Can I be a trainee journalist forever?

Somehow, more by luck than judgement or any kind of skill I have made it to week six of my masters in sports journalism course. Week six?! how the hell it it week six already, memories of Cardiff are fading (oh but how i still yearn to hear a welsh accent on a daily basis) and i am well and truly settled into life as a ‘simmie'(no i don’t understand that nickname either) at St. Mary’s. Despite my permanent state of tiredness which results in me not being able to form sentences until i meet some of my other hardcore commuters at waterloo, I am absolutely loving it. The course is brilliant, made all the more interesting by the marvellous collection of characters we call our lecturers. I shall name no names but my personal favourite is one who wears crocs with socks, quite often skips around the classroom and frequently expresses his exasperation at the British Constitution and how MP’s do ‘F**k all’. We all marvel at one of our visiting lecturers determination to ensure we write opening paragraphs that are as short as possible, and took great delight in discovering another has a dog named Beamish and a very pretty pink patterned shorthand notebook.

The horror of shorthand has taken over us all, the inability to write the word ‘it’ seems to be a particular sticking point for myself and although incredibly draining and slightly soul-destroying we cannot deny that our shorthand lessons often provide some of the best entertainment. Our tutor looks on in despair as we struggle to decipher passages about old ladies in orange overcoats, youths terrorising villages and chunky jumpers shrinking in the wash. I just hope her faith that ‘anyone can learn shorthand’ is not misplaced.

Joking aside our lecturers are brilliant. It’s quite obvious we are learning from people who really know their stuff and hopefully are equipping us with the knowledge and skills we need to make our way in a career in which we are often told you will be ‘overworked, underpaid but have a lot of fun.’ The best part for me, and I know it sounds soppy, has been my course-mates. It is always daunting, making new friends, even at the age of 21, however I could not have been thrown in with a nicer bunch. We have bonded over our tales of horrendous commutes (two even take part in what has become known as ‘the great train race’), ability to talk about all things sport, all day long, and after last weekend, the worst hangover many of us had ever suffered.

We have become very close, very quickly. Us girls performed the rite of passage to befall all groups of girlfriends, going to the toilet together on a night out, and the dancing, drinking and ‘in-depth’, at the time perfectly coherent and sensible, conversations that happened last Friday have only served to strengthen our friendship. I am constantly impressed by the talent and generosity of my course-mates, one who has lived the most exciting life I have ever known and today recalled a story of a night out which makes the hangover look tame. Another constantly makes me laugh with his remarkable skill at accents, general hatred of people and issues eating feast ice-creams, and another who will try and write a ‘top FIVE’ about anything. And I mean anything. When I received a text last saturday afternoon that read: ‘oh my god please tell me we didn’t so slut drops last night’ it made me realise we’d reached a level of friendship that is incredibly rare. When you are that comfortable with each other you deem it acceptable to drop to the floor in a nightclub thinking you look like Beyonce. I don’t need to tell you we didn’t look like Beyonce. I could go on and write something brilliant about them all, however I would actually be here forever. I have no doubt that in the mere six weeks I have been at St. Mary’s I have made many friends for life.

Even the commute is not that bad. I have become rather adept at waking up at 5.30 am and it gives you shared sense of pain with your fellow commuters who stumble onto the 6.25am train at Croxley clutching our copies of The Metro in a daze. I am now most definitely a seasoned commuter, I tut when people don’t let you off the train before trying to board, when people stand on the left on the escalators and those who think the middle of waterloo station is the best place to stop, put down their enormous suitcase and check their departure time. And whilst my bank balance, and waistline (250 calories for a small latte, i was gobsmacked) has not appreciated my incessant need for a chai latte from costa every morning, I like to think of it as my reward for being up at such an ungodly hour and spending what feels like half my day in waterloo station.

I cannot wait until that day comes (it must come eventually right?) that I secure my first job as a proper journalist, but part of me will be sad to leave my St. Mary’s bubble. It is slightly terrifying that we are already halfway through our first term, with just the one more to go until we are (fingers crossed) launched into the journalism job market with our shiny MAs and 100 words per minute shorthand (I’ve decided positive thinking is the way forward). Next May really doesn’t need to rush around because right now as a fresh faced,(well maybe not, the commute is most definitely taking its toll) wide-eyed trainee I’m having an absolute blast.