interesting job if I wanted to.
ITN Senior News Correspondent . . .
Cool or what? I couldn’t resist imagining myself in sexy little Moschino suits, with horn-rimmed spectacles and a stern interviewing technique. I would frighten those MPs into squealing out their secrets in live interviews or, alternatively, I’d ply them with booze and let them give themselves away. I’d be a TV legend!
I glanced through the details. Nice pay, flexible working hours (good) . . . oh. Keen interest in current affairs. Well, duh. You don’t say. I thought back to my outstanding contribution to the political discussion last night and regretfully moved on to the next ad.
Sales Manager for a new publishing company . . .
Now, then. I could definitely get that one, if I wanted to. I was brilliant at sales, wasn’t I? I had always met my targets, and was sure that the old magic would still be there. A,B,C my first boss had instructed fervently. Always Be Closing. In my heyday, I could have closed five deals before breakfast! Well, lunch anyway. It all depended on how hung over I was, really, and how susceptible the booksellers were to my sweet-talking. And, to be quite honest, how short my skirt was.
I read the ad again. Religious books. Oh. That would be a no, then. Even I couldn’t be convincing about religious books. I scanned down to the next ad.
That was when I saw it. Talk about coincidence!
Producer required for new chat show. Do you have creative flair, an ability to work on a tight budget, and the organizational skills to juggle a hectic workload?
Yes! I did. I bloody did!
We are an independent television production company in the heart of Soho.
Lovely. All those lunches, and all that shopping . . .
You are an experienced producer with great ideas and a full contacts book.
Well, not quite, but . . .
Interested? Send your details to Emma Tomlinson at . . .
Interested? I was, actually. Apart from the last sentence, the experience bit, it sounded great. A TV producer, just like I’d put on the Friends Reunited website. It really was a coincidence.
My hand hovered over the paper, not quite wanting to turn the page on the ad. I tore it out instead. Maybe it would be fun to apply – not seriously, obviously – but just . . . as a way of proving something to myself. Anyway, it was all good practice. I would have to apply for jobs again in the future, when the kids were older. I had to keep my hand in, didn’t I?
I thought back to the lies I’d told to Jack earlier in the week, to Chloe the night before, and now, via a website, to Danny, and everyone else I’d been at school with. I was obviously a good liar, that was without doubt. I could bullshit with the best of them. Was I good enough for the Firestarter TV Company, though?
I switched on the laptop again and started typing.
Dear Ms Tomlinson,
I am writing in application to your advertisement in the Guardian for the producer’s position.
As you will see from the enclosed CV, I have had many years of experience working on a variety of television programmes, and, in particular, daytime chat shows. After finishing my Media Studies degree, I undertook a voluntary placement on This Morning where . . .
I paused for thought. God, I was enjoying this. I was going to flog it for all it was worth, load this letter with bullshit until it reeked of the stuff.
. . . where I learned many aspects of programme-making, both on the studio floor and in the offices. For me, impeccable organization is the key to a successful live programme like This Morning, and as a TV producer, good team-working skills are essential.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. On and on I wrote, turning my CV into a two-page work of art, and my letter into a modest reflection of some of my greater triumphs. Hey, even I would have given me the job, I sounded so good. I giggled as I read it back again. Well, even if it wasn’t all true, nobody could fault my creative writing skills.
There was a cry from
ITN Senior News Correspondent . . .
Cool or what? I couldn’t resist imagining myself in sexy little Moschino suits, with horn-rimmed spectacles and a stern interviewing technique. I would frighten those MPs into squealing out their secrets in live interviews or, alternatively, I’d ply them with booze and let them give themselves away. I’d be a TV legend!
I glanced through the details. Nice pay, flexible working hours (good) . . . oh. Keen interest in current affairs. Well, duh. You don’t say. I thought back to my outstanding contribution to the political discussion last night and regretfully moved on to the next ad.
Sales Manager for a new publishing company . . .
Now, then. I could definitely get that one, if I wanted to. I was brilliant at sales, wasn’t I? I had always met my targets, and was sure that the old magic would still be there. A,B,C my first boss had instructed fervently. Always Be Closing. In my heyday, I could have closed five deals before breakfast! Well, lunch anyway. It all depended on how hung over I was, really, and how susceptible the booksellers were to my sweet-talking. And, to be quite honest, how short my skirt was.
I read the ad again. Religious books. Oh. That would be a no, then. Even I couldn’t be convincing about religious books. I scanned down to the next ad.
That was when I saw it. Talk about coincidence!
Producer required for new chat show. Do you have creative flair, an ability to work on a tight budget, and the organizational skills to juggle a hectic workload?
Yes! I did. I bloody did!
We are an independent television production company in the heart of Soho.
Lovely. All those lunches, and all that shopping . . .
You are an experienced producer with great ideas and a full contacts book.
Well, not quite, but . . .
Interested? Send your details to Emma Tomlinson at . . .
Interested? I was, actually. Apart from the last sentence, the experience bit, it sounded great. A TV producer, just like I’d put on the Friends Reunited website. It really was a coincidence.
My hand hovered over the paper, not quite wanting to turn the page on the ad. I tore it out instead. Maybe it would be fun to apply – not seriously, obviously – but just . . . as a way of proving something to myself. Anyway, it was all good practice. I would have to apply for jobs again in the future, when the kids were older. I had to keep my hand in, didn’t I?
I thought back to the lies I’d told to Jack earlier in the week, to Chloe the night before, and now, via a website, to Danny, and everyone else I’d been at school with. I was obviously a good liar, that was without doubt. I could bullshit with the best of them. Was I good enough for the Firestarter TV Company, though?
I switched on the laptop again and started typing.
Dear Ms Tomlinson,
I am writing in application to your advertisement in the Guardian for the producer’s position.
As you will see from the enclosed CV, I have had many years of experience working on a variety of television programmes, and, in particular, daytime chat shows. After finishing my Media Studies degree, I undertook a voluntary placement on This Morning where . . .
I paused for thought. God, I was enjoying this. I was going to flog it for all it was worth, load this letter with bullshit until it reeked of the stuff.
. . . where I learned many aspects of programme-making, both on the studio floor and in the offices. For me, impeccable organization is the key to a successful live programme like This Morning, and as a TV producer, good team-working skills are essential.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. On and on I wrote, turning my CV into a two-page work of art, and my letter into a modest reflection of some of my greater triumphs. Hey, even I would have given me the job, I sounded so good. I giggled as I read it back again. Well, even if it wasn’t all true, nobody could fault my creative writing skills.
There was a cry from
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