There are a plethora of things in this world which scare me: artists, Sarah Palin, hippies. None however are quite as scary as the thought that one, rapidly approaching day I will have to get a job. I cannot stress how much pain, anguish and heartache this is causing me. It's not that I am averse to work. I've had plenty of tedious jobs, and I do mean tedious. I once had a job at a screw sorting factory; it's exactly what it says on the tin. The joke was I wasn't even sorting screws. A big machine sorts out screws into B&Q sized packs. The mission which I chose to accept was to watch and count the screws until the machine put the wrong number in the little plastic bag then react with cat like reflexes to correct the frankly schoolboy mistake, eight hours a day, six days a week. Considering the line of work, the staff were refreshingly chipper about the whole thing.
I'm at a loss as to why I fear the real world quite so much, it's not that I love university life so much that I wish I could never leave. Don't get me wrong, university is fantastic and I suspect the last time I'll get paid by Gordon Brown to uphold a social life but you know the kinds of people who say they just LOVE university, "I just never want to leave" people, "mad" people, most certainly "totally random" people? I can't stand them. I am defiantly not in that camp.
I've come to the conclusion that the source of my anxiety is because choosing a career path is one of the most important choices that you'll ever make. The most important decision I've ever had to make to date is which colour of iPod to go for. I'm not good at important choices for the plain and simple reason that I never actually had to make any. iPods are simple, there's only two colours to go for any everybody knows the black one looks the best, but jobs, there are plenty and I just don't have a clue which one to go for. I genuinely have no idea what I want to do when I grow up, so much that I've started to warm to the idea of a communist style society where I'd just get told what job to do. Assuming this doesn't happen anytime soon I'm going to have to make some choices and some pretty snappy ones at that.
The doors for internship applications are closing all around me and the ones that haven't are going to be ruddy hard to get into, no thanks to this financial crisis palaver. What we all strive for is that perfect job: enjoyable, well paid, short hours. For some time I could certainly see myself heading down the media route - what could be better than prank calling old people. I've been dreaming of a job since I was twelve which actively required a churlish sense of humour. As if it couldn't get any better it's for 2 hours a week and pays three mil a year! When can I start? Since somebody's gone and ruined game for us all I've found myself returning to look for a possibly city career.
It is at this point that my brain chimes in. You see the problem with my brain is that there is a tiny bit of hippy locked in there. Every now and again it rises like a phoenix from the ashes and reminds me that when I'm lying on my deathbed, due to stress, aged 35. I'm not going to look back at my life in the city and think "blimey, if I could do it all again I'd spent more time in the office".
Never fear, I've found the remedy. 1: pull yourself together, put down The Guardian, and get a Tory speech up on YouTube. And 2: think of the money. You get a solid 2 days a week to blow it all and what a two days that could be. Working in the city cannot possibly be more degrading than being lower in the food chain that a screw counting machine and even if I am bedridden at 35, it'll be in the luxurious comfort of a Bupa hospital.