Summer Forecast

Here comes the sun... Or so say the Met office, predicting blue skies and temperatures exceeding 30 degrees at times. Being a total sun bunny, I was thrilled to hear this, as I'm hoping for many a summer weekend filled with barbecues, lawn-lazing, beach trips, water fights and countless ice lollies. However, I did have to fight the urge to snigger at the news coverage of today's report. BBC News online led with the Met Office's scientific declaration that we are "odds on for a barbecue summer", while the Guardian hammered home the vital 'breaking news' that we are 'unlikely' to have as much of a poor summer as the previous two 'wash-outs'.

Now, I am no meteorologist but even I know the weather is an unpredictable beast, often undermining the experts with its random twists and turns. This struck me as a bit of a non-story (actually, it failed to even strike me- more of a nudge, really), with on-the-fence vocab ruling out any real facts. If anything, the tone of the press seems to be humouring us, trying to boost us amid swine flu and debt hell with a vaguely hopeful guess about whether we'll be breaking out the SPF or the brollies this summer.

The mission to understate the matter did bring a smile to my face, however. BBC broadcaster Laura Tobin was determined not to be outwitted by the wily British climate, announcing that 'Compared to last summer, which was miserable,' (thanks for the reminder) '... it will probably be positive for the majority of people.' No hate mail for her come August, then.

Also in the news today is the announcement that summer-born children will be given the opportunity to start school or nursery up to two terms earlier, with schools offering with a free place after their fourth birthday. Any talk of 'summer babies', particularly August-born, always makes my blood boil. Writing as the owner of a very, very end of August birthday, I resent the constantly patronizing tone towards those just a few months younger than their school peers. I emphasize 'younger than', as people often confuse this with 'behind'. I understand how a child can fall behind in school, but surely an August 31st child starting the same school year as a September 1st child has exactly the same exposure to the curriculum?

Many would take into account maturity (which is surely not based on month of birth but style of parenting, number of older or younger siblings and many other variables) and amount of home education, which I would argue also relies on the parents preparing their youngest-in-the-year for the pressures of school. I can say I have never felt overwhelmed or particularly struggled with school, while I know many of my peers born the calendar year before me have repeatedly fallen behind. I remember feeling incensed when, as I got ready to receive my First class degree last summer, GMTV were reporting in the background about 'poor' August babies not being given extra attention in the classroom. I'm sure there are a few cases, but I'm equally certain that this rationalization is being used left, right and centre to excuse laziness, behavioural issues and even valid learning difficulties.

Even if I am the exception that proves the rule (and I know a lot of sharp and successful August-borns), what of March, April and May babies? They fall in the younger half of the academic year, and yet there appear to be few educational concerns about Spring-born infants. Enough of a rant, really, but it does make me cross that something as simple as my date of birth should single me out as someone who will find life hard.

I've started back at Elle as their new Features assistant, and am loving it already. Although it will be tough and hectic day-to-day, it is a fabulous office with lovely and very professional ladies, none of your Devil Wears Prada divas. I'm so looking forward to being up in West London this summer, hopefully in some cute skirts and gladiator sandals (still searching for Roman perfection: check out Kate Moss's Steve Madden beauties below), and I'm feeling more like a proper writer every day...

She may just be a bad excuse for Topshop to charge £18 a vest, but by god La Moss can do off-duty chic.

Sunshine and schadenfreude

After a surreal start to the year involving 10 inches of powdery snow in February, Spring has finally sprung. Last week was dreamily bright and daffodil-filled, and I continued with my employment offensive in between bursts of rug relaxation in the garden. On Friday I had my interview to go back to Elle as their features assistant (something I've wanted to ever since my first work experience stint there last Autumn), and I headed up in the sunshine, full of anticipation.

The interview went as well as it possibly could, with lots of lighthearted chat and laughter, I felt really lucky to know the office and staff fairly well. As I left, fingers firmly crossed, I resolved to have a lovely day minus interview dissecting and obsessing. Luckily I had a lovely man on hand to share sunny London with, and we set about a day of eating and drinking by the Thames, wandering around Theatreland, and eventually grabbed some bargain tickets for Avenue Q.

I have wanted to drop by the Avenue ever since the hit Broadway show transferred to the UK, and the residents didn't disappoint. It is a witty, pacy, bareback ride of a musical, with such hilarious themes as 'The Internet is for Porn' and the brilliant look at 'Schadenfreude'. The cast is insanely talented, with soaring vocals, incredible puppeteering skills and many voicing several characters at once. It was a very uplifting way to spend an evening, especially as it involved so many themes of entering the real world of work, love and life, although naturally caricatured.

Speaking of which, I am entering a new chapter: I got the Elle job and start in a month. This means I will get to scour the news for features ideas, attend and contribute to weekly meetings and eventually get to interview people and write up small pieces myself. I am totally thrilled as it feels like things are finally getting started for me; I know in such a bleak time for employment that I'm very lucky to have broken through even a little into journalism, but on the other hand I also know the time I've put in, the unpaid hours of going the extra mile and the effort I've put into networking and persistent follow-ups are a huge part of it.

In the news this week: Two high-profile mothers sadly died, both in tragic circumstances. Natasha Richardson's sudden and unnecessary passing was honoured in a quietly dignified dimming of the lights on Broadway and in the West End. Jade Goody's death in the early hours of Mother's Day has sparked a volatile debate as to whether she deserves such press reverence, which seems ongoing on every social networking site and round every watercooler. Far from questioning the level of 'deserved' press attention, I feel both responses are a direct result of their actions and public personas during their lives. Jade courted attention from the day she auditioned for the entertainment demon that is Big Brother, and lived her entire life in a reality TV bubble. Natasha Richardson contributed some celebrated performances on film and in the theatre, protected her boys from the paparazzi (despite their having two extremely talented and high-profile parents) and lived a quietly happy life in suburban New York.

Yes, Jade's memorial has been public and gaudy, undignified and glaring - but it is all the press can do with the memory of someone who got fully naked, shouted ignorant slurs at another woman, got a death-sentence diagnosis, got married, got chemo, got christened... all in front of the cameras. Her choice. I didn't harbour admiration for Jade at any stage of her life, but only a monster would ever wish an early death on a young mother. Two sets of two little brothers will have had a heartbreaking Mother's Day, and all those nobody vultures publicly criticizing either case seriously need to get back to their own lives.

I think, therefore I blog?

"I couldn't help but wonder... why wasn't I getting any orders for my new yeti-chic range of jackets?"

Blogs are an interesting phenomenon.

I was first introduced to this phenomenon when my sister started one (as a cathartic diary-equivalent at first) and it gained huge readership as her story became increasingly moving and philosophical. It is her soapbox and scribbling pad, and is hugely useful to her as well as being a great read. This is the life story blog; the unashamed outpouring which becomes addictive to many browsing the web. Other blogs are more style-specific (I love StyleBubble and Notes on the High Street) and are a storyboard of someone's passion... another favourite of mine is the simple, visually stunning ode to personal style The Sartorialist. You need a hook really, an angle. I have thought a lot about this in the past year as it raises the scary question: What makes a writer? Does your enthusiasm for the keyboard or pen define you, or must your story lend you the words for a truly readable passage?

Essentially, this induces a slight panic as I don't really have a remarkable tale to tell; young would-be writer attempts to be pushy enough to penetrate the industry, funny enough to still have friends, lovable enough to hold some male attention past the first date... this isn't the stuff of great literature. Where are my moors and my lightning bolts, my darks nights of the soul? The most life affirming moment I've had this week was discussing how I might choose to fake my own death with a group of similarly inebriated friends. Not a cliffhanger in sight.

I don't mean to undermine my own lovingly-typed efforts here, it's just a thought. Which actually might be the best way to describe the average blog post. For me it's more of a DIY column; I get the invaluable practice of writing regular, readable copy and you lucky folks get the key to my frazzled psyche.

In other news, my freelancing is zooming along nicely. I networked my little tush off at Theo Randall last week at an event for the tourism board of Piedmont, Italy- I went card collecting (business, not credit), met lots of lovely snowsports, travel and food hacks and ate and drank the very finest food and wine of the region. I can especially recommend the desert wine from the Asti district (Moscato d'Asti - fresh, bubbly, elderflower-laced dessert wine) and the buttery, parmesan-topped veal ravioli which is a Piedmont speciality. We even got a quick word with Theo himself - he was full of enthusiasm for the quality produce and simplicity of flavour which is the hallmark of Italian cuisine. I hope to be reviewing a new London restaurant called Zeen soon as a result of my PR-courting skills, bring on more lovely foodie events!

As for my hunt for the perfect internship or junior position, I have a couple of possibilities on the horizon, very excited about the prospect of having that true 'working girl' feeling as I perch on the outskirts of London and my fledgling career. So maybe I do have a story. It may not be bloody Proust but it works for me.

44th Time's a Charm

"Mr Bush has left the building - feel free to laugh and point"

I watched the inauguration yesterday in complete awe. I am by no means an expert on US politics, but the Washington coverage of Barack Obama taking office almost made me want to learn more. It's such a circus - the religious content spills over everything, the sense of history and ceremony is put forward so theatrically, no one at any moment has the urge to giggle.

Except us Brits, of course. Having a facebook browse after the big event, I found people's statuses surprising; not only the amount of interest this side of the pond, but the struggle between admiration and ridicule, the same struggle I felt whilst watching. Particular moments which inspired amusement included the 'poet' (sorry for the quotation marks, but she read what I can only assume was the ramblings of a stoner with all the emotion and fluency of a Scandanavian sat-nav), Aretha Franklin's performance (I was desperate for an amazing slice of soul, but she sounded forced and over-the-hill, and her shrill gospel riffing clashed horribly with the sombre occasion) and .....forgive me.... Obama slightly cocking up his pledge to protect the office of President. Everyone seemed eager to acknowledge that it was compelling stuff, yet desperate to undermine that feeling with a jibe.

It is not cool to admire America. Especially not in matters of politics and religion.

Actually in the case of Obama's pledging issues, I found it refreshing and poignant that he hadn't been practising it into a hairbrush every night for a decade, it only made the guy seem more human.

I also thought his speech was dignified, eloquent and forceful - I felt he might actually have been the only one not blinded by emotion and patriotism, touching on the bad as well as the good. The most significant thing that kept popping up in the coverage before and after, was a bizarre expectation to hear some 'quotable lines', some snippets of commercial-sounding wisdom that would go down with 'Ask not what your country can do for you...' in the history books. The disappointment when the new President didn't come out with anything bumper-sticker worthy seemed immense.

Is it me, or is that totally missing the point of this supposed change? People want a doer, not a talker, and while Obama's oratory acrobatics have impressed, surely it's his actions that matter? George Bush was your ultimate middle America preacher - lots of 'good and evil', 'our great nation', all of that cute but empty rhetoric. And people still wanted that soundbite from Obama. What he did instead was confront the mistakes of his predecessor, state his aims and try to play down some of that Instant Saviour fever that's been surrounding him since he ran for President. All useful, purposeful and sincere efforts, it must be said.

I felt slightly jealous of the personal connection the thousands of Amerians flooding the Washington monument felt with their new leader - our leaders seem to provide fabulous comic material for panel shows and Private Eye, but we generally lose respect for them before they even come to power. Watching tears run down faces (not just young, not just African-American faces) as he spoke was moving, and not necessarily because of the promise of the man himself. It is that absolute faith that things can and will get better, a total idealism that we are devoid of in the UK. And I'm not sure which attitude I'm more fond of; I adore blunt realism and mistrust blind faith, but we'll never have that feeling of magic in the air on a state occasion. We're too busy waiting for the Duke of Edinburgh to blunder into political incorrectness, for Gordon to flash that less-than-dreamy smile of his, or for Boris to... show up.

There's a reason our history is less animated and thrilling than our transatlantic cousins', why it reads like the classifieds section of Heating, Ventilation and Plumbing News. We don't believe anything anyone has to say, and our politicians know it. Their speeches are unconvincing and bland, they have that hunted look that only Paxman's interrogation can induce... any use of the word Love in its cheesiest, most abstract form (as proudly wielded yesterday by several speakers) would be met by raucous heckles.

I find it fascinating that two countries with such entwined roots can have such starkly different responses to political change. My reaction to the event? Unbelievably pleased for America, while ever so Britishly hoping they don't expect a miracle.