Wednesday 23rd January, 16:05. It is over. I have emerged from my 20-week hibernation.
The last you heard of me I was having a grand ol’ time in Kings Place building Lego (see Sister Act). After the euphoria of the Olympics and the brick-by-brick project died down, I enrolled on a course which boasted to successfully transform me into a qualified journalist in five months. Or at least hoped to.
What followed was an initiation akin to Freshers’ Week but without the excessive drinking or fornication. Lunch breaks were spent on Clapham Common, where wide-eyed wannabe journalists conversed and shared their disdain for tabloid newspapers, and their hopes to never be anything like those who write for them.
Oh to be so innocent again. As time went on, our rose-tinted view of the world of journalism slowly broke down. We realised that if we hoped to make any money in our field, we would have to stock up on juicy stories about how our best friend slept with our mother, only to find out that she was his sister.