got an email out of the blue, from a familiar source. I used to be a part of Great Writing, a website where I would put all my scribbles and musings in poem-shaped parcels, and let the internet decide if they liked it.

I got a comment today, from one of the last poems I wrote. I wrote it right at the beginning of first year. I went along to the writing society's gathering, and they told us to write a poem, and I wrote something that wasn't what they were expecting. I wasn't sure if it was any good, so I put it up, and I got some good comments.

And today, I got another one. Same vein as the others, liking the same stuff.

I ended up looking through the whole back catalogue of work I've done.

It's good. Objectively, I just think it's quite good.

I need to start writing again. For my music, for my poetry, even my prose. It's not something I'd want to make a career of; I'd hate taking something creative I love and making it my paid work, and the fear of writer's block is enough to make me want to pick something I can consistently deliver, you know?

I love how when I'm just going about my life and then all the sudden a phrase pops into my head, followed in quick succession by a whole stanza, then nearly a whole poem. It's how I write; it's as if I'd been thinking about it, letting the poem gestate for weeks, and then I give birth, and there it is. Pretty much ready. Except you don't get really fat-looking if you're working on a poem subconsciously. (At least, I don't think you do.)

So, what's the summary?

I am a good mathematician, objectively. I was a good poet, objectively. I think I can be a good writer again. (It'll probably be easier to pick up chicks with good writing than with good maths, anyway.)

Hold your hats, folks!

At some point, I made a calendar of the last three weeks of term. I had planned for a couple people to come visit, as well as the Pride-y, debate-y things I'd hoped to do. Attend all the socials, read and gym in the gaps between.

What actually happened is some Tristan time, and lots of other random things creeping in. LGBT Midlands Coalition meetings, WSAF gigs, meetings with David Preiss (DAVID PREISS!), and so on.

In particular, the last five days have been particularly challenging. I suppose I didn't realise quite how challenging until last night, when, in a delirious haze of exhaustion and headpain, I made a cake and then fell asleep almost instantly.

So. This is what I have done recently.

Thursday: Meeting with David Preiss about 4th year project. To get ready for this, I'd had to read a 12-page document, and then read as much as I could about integration in general. On top of this, my brother had given me a piece of work to do too (writing some text for a website), due for Friday. So, already, the week had been quite full of writing and reading. The meeting went really well, then as soon as it was over, Tristan and I drove madly down the motorway to get to my brother's prize giving. After mingling and wine and dinner and "look this is the family house", we drove all the way back.

Friday: At some point in the early morning, say 3:30, we fell asleep. (I don't have a great deal to say about that bit apart from that it was both fun and amazing.) Woke up, eventually, got my brother's work done and emailed to him by the deadline, then rushed into the shower to see my housemate's band play their final ever gig, at WSAF. Came home, made food, went back out, Crash time. Oh, Crash. Drunken, dance-fuelled madness. Nick, Richard, Zal, Mash, Buzz, Engineering Matt, faces and crowds and wonderful things.

Saturday: Entirely unwonderful things, to start. Including lots of chundering. (I did party extremely hard). Hangover started to subside at about 4 or 5, just in time to rush into the shower AGAIN and get to campus in time for dinner in the Duck and watching more bands play at WSAF including the very fun Lilac Joke, and the ever-awesome Hot Magenta. Then, onto Last Exit. More bands, more dancing, and GUITAR HERO which was really good. I chose to play King Crimson. Seven minutes of guitar noodling at an almost impossible pace. Then, Matt and Buzz played Rush, "The Spirit Of Radio". LOL. That was hilariously awful. But, impossible to play. In the end, it turned out that Matt and Buzz had been looking at each other's corners, so they were playing the wrong stuff :P (Matt still won though). After a while, Tash and I crashed out, so Mash and I went home.

Sunday: A relatively relaxing day. Bus trips around the Canley area to pick up icing pens, since my local supermarket doesn't sell them big enough, and it was too hot to walk around, hence the bus. Finally got home, made some chocolate cake, watched England get thrashed. Iced the cake, decorated the cake, went to campus and back to give Katie a disc for the last acronym film social. Early bed time in time for the day ahead.

Monday: 6:45am start, for a 7:45am taxi onto campus, arriving minutes to 8, to await my lift. Why this horrifically real-person start? To teach debating at a school in the Banbury area! A full day with a group of Year 12s. I had a crib sheet, and it worked pretty well. I was nervous at first, but I grew to feed off their enthusiasm and really enjoyed watching the quieter girls grow in confidence over the course of the day. Lunch was 25 minutes, break was 10, the whole day finished at about 5 or so. Got to campus again at about 6 ish. Went to see Tristan. Began to feel kinda tired. Realised I had a cake to make for him. Took a taxi home, collapsed a bit. After resting for a while, I dragged myself outside to get Chinese takeout and then came home and ate it. I felt a bit better, so made the cake bases. By now, it was approaching 10. I realised I didn't have enough icing sugar. Left the house again to get it. Called home; a family member had died. I'm borrowing some of Mom's black clothes to wear for the funeral. (My first ever funeral, occurring the day before we go on holiday.) Mom'd also been to A&E, for some really bad allergic reaction she had. Got home eventually, icing sugar in tow, fell asleep for about 30 minutes. I couldn't help it, I was just so tired and hurty. All the lights and sounds of the house were just throbbing in my head and my eyes. However, I got myself up, took some Norah Jones downstairs on Audrey and dimmed the lights in the kitchen and iced the cake. After this epic set of manly endeavours, I went to bed and passed out.

I'm not sure exactly what possessed me to ignore everything my body was telling me, so I could finish that cake. It's like I found a strength somewhere. I'm glad I did it though. Not sure I'd have forgiven myself if I hadn't. Cake is SRS BSNS.

I guess people do crazy things when they're in... summertime. Yes, when they are in summertime. (That is clearly the word I want to use.)