London Fashion Week (LFW)

I'd never felt so fat and frumpy. As I turned the corner and joined the growing queue of matchsticks, my excitement vanished like a white rabbit in a magicians hat. I cursed myself for not making more of an effort, wishing my fairy-godmother would miraculously appear with her wand and spruce me up like Cinderella, Stars in their Eyes style.

I was queuing for "Fashion Fringe", a particular event during London Fashion Week (LFW) that promotes young and budding designers' A/W collections. I'd managed to get a last minute 'press' ticket and had to pass myself off as a fashion journalist. Fortunately for me that wasn't too hard given the fact my last job was at a national newspaper. As I waited for my other friends in line, I took the opportunity to look around at the outfits on display. Spandex cycling shorts paired with platform shoes, painted faces, paper mache hats; it was like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, unusual to say the least. By the time I'd reached the front of the line, my friends had found me and we were ready to go inside for the champagne reception.

Immediately we were greeted by hosts offering a whole range of drinks. As a teetering alcoholic I didn't know where to look or what to choose. White wine? Yuck! Red wine? Drowsy. Beer? Too butch. Champagne? Bingo, bottoms up! I paced myself. "Sip, don't chug" I told myself, as I glanced around the room for any celebrities to 'interview' remembering momentarily I had to keep up my journalistic facade. The walls were adorned with plush fabrics, low lights and catwalk images which loomed down on me inadvertently making me want a new wardrobe....and a new body.

Disrupting my self-deprecating evaluation came a shallow, mellifluous voice cooing over my shoulder.
"Chanel?" she whispered, touching my floor length black skirt, uninvited.
"Er, no it's er...from Norway."
"Designer?" she continued.
"Er...no." I admitted, shuffling my £3 vintage Dior bag into view, making a feeble attempt to distract her from asking any further questions about my 'market' clothes. I cursed myself for succumbing to the pretentiousness of the occasion. Sure enough I had more pressing issues to worry about...like finding my seat.

People had begun to filter out the entrance hall and were making their way to the showroom. After necking back my final glass of champagne, my friends and I followed suit. Unfortunately, we were all sitting in separate seats, myself on the other side of the catwalk. My first obstacle was finding my block and row number. In theory, it shouldn't have been hard due to the fact there were only four rows. The reality was a different story. The rows were already brimming with over-eager student designers and wannabe fashionistas; everyone had conveniently ignored their seating numbers in order to try and get the best seats. All but one was filled. I speedily made a beeline to the empty place and began disturbing the peace. Like Pumba at the watering hole, I wriggled my way down the row towards the unoccupied seat in the middle, consequently making everyone stand up as if it was a Mexican wave. As I leaned forward for balance, my onion booty rubbed just about every crotch down the line and as I wedged myself into the chair I was grateful for the dim lighting concealing my flushed cheeks; hidden embarrassment.

Just as I had regained my composure, I was startled by a multitude of flashing cameras directly aimed at me. Me?! Why were the paparazzi taking photo's of me? Alas, it wasn't me, it was the blonde haired beauty sitting directly in front. Claudia Schiffer. I was just an extra. My uncontrollable 'fro offering a touch of ethnicity to the picture, a background aesthetic. I didn't know what to do with myself. Smile sheepishly like an idiot passing by in the background of a news report? Unsuccessfully pretend not to be phased by the supermodel inches away from me? Indulge myself in a fabricated conversation with the stranger to my left...or right? Too late. The cameramen were ushered away and the show was abruptly underway.

Three designers showcasing each of their collections in just under fifteen minutes. It went by in a flash, as did the click of my camera. I'm not really fashion savvy. Not savvy enough to describe the different outfits and designs, but nonetheless I enjoyed it apart from worrying if the malnourished girls would keel over and crumble into a heap on the catwalk. Most of the girls looked half dead, like ghosts, their faces lit up by the strobes as they scuffled rigidly down the aisle in unbearably high heels. Part of me hoped they wouldn't trip. The other half wished one of them would just for some free laughs.

When the lights came on signalling the end of the show, I grabbed my stingy, 'credit crunch' goodie bag, filtered through the crowd to find my friends and we made our way to the afterparty to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. By this time, I was less concerned with mingling and *ahem* 'conducting interviews' and more concerned with the free food on offer. I cowered in the corner by the kitchen doors to get first dibs and unreservedly helped myself to canapes off the tray. Pate, mini burgers, macaroons...you name it, I grabbed it. In a drunken state, with a full belly and a free goodie bag, there was only one thing left to do. Go home.

It Would Only Happen To Me

There are three reasons I don't have an iPhone. First reason: predictive text. Second reason: I don't like jumping on any bandwagon. Third and final reason: I hate touchscreen phones...with a passion.

Of course my aversion to touchscreen phones drastically slims down my choice when picking a smartphone. As much as I don't really care what people think, I don't want to walk around with a brick like Dom Jolly from Trigger Happy TV. For this reason I have a blackberry bold 9900, which I was duped into purchasing by a pushy sales assistant eager for an obscene amount of commission. In the words of Julia Roberts; big mistake. Big. Huge! Why? Because as well as having a 'qwerty' keypad, I stupidly didn't realise it doubles up as a touchscreen too. At first I thought I could overlook this flaw and grow to love my little gadget, thinking maybe, just maybe, I'd get the best of both worlds. Woe is me, that wasn't the case. Instead of getting the best of both worlds, I got the worst of one.

The other week I was on the phone to a girlfriend having a good old gossip. She was telling me about some arsehole who'd been messing her around for a while and how she was so 'done' with the whole situation that she was ignoring his persistent texting. Of course, as a friend, I readily gave my opinion on the matter along with some earnest advice. Before long I was jabbering away uncontrollably, procrastinating about some bugaboo douche who'd been harassing me with salacious texts; I suppose it was my way of empathizing. I didn't stop for a breath as I ranted and raved letting of steam. As I continued to talk, there was a quiet beep in my earpiece. Call waiting. I momentarily took the phone away from my ear to see who was flashing up on caller ID; my boyfriend. Without thinking I placed the phone back against my ear and continued to let off steam. I was on such a roll that it didn't even occur to me I was getting no response or affirmation on the other end of the line. Oh well I thought, she must be loving the story. Within moments I said: " Just wait until you hear what this prick said to me. I'll read you the texts." Taking the phone away from my ear once more, I quickly pressed speaker phone and tapped 'inbox'. With a full screen of saucy texts in front of me I relayed them one by one out loud.

"I miss your ass, no-one has an arse like yours ; )" (him)
"Hey booty, where u at? You ignoring me?" (him)
"Crawl back into your hole" (me)
"Don't be mad. I bet your boyfriend can't please you like I can...I miss you. I miss us. (him)
"Wanna come over to mine?" (him)
"Wanna go for Nando's?" (him)
"Wanna ride...on me? : p" (him)
"Wish you were here to back that ass up on me." (him)

After finishing the texts I said : "Honestly, he riles me so much I just want to barr his number, eurgh!" I was about to continue talking once more when I heard a deep eruption on the end of the line. "HUUHHHHHH?!" My heart stopped then sank, as if it had been slammed against a window and was slowly sliding down the glass. I abruptly fell silent, rapidly clicked back onto my home screen and found my boyfriend's name glaring back at me. FML; the touchscreen sensitivity had switched the calls. I didn't even have time to think. My mind went blank with panic.

"Oh, you been caught OUT! You been caught Steph! he bellowed in his American accent.
"Err...." Words failed me. Before I could even reply my phone beeped again. I looked at the screen once more and it was my friend calling back. Bollocks!
"'Err' what?" he chimed in brazenly. "'He arouses you so much you wanna buy his number?!' What the f**k?!" He roared.
"Nooooo. No, no no. Arouses me? No baby, he riles me so much, I just want to barr his number. It's just some idiot guy. It's not what you think!" I begged.
"What the hell is going on? I don't understand! Why are you telling me this?" he said more calmly.
"Um..well..I didn't know it was you. One minute I'm talking to my friend and the next thing I know you're on the line. Why didn't you say anything?"
"Well I thought it was weird, but then again so are you." he said as an easy jibe. "I just assumed you were really excited to tell me something so you skipped the 'hello's' and started nattering!"

The conversation went on a little while longer, where I made every attempt to try and redeem myself. Graciously, he accepted my explanation to be the true version of events and within minutes we were back to normal, though I couldn't help thinking the situation could of ended much, much worse. After I was off the phone, I called my girlfriend back immediately and told her the whole story as she sniggered uncontrollably. "That kind of shit only ever happens to you." she said smiling down the phone. And she's right. That kind of stuff would only happen to me. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the pitfalls of a touch screen phone.

A Day in the Life of...

List the perks of most jobs. A salary- evidently, a company car- perhaps, bonuses- maybe, freebies- occasionally, a pension- if you're lucky. But what about gossip? I'm not talking about office gossip; uncovering the trials and tribulations of your emotionally overloaded colleague, a sordid revelation that your boss has a 'fiddle' in the toilets, or actively seeking out the scandalous stories of the incompetent bitch who sits two desks away. Understandably in an office environment, one needs to alleviate oneself from the monotony of the mundane through gossip- be it meeting at the water cooler or sneaking out for a fag- but what if you don't have to chase gossip? What if gossip comes to your door all day everyday and your job is simply to sit, listen and digest the information? Welcome to the job of a journalist.

Contrary to popular belief, what you read and hear about in the media isn't the result of whimsical investigation. No matter how big the story, scandal or expose, the end product is always a result of a primary lead or an 'undisclosed source' who divulges the initial information. The trouble is when you work on a national newspaper, you receive hundreds of phone calls daily from people who deem their story to be front page news. But how do you know if they're telling the truth? In my time I've heard everything from "I had a threesome with a premiership footballer and a midget" to "I've just seen Elvis Presley in McDonald's" and much, much more.

Last week I was asked to do some freelance work for a national UK newspaper. On my first shift, after trawling through the wire (an internal news system journalists use) I sat twiddling my thumbs waiting for the phone to ring. As expected, I didn't have to wait long.

"'Allo? 'Allo! Yeah, I wanna report a story....yeah, yeah...I jus' seen Osama Bin Laden in Leicester." mumbled a gruff voice.
"Oh really? What was he doing?" I asked, humouring him.
"Well, I just seen 'im coming out my local corner shop, hijab and all, carryin' a pint'o milk- didn't have time to take a photo though." he said regrettably.
"Very good of you for calling us Sir, but unfortunately we have no evidence. Do feel free to call us if you have any proof of your findings."

After placing the phone back on the receiver I let out an almighty cackle; it was my only form of release after having to remain professional. I didn't have long, the phone rang almost immediately. I took a deep breath and braced myself.

"Hello, news desk" I said.
"Yeah I got a story, how much you gonna pay me?" he demanded.
"It depends on whose involved and what the story is, Sir."
"Well basically yeah- um- I met this bird down the laundrette. I'm a chimney sweeper you see and I was washing my clothes and this bird walked in yeah and we got talkin'-we hit it off. Had a bit of a fling with her you know?
"Right...so what's the story?" I said, encouraging him to hurry up.
"Well 'ang on love I'm getting to that. She's called Clare- and we started having sex."
"What? IN the launderette? I said in disbelief.
"Na na we 'ad a fling- next thing I know she tells me she's married to some famous Australian geezer called Alexander Bunyip. Obviously I was gobsmacked. Anyway...he found out I was shagging his misses and now I got the FBI and the CIA after me. Help!"
"Sorry sir, but what has the FBI got to do with it if you're a British citizen and he's Australian?" I said, with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
"Well I'm calling for help! I'm in hiding, he got his heavies after me and I can't leave my house."
"Sir, without sounding rude this is a national newspaper not a Samaritan hotline. I'm sorry for your circumstance but we won't be able to run this story, it's not newsworthy."
"Whadddayamean it's not newsworthy! Who are you to tell me what's newsworthy?"
"Who am I? I'm a journalist. And I'm telling you it's not newsworthy. Thank you for calling Sir, goodbye." I said bluntly after using up my last ounce of patience.

Slamming down the receiver, I was annoyed at allowing myself to become riled by this man's behaviour, but it didn't stop me from conducting some pointless research into exactly who Alexander Bunyip was. A mythical cartoon character. Great, another prank caller. The most astounding thing is people actually think they can get away with feeding us lies in the hope of a lump sum payment for their story. As well as being highly insulting to my integrity, this man had simply wasted my time for no reason at all. This is the constant burden of a journalist; sustaining professionalism when you know full well that the person on the other end of the line is wasting your time and is either genuinely loopy, a prank caller or antagonistic. In some cases callers refuse to give in, demanding payment and purporting their story is front page news. As a journalist representing a national newspaper you can't hang up, shout or have a hint of disbelief in your voice.

Although other times you get good tip-off's from callers- truly delightful to acquire such knowledge- and it's what makes being a journalist so worthwhile. I'll never forget the man who called in to tell me about the professional misconduct of a night shift manager at one of the top four major supermarket chains in the UK (which I can't name). He told me that the night shift manager in a particular store had been unwrapping the pastry products, smothering them with his ball sack and rubbing them with his penis, then re-wrapping them and putting them back on the shop floor. At first the story sounded absurdly far-fetched and crucially there was no evidence...That was until he told me the manager had been taking photos of his nightly shenanigans and he had photographic evidence to prove the malpractice. He sent me emails which included snapshots of an unsightly, flaccid looking willy prodding some pork pies. After seeing the photo's I felt sick. Not because of the horrific looking penis, but out of worry that I had possibly fallen prey to this sort of roguery. I don't know about you, but when I go to the supermarket I expect to find 'fresh baked produce', not some cock-flavoured croissant. Disgusting.

As disgusting as this revelation was, it is precisely the reason why being a journalist is so satisfying. You get to find out gossip that most people wouldn't be aware of, and it's up to you how you choose to deal with it. Being the first to hold such information - be it exciting news, quirky stories or cutting edge drama- is what we thrive off. And when we do find a good story it makes our job all the more worthwhile.