Local radio person Rachel Killington traces some decisive events in the making of a graduate and broadcaster. (8/3/06)‘Make the most of your school days, they’re the best days of your life,’ my mother once said to me. Like most children, I turned my nose up and sneered ‘Yeah right!’ But she was. It is only with hindsight, age and life experience that I now realise what she meant.  Childhood – a time of innocence and blissful ignorance. Long summer days that seemed to stretch on forever, filled with ice lollies, bike rides and trips to the beach. Wintertime with snowball fights that inevitably ended up with sopping wet mittens being hung over the radiator, whilst I bawled my eyes out because I’d been mercilessly pelted by my older brother. Our days were filled with Cabbage Patch Kids and Transformers; entertainment provided from the likes of Phillip Schofield and a small furry gopher called Gordon. Even visits to the dentist were exciting as you got a sticker if you were good!
Children are eternal optimists, and childhood is the ideal time to nurture dreams and aspirations. You can do anything, or be anyone you want. My brother was going to be a fighter pilot or a professional footballer. And I was going to be… an actress. Or at least that was the plan. Somewhere, somehow, my childhood dream got tied up and strangled by the constraints of purse strings and apron strings. I decided against my Performing Arts degree. Not because I wasn’t desperate to do it – as I was – but because I found the prospect of living away from home and the financial implications of doing so far too daunting, particularly as I had no guarantee that I’d find work there. Student lifeSo I decided on a Media Studies degree at a closer institution, pacifying myself with the fact that I was still studying a subject connected to acting. I lived at home and dutifully boarded the London bound train to go to uni at a horrendously early hour, often wondering whether I should skip classes and carry on past my stop to the big smoke, to seek my fortune Dick Whittington style. I never did. I dutifully carried on my studies and graduated in 2004 with a 2:1 in Media Studies. Leaving university was a massive culture shock, and one I was ill prepared for. Although my degree was without doubt the most difficult task I’ve ever undertaken, and one that I worked extremely hard to achieve, life on campus was akin to inhabiting a fluffy pink bubble. Being a student allows respite from the inevitable interrogations – ‘So what do you plan to do now?’, ‘Have you seen the price of property nowadays?’ and ‘When are you going to get a proper job?’ Student life was akin to those initial childhood aspirations – I believed the world was my oyster, and with a degree I could do anything I wanted! Apply for a job? Surely people will be queuing up to offer me jobs – I do have a degree after all! The real worldI had been conditioned to believe a good education was fundamental to a happy, successful life. I believed everything else was inconsequential - that with a good degree, health, wealth and happiness would unquestionably follow? I was incredibly naïve, and the realisation that this wasn’t actually the case hit me hard. I had undertaken a substantial amount of work experience with various media-based companies whilst at university. I had a CV as long as War and Peace, and, of course, I had my degree, yet it made no difference at all. I soon realised my fluffy pink bubble had ungraciously burst, and I couldn’t carry on living in a dream world. Sadly, sooner or later we all have to wake up and take those initial tentative steps toward the window to look out at the real world, our eyes squinting against the brightness of cold, harsh reality. And so it was down to Earth with a bump for me. (22/3/06)Dreams, delusions and tears. To achieve a dream career in ‘the media’ you need to strip away delusions… Wise words indeed from Dr David Grant in Getting into the Media. But that’s just it. Nobody ever actually told me that. It was a lesson I learnt the hard way. Finishing university was an historic occasion for me. Submitting my final piece was like the dawning of a new era, and I felt liberated. (Although after working right through the night it may well have been sleep deprivation. Or a reaction to the copious amounts of coffee and Pro Plus consumed to fuel my nocturnal mad rush to complete everything on time). The elation was indescribable. No longer was I compelled to sit under a mountain of books and paper until the early hours, surviving on a diet of Dairylea Dunkers and Red Bull. No more did I try to convince myself that watching Hollyoaks, Coronation Street and Eastenders was imperative to the successful completion of my Media Studies degree. I was able to go to the pub without being consumed by guilty feelings that I should be studying, and best of all, I was able to flick through Heat magazine for the sheer pleasure of gloating at celebrities’ cellulite rather than to identify images of women that personified Naomi Wolf’s Beauty Myth. I was in heaven. I drifted through the summer months high on a heady mix of liberty and opportunity, revelling in my newly found freedom whilst deflecting well meant enquiries about my future career plans. I didn’t want to think about ‘grown up’ things like that. I felt I deserved a rest, and after 16 years of full-time education I was definitely in no rush to find full time employment! I believed I was justified – after all, surely it would have been futile to make plans before I even knew my results? Results day came. And went. Still I ignored the niggling voice that reminded me I should be pro-active in planning for my future. Instead I filled my days with sunbathing, beer gardens and music festivals. In time the days grew colder and the night stealthily crept in earlier each evening, and I began to realise that my Indian summer had to end. So I did the same as thousands of other graduates – I began the endless task of sending out CVs, and applying for yet more work experience. Most companies didn’t even bother to reply. I bagged my first ‘proper’ job purely by accident. I applied for work experience on a national daytime chat show and was accepted for a week’s placement. One afternoon I was called by the production co-ordinator on the show, who explained that she needed a runner for two days. I tried my hardest to impress and was soon offered more work, although I worked freelance.  I loved my job. Days were very long and the work was often physical and tiring, but it was so exciting knowing I was part of a team making a programme watched by millions, albeit that my part was only small. I worked in a team of around seven runners, and experienced all aspects of programme production, from making tea to location filming. Often the tasks were menial but I didn’t care, as I was finally doing a job I adored, within a subject I had studied. My parents were so proud when people asked what I was up to, and there was a fantastic social life too. I was so happy. I had managed to get my foot in the door and I was willing to work harder than I ever had before to keep it there.
But sadly, it wasn’t to be. (19/4/06)My graduation ceremony was one of the most rewarding moments of my life, and it’s a memory I’ll treasure forever. We arrived almost two hours early as my father was worried he wouldn’t find a parking space. We bickered over map reading on the way and I was reprimanded over my lateness as usual. My mother insisted on making a packed lunch ‘for the journey’, which almost ended in tears when a bottle of Coke got spilt. Despite the minor setbacks we arrived on time, relatively unscathed. After I put on my gown we went to have our pictures taken. The said images still adorn my shelves, split seconds captured from the day I had dreamed of all my life. My parents posed awkwardly for the photographer whilst dressed in their Sunday best. My younger brother and boyfriend framed the picture resembling Mafia gangsters in their hastily bought suits. And I felt like a queen perched in the middle. For me, my graduation was more than just collecting my degree. It was the realisation of one of my greatest ambitions and the fulfilment of my childhood dream. It almost made the stress of coursework deadlines, student loan debts and all night revision sessions almost seem worthwhile. Almost. The funny hatFrom a very early age I wanted to go to university, primarily to make my parents proud. It seems a superficial reason, and they have always told me they’ll be proud of me whatever happens, but a particular incident fuelled my desire. I remember sitting in my GP’s surgery as a young child, marvelling at the vast array of medical paraphernalia. There was always something interesting for me to gaze at whilst my mother was chatting, and after tiring of gawping at plastic skulls I became enthralled by a photograph on her desk of a young man in rather strange attire. On the long walk home I enquired about the gentleman with the ‘funny hat’, and my mother informed me that he was the doctor’s son, and was ‘a very clever man who had gone to university and got a degree’. I made my mind up there and then that I too, was going to be ‘very clever’ and get a funny hat so my mum would be as proud of me, as the doctor obviously was of the man in the photograph. I had no idea what going to university entailed, let alone how to get a degree but from that day I dreamed of wearing my ‘funny hat’. The full pictureMy graduation was fantastic and I loved every second. I was interviewed for the local paper and met up with friends I hadn’t seen since we left university. Apart from the fact I was convinced I’d trip over my gown whilst walking across the stage to collect my degree everything went perfectly. I was swept away by the excitement of the day and basked in the attention. I went to sleep smiling and got up early for my TV work the next day, itching to tell everybody. That morning we were told we would be losing our jobs, as the presenter was leaving. There had been rumours circulating for a while, but none of us had known who or what to believe, and I had been too excited about my graduation to worry too much about it. Ironically, my beaming face graced the front page of the local newspaper a few days later as the university results were published. The article from the interview I’d given said I’d been ‘catapulted into my dream job’ by my degree. I looked so happy on the pictures. Ignorance is bliss I guess. Naively I had assumed once I had my foot in the door, I would gradually work my way up the proverbial career ladder. But cruelly just as I had done this, the door disappeared completely. And instead of making my way up the ladder of success, I landed on a snake and ended up back at square one! (3/5/06)When I was a little girl if anything scared me, I used to hide under the duvet, shut my eyes tight and hope it would go away. When I heard of the job losses at the TV station I did just that – like an ostrich I ignored the situation and buried my head in the sand hoping it would miraculously disappear. Sadly though, the things that scared me as a child were usually imaginary - monsters under the bed, trolls and Dr Who’s Daleks. Most of the scary fiends could be kept at bay if the bedroom light was left on, and a big cuddle from my mum or dad hastily banished the rest. I knew it wasn’t going to be quite so easy this time, and this was one occasion where I couldn’t just rely on my parents to sort it out for me. I worked through the final few weeks in a daze, not quite believing what was happening. One minute I had been blissfully happy, congratulating myself on making the initial step on the career ladder, the next I was back to where I began. I waited for the inevitable final day at work, safe in the knowledge everyone was in the same position. When that day arrived I was horrified to realise that many of my colleagues had secured themselves jobs in other areas of the company for when the series ended. I left the studio for the final time feeling betrayed, isolated and dejected. I couldn’t face attending the ‘wrap’ party, so just went home. A well-earned break?At first I delighted in the endless free time I had. People were very sympathetic, and I felt I deserved a break from working 16 hour days. Phillip and Fern became my best friends and if I was awake in time to catch the end of GMTV I would class it as getting up early. I whiled my time away half heartedly looking for jobs on the internet, eating junk food and feeling sorry for myself. However, very soon the sympathy people had expressed became scorn and I faced Christmas with no money, no career prospects and no faith in myself. I felt a failure. Christmas and New Year came and went in a blur of mince pies, paper hats and mulled wine, and by mid January I realised I had to do something drastic. I launched into my job hunting mission with renewed enthusiasm. I redrafted my CV. I applied for every media-related job I could. I secured two more work experience placements. I bought a new wardrobe of power suits and kitten heels in preparation for the fantastic job I was planning to secure. I even had my hair restyled! I was determined to convince each and every company I applied for that I would be an invaluable asset to their team. But it didn’t quite go to plan. Many companies didn’t even bother to acknowledge my applications, and I began to get disheartened. I wanted to find out where I was going wrong, and what I could do about it, but nobody was particularly forthcoming. Tuning inOnly after I had sent two emails enquiring whether the vacancy had been filled did I get a reply from one company. I applied for the ‘editorial assistant’ vacancy on a local free newspaper, and was dismayed to be informed that I did not have enough experience for the role, particularly as one of the main responsibilities of the job was opening the post! My confidence began to wane with each rejection, and I began to doubt my own ability. I even began to question whether my degree, the one thing I had dreamed of since childhood, had been worthwhile. But every cloud has a silver lining or so they say. One rainy Tuesday morning there was nothing interesting on the television, so I decided to switch on the radio instead. That decision may have seemed inconsequential at the time, but what happened after that changed everything… (31/5/06)As a child I was always dancing around, hairbrush in hand, pretending I was on Top of the Pops. Every Sunday afternoon I’d take my mother’s tiny kitchen radio up to my bedroom and positioned her portable tape recorder next to it. And there I’d sit for the next three hours with my finger hovering above the record button, listening to the top 40 singles chart. I’d often make my own ‘radio shows’, talking about anything and everything for hours on end. I adored radio, and still do. I used to imagine everything that was being described – it seemed so vivid and exciting. I always thought of radio as ‘books for the ears’ – you are given the words but it’s your imagination that bridges the gaps and fills in the blanks. Radio gives the consumer freedom to carry on with other tasks whilst still reaching target audiences, and I believe it is one of the most powerful mediums in society today. I’d always imagined myself working in radio but never ever thought I’d be good enough, particularly as I’ve never been too fond of the sound of my own voice! And even though I was awarded a distinction in radio production during my HND and had spent over two years doing work experience for my local commercial radio station, never once did I ever think I’d get the opportunity to do a job I love and get paid for it! Sixty seconds to impressI was fixing my hair in the mirror when I heard it, and my blood ran cold. An advertisement for new ‘Black Thunder’ team members at the radio station where I had undertaken my work experience placement. You were given 60 seconds and if you impressed you got through to the next audition stage.… but if you didn’t… then what happened? That was what filled me with dread, and almost prevented me from going to the audition at all - the fear that I’d go for the job and be desperate to get it, only to find myself back at square one again. I’d had enough of constantly being rejected. The next week was unbearable. I should have been excited at the possibility of getting a job I wanted so badly. Instead I was worried sick that I wouldn’t get it. I convinced myself that I had no chance; therefore anything other than total rejection would be encouraging. I mulled over audition possibilities. Should I burst in, all guns blazing pelting out ‘The sun will come out tomorrow’ from Annie? Should I pretend I’m on Blue Peter and make a contraption using loo rolls and sticky backed plastic? Or should I just use the 60 seconds to introduce myself and try and convince the panel that (A) I’m not mad, and (B) I really do want to work in radio – I’m not just wanting to try and become famous. I decided that the latter would be the safest option. Plus I’m not that great with sticky backed plastic. Pop Idol revisitedI almost turned round and went home again when I reached the radio station. It was like a scene from Pop Idol, masses of young people all desperately trying to get through to the next round. All that was missing was Ant and Dec and someone singing ‘Kum by Yah’ on an acoustic guitar. The women were dressed in tiny skirts and skimpy tops, and most were stunningly beautiful. I felt like a fish out of water, but before I had the chance to run for the hills I had a name badge slapped across my chest and was led down some steps into the audition room. It was the longest 60 seconds of my entire life, and as I left I was told I would receive a phone call should I be successful. Convinced I had no chance I trudged home and attempted to cheer myself up with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and my Dirty Dancing DVD. But I had barely watched the opening credits when the phone started to ring… Share your comments and experiences. Picture with thanks to Bournemouth University.
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