Shall I tell you something that’s almost bound to bring out the foot-stomping three-year-old in you?

It’s not, as you might expect, not hearing back yet about a project you’ve pitched or even having a book project cruelly whisked away from you by the publishers who promised it to you because they – and even I, with all my stories of intern horror, found this unbelievable – have discovered an intern who’s willing to write an entire 25,000-word book for £100 per week. No, it’s looking a few years younger than I really am – and suffering the consequences – that’s really got me rankled. 

Those of you who don’t feel even the slightest bit sorry for me should look aw¬ay now. Even if the fact that I still regularly have full-scale “Get the manager!” rows with the gorgons that man supermarket checkouts – while buying cava for those social functions well-known to be beloved of underage drinkers, dinner parties – doesn’t make you laugh, the fact that I’m referred to as “the little girl” by some of the people I work with might.

It used to just be “the girl”, then a theatre director – an older gentleman so wise and sweet I’m thinking of renting him to be my grandpa – unwittingly took it a step further, lending me a nickname that made me so uncomfortable it’s bound to stick. The fact that I’d earlier been telling him and the rest of the crew (new project this week, new people to mortify myself in front of) about last week’s skateboarding incident probably did nothing to help matters.

While this particular oldster wasn’t being disrespectful, it’s been impossible at various points to feel that other people I work with haven’t been. I now have literally years of experience in the media, albeit mostly not in television, where I’m now trying to gain ground, but still regularly find myself working alongside colleagues who assume they can either boss me about or patronise me into doing a good job. I’m now experienced enough to not put up with either of these scenarios, but also to deal with them in a calm and civilised manner. 

I won’t lie about the past. I’ve previously responded to those same scenarios with tears, or what my former landlady referred to as “the most sarcastic face in the world” – both to my detriment. These days it’s all about a sharp look (though admittedly, were they able to harness their powers, the military could use my laser eyes to decimate passing meteors), or in extreme cases, a trip to HR. These are, I’m assured, the more measured and mature responses, which befit a woman of my age, if not looks.

Though I’m still not comfortable telling you exactly how old I am, I can confirm that it’s old enough to worry me, it’s definitely old enough to be allowed to buy wine and to be treated with a certain amount of respect in professional situations. I may still look like a teenager but I am definitely too old to put up with any of that other shit.

More Intern X:

Off sick

The Pitch

Image: good secretary by anniebee on a CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 license.

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