And What Are You Going To Do With Your English Degree?

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I have taken up gardening. On the hottest day of the year, nine days before my dissertation is due in I wake up at 7am, don a pair of frayed daisy-dukes and promptly start weeding my patio. Our garden is parallel to a railway line populated by hip middle-class commuters, which means that amongst the weeds I find extraneous pitta breads and sachets of pickled ginger which look like little fermenting slugs. I also find four, thick, cream-coloured bones which I sincerely hope have been pilfered from the loots of neighbouring dogs and are not the crumbling remains of a missing person. Whilst dead-heading nasturtiums I think of my impending future and the crushing weight of existential dread rests on me like a sun hat.

The corners of my mind which aren’t perpetually imploding under the strain of my dissertation are consumed by thoughts of life post-graduation. Two months ago, I sent an innumerable tirade of emails to literary agencies and publishers in and around Greater London, requesting an interim placement. I have worked for the sum of two full months on unpaid work experiences throughout my time as an undergraduate student, performing tasks that have ranged from selecting novel submissions, to researching survivors of mass school shootings, to assembling a flatpack Argos bookcase and moderating Jacqueline Wilson’s email account. I attached copies of my CV to these emails, those finely-tuned hand-crafted emblems of my worth, honeyed with meticulously tailored covering letters for each prospective company. I received only two responses, one of which subsequently agreed to meet with me and offered me one month’s work, unpaid, for two days a week. I chased up the offer with a friendly email, seeking to confirm dates. I was more than a little surprised when they responded:

“We’ve been incredibly busy and we can no longer accommodate you…”

I took twenty two hours to formulate a response, ruminating over the time and money I had spent travelling to the offices, meeting with the company owner and firmly shaking their hand by way of cheery confirmation. After deliberating over the line “I feel like you’ve wasted both my time and money for the promise of unpaid work”, I decided to keep it in. Their response was wildly, blindingly ignorant to the difficulties of gaining any kind of work in the creative industries. It began, “Wow, Elinor!” dripping with the sneering condescension of a school teacher, reprimanding me for my churlish misdemeanours.

Sure, I am a privileged, cis, white, able-bodied female, so I may run the risk of sounding entitled when I whine. But when you’ve racked up months of ‘experience’ with nothing but notches on you CV, it would be nice to think that someday you won’t be continuously turned down for offers of your free labour. If this degree has given me anything it’s a bloody work ethic, persistence and half a stone in weight. As I retire from three years (£27,000+) at Goldsmiths, I implore those of you continuing your studies to know your worth. Don’t work for dickheads if you can at all help it, and for the love of God, be kind to your fellow human.

I’ll spend my summer broke and disillusioned, re-potting and scattering grass seed between crisp packets. Mother Nature won’t slap me on the wrist for speaking out of line. I will stay in my garden until I have lived off my loan whilst the city of London crumbles around me.