I made a specific choice about coming to LSE. I wanted to be part of an institution where hard work was of a high priority. I wanted to leave university not just with a good degree and job prospects, but with a better understanding of important political and economic issues. However, over the Christmas break, with some close introspection, I decided I was not a good enough LSE student.

Many friends and relatives looked somewhat disappointed at my achievements and I was often told to “make the most of it whilst I am here.”  Instead, I rarely managed to reach beyond the four or five essential readings for each of my modules. I had half-heartedly attempted to explore the city, getting as far as Buckingham Palace before deciding that getting drunk was preferable to being a tourist. Indeed, in the majority of my first term memories I was either drunk or hung-over. Stayingin bed watching “The Killing” quite often won over being in the library for 8am. This lifestyle isn’t out of the ordinary for many students, but it left me quite frequently feeling let down by my own preconceptions of the lifestyle I would lead at LSE.

Such high expectations are shared by the majority of LSE applicants. But the very high-pressure nature of LSE means that no matter how hard you push yourself, there is always someone willing to go that little bit further, which can be dispiriting.

However, even if you look at your experiences from an individual perspective – necessary to stop you driving yourself mad – there is still an issue with expectations at LSE: the location. It is in London, and the scope for all things is thus immeasurably higher.

Friends in Leeds and Newcastle enjoy brilliant nights out but, three months in, feel they have worked out the city’s haunts; where to avoid, where not to. With London, I feel I have barely scratched the surface of the places to drink, dance and get merry. Whilst I have pretty much sussed out places to go in a half-mile vicinity, I keep hearing of great places that I’m missing out on in Notting Hill, Shoreditch, Mile End, Mayfair… the list goes on.

Additionally, I have had to get a job, as my student loan only just covers the expensive London accommodation fees. Essential as this job may be for me now, it takes a large chunk of my time and it doesn’t really seem to be adding that much to my student experience and my CV. I am able to pull a pint and deal with drunken, pervy men, but I don’t think most employers rate that highly.

Working 21 hours a week in a pub funds going out, shopping and attempting to save up for this summers’ travels. Again, travelling appears to be an essential part of being that “perfect LSE student.” I was left feeling rather dull having stayed in Durham for my Christmas break, as opposed to spending Christmas in Morocco, New Year in St Petersburg and a week in the south of France before returning to university. Instead, coming back to London is my excitement.

Is it possible to get the most from the whole LSE experience? Do I prioritise my school work above all other things, even if it proves detrimental to my social and mental well-being? Or do I fully experience the London night-life whilst I am young and not tied down by serious jobs or babies? Essentially the question is, where do I draw the line on work-life balance in a city and university that expects so much from both?

The attempt to find such a balance underpins the majority of my New Year’s Resolutions: a rather substantial list including items such as attend events, be cultural, and learn basic geography. So have I succeeded?

I have indeed attended events and now finally understand the Arab-Israeli conflict enough to have a vague discussion on it. I have managed to do all my readings and picked and planned essay questions a couple of weeks in advance. I have attempted to be more actively involved in the student body. I have even managed to sort out an internship – oh how very LSE – for September. I managed to finally make it to the British Museum, and whilst I was definitely unimpressed with what were essentially rooms of stuff the British have allegedly purloined, I felt it ticked the ‘be cultural’ box off my list.

However, despite these minor successes, I am still aware that my credentials as an LSE student are not up to standard. I haven’t the faintest idea about economics, my linguistic abilities are pretty much confined to counting to ten in Spanish and propositioning people in French, and I am rather indifferent to whether someone went to Oxford, Cambridge, or indeed a newer university.

I don’t suppose, I’ll ever really find a way to avoid inadequacy entirely. People grapple their whole lives trying to work out how to prioritise. My work will inevitably be compromised by going out and exploring London, but that isn’t such a bad thing. Likewise, if I miss out on a must-see night out because I’ve stayed in to work, the world won’t end. There will be other days and other nights. I suppose the main point of this article is to convince myself – and hopefully a couple of you reading this – that it is impossible to be good at everything.  This mythical perfect student which we seem to see around us on campus and in our classes, is probably struggling just as much as we are to get things under control and is an ideal we have created ourselves and imposed on others. As if we didn’t need any more pressure!

I am as short-sighted as they come, measuring -4.00 in both eyes. For all you able-sighted people, that means I can barely see how many fingers you’re holding up, and no, before you ask, I can’t see what face you’re pulling from the other side of the bed. It can get awkward.

Last week, I took a trip to my nearest optical chain and found my own slice of the myopia pie. I was a little daunted by the prospect of having 150 frames to choose from, even ignoring the 1,500-rich collection online – there is such a thing as too much choice. So, I took along a patient, and crucially, honest, friend to assist me in choosing the next path of my fashion destiny. As you would imagine, there were shapes and colours to tempt even the strongest eyeglass-sceptics. Shock in Elton’s, rock the thicker frames of Buddy Holly, kick back stereotypes with innocent Ghandi’s or go seriously wrong with tinted Bono’s; the possibilities truly are endless.

Those in the know have utilised the iconic status the ‘glass’ can give for years. Said to have first been popularised by the Hollywood stars of the 1930s, glasses have existed as a defining feature to many a famous face, from Dame Edna to David Hockey, Kanye West to John Lennon, and even Colonel Mustard’s monocle in Cluedo.

In the world of politics, however, spectacles have always seemed a fairly no-go area, perhaps perceived as yet another barrier between their lies and our votes. Blair hit headlines when he admitted to wearing glasses ‘at home’ in 1999, as if it were some sordid secret he was planning to expose in his biography when cash was getting low. The country responded accordingly, panicking that our golden yellow Labour leader was turning distinctly grey, and that wearing spectacles was synonymous with being ‘past it’ and having hit middle age.

However, more recently, Sarah Palin revived the ‘glass’ during the US election race, where she sported a sexy secretary image alongside her desired hockey mom persona. So farewell to the nerdy conceptions of glasses. Whether they make you look more intelligent, act as a fashion statement or are merely another way for us to express our ‘individuality,’ they are on the rise, with high-street stores now selling glasses complete with non-prescription lenses.

However, I am sure most glasses-wearers would agree with me that the idea of choosing to wear glasses is rather bizarre. They are a practicality, or, for many like me, an indispensable commodity, yet they most certainly have their downsides. After just a week, some of the illusions of wearing glasses are shattering somewhat. When it rains, you need mini windscreen-wipers, when you enter Starbucks from outside you steam up, and inevitably you’re going to have to push them up your nose at some point. Don’t even get me started on trying to put on mascara half-blind.

However, if we are going to suffer these inconveniences, let’s have fun in the process! Glasses are back. There are three optical chains on my street alone, all sporting dewy Mediterranean goddesses pouting in outrageous frames in the windows. Glasses have been revolutionised, and sexed up. They are now as big an accessory as your handbag, they must be co-ordinated with your cufflinks and, LSE students take note, you will be judged by them in your internship interview.

I admit that when initially planning my trip, perhaps I was a member of the idealised ‘I’m such a pioneer, breaking barriers with my presence in undiscovered corners of the globe’ mind-set, but I quickly forgot about the ‘quality of experience’ crap when my feet were on new ground; I was drinking its rainwater and instinctively feeding from the culture of its people and their practices.

My trip lasted for five months, beginning in the north with Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan, and then exploring the southern states of Kerala and Karnataka, before the trip culminated in a three month stay in Goa working with a children’s charity I found online (www.childrenwalkingtall.com).

When I first arrived, I was very green to the art of travelling. I was scared, in the sense that I was suspicious of everybody and everything, with my slash-proof bum-bag and panic alarm disguised as a watch strapped tightly to my wrist. What I was yet to realise was that India is, in my opinion, one of the safest places in the world.

For me, India embodied a masala of generosity, kindness, patriotism and excitement, mixed with a fierce brashness required to survive everyday struggles, and a conscientious concern to look after others. I’m aware of the dark side of India, evident in the unconcealed corruption throughout the government and police force, and the caste system which cannot yet be deemed extinct, but there is a gentle yet fiercely vibrant vein that pulsates through India and her people.

So, you can see I’m a fully signed up member of the Indian fan club, but it was more than the kulfi (imagine triple-fat icecream, and then triple the richness again), and the excuse to buy more bangles than I had inches of arm, that won me over.

Somehow, things in India just work. Thinking in a tight western perspective, you cringe on the trains as people throw their rubbish out of train windows onto the tracks. Until you realise there is a rag-picker waiting to pick it up, and that is their livelihood. You barter hard with a rickshaw driver, but if you smile and use your limited Hindi, you usually get a congratulatory “Indian price!” Both of you leave feeling happy about the transaction. People everywhere you go ask you “What is your good name?” They’re never going to see you again, but their relentless interest in what your father does and how many siblings you have verges on comical! However, in essence, everything they do is to make you feel a little more at home.

Thinking of going to India? Perfect an ambiguous Indian head wobble, get good at traffic-dodging, dance in the street because IT’S ALLOWED, embrace the stomach bugs and tuck into the street food, and finally, take me with you!

My eyes lit up when I met a gentleman who worked for the BBC World Service, whilst I was working at a gig in King’s Cross. I study Geography and write for the student paper. You needn’t know much more about me to realise that this was an opportunity I felt I could not pass up. Yes, he was old enough to be my dad, had been standing at the bar alone, caressing his beer and was wearing a tweed jacket with a moustache reminiscent of Murray from ‘Flight of the Conchords,’ but these were mere insignificant details. He gave me his card and I went home and googled him, naturally.

The next day I met him at the St. Pancras hotel. It was 4.30pm- a good, safe time surely – in the booking office. Me + old journalist + booking office of hotel = room? No, fortunately my maths and my ignorance failed me; the booking office is the bar of the hotel. Sticking to the soft drinks, I couldn’t avoid the fact that he had to pay for a bill as big as my weekly budget. We chatted both work and play before he told me he wanted to show me both sides of King’s Cross.

Around the corner from the five star hotel we came to a pub with boarded windows and music blaring out. I thought that this seemed more my kind of place. But, how odd, all of the women inside seemed to have forgotten to wear their clothes to work today.

“An apple juice, please.”

I discovered that this wasn’t ‘the kind of place’ to serve juice. My companion slipped me a couple of quid change from our drinks. “Put it in the pot” he said.  I was embarrassed at first, there was no need to make a point of me being a student. Then I   noticed the small stage in the corner and the signs that read “all customers must pay £1 to watch a dance.”

Next we headed to a trendy and bright Bloomsbury gay bar. Another apple juice down and I was invited to dinner with my companion and some friends at Blacks, a private members media club in Soho. As he had neither offered me an internship nor attempted to assault/marry me, by this stage I figured that this would be where we would negotiate the details one way or another.

Inside the beautiful candle lit Georgian house I scoured the rooms, recognising faces of people I’d seen on the television before. I ordered what I hoped was the vegetarian option on the menu – if only I had understood what the ingredients were- and enjoyed a lovely meal with the three middle-aged gentlemen in my company. On our walk back to Bloomsbury, my acquaintance advised me to exploit the contacts in industry I make. But when I asked how I may work with him, he said that we could organise his CD collection together: not exactly what I had in mind. He began to disclose his personal struggles to me with religion, loneliness and his sexuality. Being a naturally curious and caring person I listened and consoled him, and then we departed and went our separate ways.

Within the next few days my inbox had been furiously invaded by both my needy acquaintance and disapproving older sister. She insisted that I made it clear to my companion that my motives were entirely professional and that they should remain so. He told me that he was “not [his] job” and that the company he keeps is “not always strictly professional.”

I never heard of him again, until a week ago when I was telling this story to a friend of mine. The friend asked his name. Apparently this poor man had tried to pursue a friend of ours almost a year ago and later proclaimed his love to her. Perhaps the non-existent, little voice in my head should have been telling me that this was the likely case all along. However, on reflection, I wouldn’t change the way I behaved. Despite my friends being appalled by this man’s motives, in what way were they worse than my own? We were just two people with different aims, isn’t that networking is all about after all?

As this was occurring, my own journey to banking stardom reached the peak of its plight. Yes, that’s right. I had my final round interview for a job at LSE’s favourite investment bank. Having essentially forgone sleep, all essay deadlines, classes and lectures for the past week in preparation, I was armed with 8 rounds of the “FT” in my barrel, a few Economist articles as gunpowder and, of course, the Wall Street Journal as my trigger.

I was somewhat worried I had actually spent more time watching Youtube videos of cartoon investment banking situations, including “The LSE problem part 1,” rather than preparing. Nonetheless, I donned my finest suit, tie and shoes for the 3 hour drama ahead.

First question… “Why us?”

That shouldn’t be difficult; just remember to fake confidence. And always remember the never discussed, yet somehow universally known rule: absolutely under no circumstances whatsoever mention that sacrilegious word in banking – “money.” For a company that prides itself on being the most competitive and most successful in regards to money-making of all IBs – that’s short for Investment Banks for all of you not in the know – never mentioning the word “money” can be extraordinarily difficult. It reminds me of that game I would play as a kid, where you had to answer an endless stream of questions without saying “no” or you lost. Unfortunately in this scenario saying “money” meant losing a £50,000 a year job.

After my first interview I went back to the waiting room filled with Oxbridge-educated, “Yah Yah I just came back from my Gap Yah,” over-privileged, more money than sense, lips still stained from the silver spoon they were fed from, students. Sitting down, my privacy was invaded in the form of an impeccably dressed, tall blonde from the Oxford corner inquiring about my interview questions.

“Yeah, just all the usual questions about myself and my interests…” I replied

“Oh, that sounds nice”

“Yeah it was”

As any student of EC102 will know, “talk is cheap,” unless it’s helping your opponent beat you. I wasn’t telling her squat. LSE 1. Oxford 0.

Next interview…that was alright. In fact, I found the entire process akin to “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.” Each question brought me closer to the magic million, and performing well to the end of each interview marked the £1,000 and £32,000 safety markers. Only in this game, there were no lifelines.

Then came my final interview with the MD, and the nerves were kicking in. All good so far, I had managed to respectfully answer the brainteasers as I climbed the ladder’s rungs from £250,000 to £500,000.

“You’re clearly intelligent, you’ve done your research and you have a passion for markets. Tell me, If I were to hire you tomorrow, what changes would you make to how we run our business?”

Yes, yes… I knew exactly what to say. If there is a God out there he was watching over me!

“Well, considering Equities generates the most revenue…”

“Ahhh, so it’s all about the money is it?”

Wait.. what? I didn’t say money did I? No! I’m sure I said “revenue.” How the hell can he equate revenue to money? This is totally unfair. Who decides these damn rules anyway?

My interviewer leans back smiling, the creases in his cheeks stretching out as he laughs “So you’re here for the money?” in a matter-of-fact voice. Wearing the satisfied look of a parent having caught their son tip-toeing, chair and all, with one hand in the cookie jar, he leans forward and makes a small, seemingly inconsequential note. “You can leave now.”

I had failed on the million pound question. Flop.

me, and scattered my belongings on the floor/spilt my coffee ‘accidentally’ on the irate person trying to push past me, I eventually scan the card and take a deep breath having negotiated my first obstacle before even considering stage 2; which floor to go to. I like to think that, of the 6,500 students that pass through those turnstiles daily, I am not the only one who struggles with such a simple process.

If like me, this is something of an ordeal for you, it may have come to your attention that recently it has become necessary to scan your card on leaving the library too. Having contemplated moving in to occupy the library to avoid this measure initially (‘cos occupying is so ‘now’), I soon realised that although books may feed my mind, they wouldn’t satisfy my stomach and that this measure may be slightly extreme. Considering that LSE has received some bad press lately, I understand the importance for them of trying to keep up their figures in league tables and statistics. However, for me, I don’t think that I have any struggle in clocking up the average 67 hours that Britons spend queuing a year. Not one to be beaten however, the LSE’s new scanning on exit system is ensuring that we spend at least just a minute more everyday queuing in order to beat this figure. Realising that this may be an unlikely cause for the new system, I sought to discover just why the turnstiles have really been introduced.

According to library staff the reason for the new system is in order to collect data on library usage figures according to periods of the day, days of the week and throughout the academic year. What remains unclear however is how the data collected may affect services in the library. I am all for some way of offering a larger number of facilities, in particular, computers or desks with a plug for laptop charging, however measuring usage doesn’t seem to provide a solution to what is essentially as issue with space. I fear, that measuring usage, rather than offering more for library users may in fact be to consider cuts to the system, for example, potentially reducing opening hours. Arguably, the data may help the library be better staffed, so that in peak hours there are enough staff to assist students experiencing IT problems or otherwise.

The measures are not primarily a security feature, despite the recent rise in library crime levels, although indirectly the barriers may deter thefts. Recently, students have started to raise concerns over non-students; in particular homeless people, using the library ‘escape’ area as a space to rest and keep warm. The LSE prides itself on being a public learning institution and the majority of campus remains accessible to all; however this usage doesn’t seem to be offering the services I think this openness is designed to provide

. Instead, it may be a nice cosy kip and somewhere to charge your phone. Some students feel uncomfortable with the potential risks that outsiders may bring on their personal security and that of their belongings. For now a solution is yet to be found; or at least by the library staff.

I however, have come up with a potential answer. In order to avoid intimidating outsiders and my turnstile traumas I may either gorge on food before entering the library or drink those diet

milkshakes that pretend to be food/ liquidise my food and build myself a den out of books to live in, I hear that that’s what people do during exam time anyway. As a result the library will have increased occupancy levels and remain open for 24 hours. Alternatively I could just attach my library card to my wrist, a bit like Spiderman’s web-blaster and become a super-fast and efficient turnstile passer, I’m sure that we would get good statistics for that.

I didn’t know much about the famous island before my flatmate and I took a trip there last summer, other than the infamous 2002 bombings and religious strife that mark a long and tiresome story in Indonesian history. We landed in the early hours on Java, the neighbouring larger island to the west of Bali, in the industrial hub of Surabaya. It was Ramadan and the place was bizarrely alive. After a day travelling through the south east of the island on local buses, ‘luxe’ tourist carriages, man powered rickshaws and a large passenger ferry, Bali was finally in sight. I could practically taste the Indonesian curry as we approached the island across the water, after a journey of 72 hours with no shower, bed or edible food.

Kuta- the first stop on the trip, also known as the Australians’ Magaluf. On  first arrival it seemed to live up to its name: beer bellies, tattoos and Bintang vests galore. We headed to the streets ,‘Poppies Gangway 1 & 2, for somewhere cheap to sleep. This was the first surprise of the trip; the cost of accommodation, food, drink and activities in the tourist capital were not that cheap. At least, day to day spending was more than in Thailand where we’d just come from. The market caters for 2-week package deals that are comparatively cheap for the Aussies. For a scrounger such as myself on a shoestring budget, things were a little steep.

No matter, for the average western holiday maker and particularly the Brit girl within me, Kuta possessed all: a fun nightlife and relaxing days on the beach, watching swarms of rad boarders head out to catch the waves.

Skygarden- the town’s hotspot- is swarming with foreigners every night as they maximise the ‘freeflow’ bar (yes you heard me, a free bar) between 10-11pm. The drinks may contain enough of your sugar allowance to last a week and be the colour of toxic waste, but it’s free alcohol nonetheless. After a hard day sweating on the surf or the sand they definitely quench your taste.

After Skygarden, Bounty has a lot to offer, I seem to remember… the details are hazy though.

After a few days of nursing hangovers, I braved a surf lesson. My teacher, Wayan, a doped up Sumatran who seemed less bothered about surfing and more about sitting under a tree and strumming his guitar poorly to the sounds of ‘Wonderwall,’ took on the challenge of getting me upright on a board.

The surf was huge and, for a beginner, just a bit too challenging. To my horror, after a couple of okay runs, Wayan left for the shore as I was thrown about in the water. It felt at times like I was close to drowning, losing a sentimental ring and gaining half the seabed in my hair and ears in the process. In the name of Indonesian waves, which are some of the best in the world, I gave in.

The next morning we had a scheduled bus for Ubud, a few hours north of Kuta in the centre of the island. The trip out of the fondly named ‘chav central’ seemed increasingly necessary and well timed as we left the bars, restaurants, hotels, shops and shouts of ‘g’day’, arriving in the more peaceful, green and frankly stunning landscape of Ubud.

The place was small, compact and full of art galleries, cultural shops, and multi ethnic food places. A wonderful market lay in the centre, with a palace to the north of the town and the jalan monkey forest at the other end. You can walk the whole area in an afternoon, but the views of the rice fields and terraces are endless, and don’t get boring. We indulged in ‘Gado Gado’- the Indonesian array of vegetables, meats, rice, tofu etc, and generally enjoyed the slower pace of life in the so-called ‘heart’ of Bali. After a few days of Kuta madness, this was the perfect haven for rest and relaxation. The novel ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ by Elizabeth Gilbert, which follows the life of a middle aged American women on the journey to ‘“find herself’” is partly set in Ubud. It seems many fans of the story have now found themselves in Ubud too.

The architecture of the Ubud buildings and the beautiful Indonesian Hindu designs that line the streets are almost too intricate to be practical. Religious offerings with burning incense can be seen in people’s doorways every morning and are often accompanied by Balinese music. A morning trip to watch a traditional Balinese Dance show was a highlight- bizarre yet quite spellbinding. Don’t be mistaken; Ubud is still very accommodating for tourists and you wouldn’t want to be indoctrinated by the false displays of culture for the large western travel groups. Still, a venture out of the town on a moped will allow you can see the real character of the old and very real Bali such as the rice paddies of Tegallalang and the volcano ‘Batur’.

The contrast of Kuta’s craziness and Ubud’s unruffled style made for 14 memorable days in Bali. I’d like to know what the rest of the island offers. Shame, I might have to go back one day.

Talking to some of my friends you would think that it is the stuff that dreams are made of. It’s as if they hold it as this wonderful cultural establishment. The Nandites lets call them, spend hours talking about how much they’re craving their dish of choice. They go mental when they see that cockerel sign hanging outside their temple and boy they just can’t wait until the day their loyalty card is all stamped up and they can claim that free chicken!

My friends have in fact been raving about it so much that I began to suspect the chefs were sprinkling a secret addictive powder onto their chicken. It’s only chicken for goodness sake, how can it be that good? Well I thought that it was about time to see what the fuss was about.

And dear Nandites, I’m afraid to tell you that the experience was somewhat disappointing. The final verdict, “distinctly average.” At this point I can imagine the cries of my friends, damning me a sacrilegious traitor. But before you stand up in defence, let me explain a little further.

So, we arrive at 6:30pm, which is apparently peak dining time. The queue, 3 people deep, extends way beyond the entrance and we have to wait 15 minutes to get a seat. This is faff number 1 of the evening. You could probably have read every one of today’s Social articles in the time it takes to get a seat. But of course this gives you time to do the standard Facebook ‘tagged at Nandos’ status.

Upon opening the menu for the first time, you will need to make sure that you take time to digest the complex steps of “How to Order Food the Nando’s Way.” There are probably more steps for you as the customer than there are for the chef doing the cooking. This is faff number 2. After mulling over the menu for a good 15 minutes I decided on a single chicken breast in pitta with halloumi, and chips and a corn on the cob as my two sides.

Nando’s, is one of those restaurants where you go to the till to order. This is incredibly annoying: after you’ve queued to go in, you’re made to queue again. All in all you probably spend as much time in a queue here as you do at Alton Towers. And all this just for chicken and chips. After what seems like forever, “So that will be £12, please”. £12 for chicken and chips! And I have to queue up to get my £12 chicken and chips. Faff number 3.

Okay sure, it’s kind of exotic chicken and chips, I’ll give you that. And their trademark peri-peri sauce, is admittedly very good. The bottomless drink idea is genius too. But, the meal is not £12 good is it? Oh and do make sure you pick up your own cutlery… which is magnetic. What is that about, seriously? It’s just like going to a posh KFC.

The food arrives fairly quickly, but because we paid and ordered separately it all comes at different times. Two of my friends are sat there with their food for about 7 minutes before mine arrives. This is not really a proper restaurant, now is it?

When my food did arrive, it was okay. The chicken was very good. Very succulent! No better than I would be fed at home mind, but still top marks. However, by the time I found my sauces, having asked several other diners to borrow theirs, everything was a bit cold.

The pitta could easily have been from a 20p Sainsbury’s value six pack. The corn on the cob was hard and don’t expect butter, you need to find that for yourself. The chips were awful, a real low point, even the peri-peri salt could not make up for their pallor and sogginess. Now okay this may have been a bad batch, but quite frankly that’s not acceptable, the side dish menu is hardly extensive.

We then decided to get an “endless frozen yogurt” pot, which required queuing up once more.  And again, it disappointed. The frozen yoghurt was not so yoghurt like and tasted somewhat like ice cream mix to me.

So that was my first Nando’s experience. I’m not saying no to another one although I won’t be rushing back. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I just don’t see what all the fuss is about?

Overhyped by you and overestimated by me.

Overrated, plain and simple- a bit like the food really.

It is estimated around 50% of all students work during their degree. I have found myself working throughout the last three in various admin jobs, as a sales assistant, in jobs in LSE, in various schools and a summer school and even in a hospital.  Although at times it seems like a necessary chore and some question potentially taking time away from studying, arguably working is highly beneficial and not just for the wallet.

It’s not uncommon as a student to want some extra cash, though, to be honest most of us could probably survive without. But, factor in eating out, nights spent in the pub, maybe the occasional Topshop sale shopping spree and booking travel plans for summer into your weekly budget, and part-time work is a must.

Think of the amount of contact time we have –as little as six hours a week- not to mention the holidays when there are endless weeks to fill, and in theory it should be easy to organise work around studying. Maybe just cut down on TV watched or hours spent on facebook, study at a slightly different time and you could easily work without spending less time socialising or studying. Well, in theory, anyway.

The possibilities of jobs are almost endless. I know people who have worked in burger vans, job centres, postal sorting offices and clothes shops.  A part-time job could be good experience for your future career, or conveniently close to where you live or well-paid for simple work. Or even, ideally, a combination of the three.

I am aware the reality is often very different from the ideal. First you have to get a job; it’s not always as easy as it sounds. There’s the endless searching of websites, handing in of CV’s and application forms and don’t forget interviews where you have to respond to, “Why do you want to stuff envelopes/make burgers/be abused by customers” and actually try and come up with a positive answer.

Praying you’re doing something else next year,  fingers crossed behind your back, you come up with a pretentious “Well, I really feel an affinity with the company and its values” to help you pass the all important interview – even if that company is just a set of burger van at festivals.

Arguably though, the best way to get work seems to be having connections. I’m in no way advocating nepotism, but having friends or family already working there is definitely a bonus. If contacts can’t actually get you a job, they can at least guide you through the application process and let you know when workers are wanted. Unfortunately for me, whilst some people’s families might have got them impressive internships, mine got me some work as a nurses’ assistant. Cheers, Mum. Whilst I couldn’t forgo the possibility of working well-paid, thirteen-hour shifts over the holidays in my first year, my training in control and restraint and life support–knowing how to perform CPR and use a defibrillator – doesn’t seem, thankfully, to fit in that much with a Government and History degree.

Moving away from shops and hospitals, it is a truth universally acknowledged that the top part-time jobs for LSE students to get are within LSE; gold prize going to the well-paid jobs working in the library. Firstly, there is the money: the average library job earns you more per hour than most other part-time jobs you’ll find. A benefit of LSE’s left-wing past, prehaps? Your employers understand the commitments you have as a student, in other words the essay deadlines often ignored to the last minute. Not to mention, you don’t have to travel and you will be working with and around other students.

After the hard task of getting the job is over, you do actually have to work. Here is where you learn the real meaning of your fancy job title. A sandwich “artist” works in Subway, a “model” spends half the time merely stacking and selling clothes and a “customer service assistant” works behind a till. The work can be tedious, even compared to your economics lectures and it is harder to fit in than you first thought.

The good moments make up for the bad. I won’t forget the kid who told me they liked the look of university because they wanted “to play Fifa and COD all day long”, when I was mentoring-though that wasn’t really the attitude I was aiming for. When someone appreciates the work you have done that day, it’s hard not to feel smug as you walk back to your flat and you feel a lot better with yourself, then if you stayed in and watched Jersey Shore all day.  Not to mention the people you work with can make the most tedious job enjoyable.

With many graduates struggling to find work, the thought of not having had any paid work experience before you graduate is a daunting prospect. The internships normally associated with LSE aren’t for everyone, but nearly all of us will want some experience in the world of work, even if it isn’t in a bank.

We all know, stacking shelves in a library or working in a bar, is not going to be in-depth preparation for your future career- or at least we hope so- but you do learn some useful skills, meet some great people and, well if that isn’t enough, you’ve always got the monthly pay check to look forward to.

We often see difficulties arise when Facebook makes changes to its layout. Granted, when an estimated 2.6 million minutes per day are spent on the website it is no wonder that its alterations make waves in the real world. In this instance however, will the adjustments be fatal?

With the start of a new year and the compulsion that comes with it to reassess our lives, the arrival of the timeline has led me to find myself in the midst of a ‘personal crisis’. I stumbled upon a rather hideous array of photos and statuses from 2007 as I set up my profile a couple of weeks ago. The prospect of my current friends and acquaintances having access to these sights at the easiest swipe of a laptop key is not one that fills me with joy.

Needless to say, between the ages of 16 and 21 we all change somewhat. Personally, I no longer find it acceptable to use text language in any communicative context, be it in texts themselves or online. I also appear to have made drastic improvements in styling since my middle teens. Although, I’m still sure that in 10 years from now I’ll look back in horror at the 2012 version of myself.

It is also pretty amusing, if a little difficult, to read adolescent conversations between schoolmates and myself. These are now 5-year-old discussions, which mainly refer to the first stages of underage drinking and clubbing. “Scared about my maths GCSE today” – oh those were the days. It appears I was also known as ‘Rosi Hams’. Conveniently I seem to have forgotten that certain nickname.

Whatever emotions the timeline evokes, I’m not sure that it is the best way to “tell your life” or diarise the order of one’s own events. I don’t really want my personal milestones reduced to a chronology of Facebook statuses and photos. I’m well aware I sound like an anti-modernist grump. Indeed, I brought it all along myself when I registered with Facebook and then switched to the timeline.

However, despite the important duty that Facebook seems to have set unto itself, namely recording and preservation of individuals’ lives, I can’t say I’m at all thrilled about its transformation.

So I’m presented with a dilemma: to delete my account or not? Do I marginalize myself from mainstream youth and accept the alternative by removing a part of myself from the public sphere? A personal crisis for the modern day indeed.

A very helpful friend pointed out that a record of pretty much all of us exists in cyber space, whether we delete our accounts or not. On an even deeper level, do I want to erase a period of my life just because I innocently denied myself hair serum, GHDs and believed it was appropriate to use “nd”, “ting” and “wit”?

It is true that nostalgia is a powerful thing, particularly when evoking memories of friends forgotten and times been and gone. When flicking through my posts from 2007, albeit with a grimace, I saw comments from people I had not thought of in years.

I think we can say that Facebook offers a service in personal fulfillment. Cheesy I know, but it certainly does when revision period is upon us. Yes, the dilemma is solved. Facebook will remain active, at least until after exam time.