Is this Darwinism at its best?

So you find out that the work you have committed to is not going to be appreciated, the role you signed up for has been diminished and the baby you thought was yours, isn't. Yup - this is journalism.

You are told you will have a certain amount of work to so but for some reason it fluctuates. Not just goes a little bit up or a little bit down, it completely changes. We have been given x amount to do here and that changes, y amount here and that changes. Again, this is journalism. The goals are constantly being moved, the pressure is always great, the tension always there and only the strong survive. Is this Darwinism at its best?

There are no quiet weekdays anymore and I love that. When there is a quiet day at the weekend, it takes at least 23.5 of the 24 hours to wind down, to stop being a journalist for a while. Right now I feel like I have done no work today but I handed in an assignment, this is one of three blogs today and I met Bryan Dobson, my broadcasting hero. 

A mentor of mine (of sorts), Dr Simon Order, once told me that journalists don't get a day off. I took this with a large pinch of salt. I assumed it was an old wives' tale, a general outside assumption, designed to make me realise that I will be busy. He was right and more fool me for doubting his honesty. Not everything he said was a metaphor. If only I had known that when I first met him.

There will be a day when I will be able to turn off but if truth be told, it;s not a day I look forward to. We can sleep when we die. 

Until then, there is no rest for the wicked and it's safe to say that The Ultrabomb falls into that bracket.

Am I even a real journalism??

Where are you boy?

We are sent tumbling into this the tenth week of the year. How did we get here? Was it three months ago I was sitting on my couch at home thinking about nothing more than who to kill in Grand Theft Auto V, thinking college was ages away? That seems like a lifetime ago. I have never felt a pressure like this in my life. I hasten to think what next semester will be like if we are forced to hand up a litany of meaningless assignments. Many of which are indeed meaningful but try telling a fourth year student in week ten that they should attend this class for 3% of the marks when they have an essay due in another module worth 50%. 

Just like sex when you live at home, it's all about time management - doing it when and where you can.

My face casts an expressionless look over the stack of books you have taken out of the library with every intention of reading them but with very little expectation of doing so. There are titles there that no longer make sense to me, as if my comprehension of English has completely deteriorated. "I'm meant to be a journalist!" I shout but nobody's listening because, though I share a house with plenty of other young people, they are also hapless, wandering aimlessly in the night, looking for the breadcrumbs of the creativity and impetus that got them this far. 

As I gaze around the room, aimlessly looking for some kind of inspiration, something to kick me out of this perpetual stupor, I see the gaze of my buddy Dave staring back at me. For 14 and a half years he dragged me over hurdles before I lost him. Here is another one Dave. Do your job. 

The best thing I ever did was bring you home to dirty the carpets. 

Good boy.

I was once told that the heal of a stiletto shoe bears more pressure than the wheel of a Boeing 747. I always believed this but only now do I truly understand it. My pressure seems small to everyone who isn't experiencing it and like the heel, someday I will buckle and break. But that day is not today.

You and me against the world Dave. One more time.