As I feared, the day has arrived. I am interning again. I have finally felt the aching swell of the Broonite economic crisis, losing my job as the lynchpin of the lucrative sex-business arm of multi-national non-fiction behemoth Dorling Kindersley, and returning to the depressing pursuit of sitting on the internet with nothing to do and not even having to pretend i'm working as i'm getting exactly zero pounds-per-hour for my efforts. Sure, i could have tried to get another interim job before my career as publishing magnate/professional country-punk guitarist finally drags itself into fruition, but the temptation to be subtley proactive and improve my cv instead of contemplating suicide at the mercy of Office Angels seemed all too sensible.
To coincide with this new development in my post-graduate life, i have decided to show the initiative Owain (who, incidentally, has reached the end of his antibiotics and thus should be infection and scab free by now) never did and start a diary of my experiences. Yes it will be banal. It may be unreadable in it monotone lack of events. But it will, to all purposes, be the most pure example of immersionist journalism ever to ooze from the fingers of a son of the Isle of Wight.
Day 1:
In attempt to look entirely ubiquitous around the office, i have worn the finest threads messrs Carnaby and Neal have to offer and ridden my single speed in. It has worked perfectly. As expected, the Vice stronghold is open plan, stripped brick and wood panelled. As also assumed, i have nigh on zero to do. the few tasks I have been deemed qualified enough to attempt luckily draw straight (potentially plagiaristically) from these very pages; i am researching to write blog pieces on a wave of Stalinist giant crabs desecrating the northern scandinavian shellfish populations, and on the american obsession with creating terrifying robotic animals for use in military and intelligence operations. Great. And that is about it. The potentially exciting caffeine headache i have developed from drinking too much Diet Coke is currently being soothed / exacerbated by the repeat playing of Sunn0)))'s new record, whilst my eyes are aching from staring meaninglessly at an antiquated computer screen. I am almost longing to be sent flyering around Brick Lane, and considering leaving early despite the fact that i have been here for little over 5 hours. Compared to being told i was 'Prince Charming' by a hoard of pubescent schoolgirls at the prep-school i worked in last summer, i feeling a definite lack of gratification for my trade skills. But worry not, readers, i will Indesign the fuck out of these reprobates yet. TH
