Paxman’s days are numbered
PUBLISHED: 12:06 27 January 2006 | UPDATED: 10:25 07 September 2010
After what feels like several thousand rejections from various media production companies things are getting desperate. Being a true Jewish Princess I am genetically and environmentally ill-equipped to deal well with rejection. My initial mannered silence
After what feels like several thousand rejections from various media production companies things are getting desperate. Being a true Jewish Princess I am genetically and environmentally ill-equipped to deal well with rejection.
My initial mannered silence is replaced with sulking. I get irritable, then angry, then I start destroying things. By the middle of the week I am accusing my parents for their gross insensitivity in passing on defective genes. And then I give in and get my fix. That really helps. Department stores like Selfridges and Harvey Nicks are best. With dwindling resources I recently managed a trip to Primark before things went downhill again.
My father steals the opportunity to say in a faintly apologetic tone: "I hate to be unreasonable, but you have to get used to the idea that you have to earn a living".
And of course he is right. It is unreasonable.
Luckily I began to recover my poise on Wednesday when I received a call from the BBC world service while standing in a queue at Camden Council.
Camden and I seem to have developed a number of misunderstandings regarding my parking and driving habits.
Let's be honest, this business of driving a car around North London is very different from the glossy and liberating experience the car manufacturers present when they advertise their wares in cinemas and on television. Am I the only one who notices this?
Nobody in these ads ever gets a parking ticket, or a speeding fine, or is caught in the bus lane. Camden Council's traffic management department seems not to be influenced by these ads at all. And they also seem to have it in for me.
I have my own team of wardens following me the minute I leave the house to shower me with their cute penalty notices wrapped in plastic. Funny thing is, they are always wrong. Fortunately they eventually give up and withdraw but it does take a battle.
Anyway, there I was explaining to this Camden parking officer that my expired parking meter offence was not really a contravention but the result of an extreme emergency that arose around a split nail incident, the full severity of which he was probably genetically incapable of understanding, when my mobile goes ring-ring and it is the BBC offering me a few weeks of work experience in radio production!
Now, exciting, as this is, it poses a number of real problems. Most importantly, what should I wear? I mean radio is so anonymous. Does it matter? On radio everything is going to have to be distilled into the spoken word and there is not much point in lip-gloss. My carefully manicured appearance will be wasted.
Secondly, what do I tell my friends? Can I at this late stage admit I am a secret Radio Four listener when my contemporaries are all pop station music addicts? My princess image and the carefully nurtured facade of dizziness I have cultivated could be in danger of shattering. I would hate to raise people's expectations of me - especially those of my parents and friends!
From the application I had submitted I was hoping for Jeremy Paxman's job or something equivalent but ok, starting at the bottom is something I can do, despite my distaste of meritocracies.
It occurs to me that they may be reluctant to let me loose on the listening public immediately. I may need a voice coach to undo all the elocution lessons my parents forced upon me. I probably need a cockney or northern accent like other successful media personalities.
So I tell my father about the new development in my career. He is fully supportive and expresses his approval by opening his wallet and saying the magic words: "Help yourself".
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