I had the displeasure of watching Paranormal Activity last night and, as expected, it was a pile of wank.

I’m not a great fan of ghosts and demons anyway – real life murder and gore scares me much more – and I thought Blair Witch was two hours of my life I’ll never get back. Utter, utter non-scary garbage.

So, this film started badly – shaky camera and a leading lady with as much charm and charisma as a walnut. After half an hour nothing remotely scary had happened – unless you think a moving door is scary. I don’t. It was actually more comedy than thriller, the main guy cracked a few jokes now and then and made me laugh out loud.

I liked that he made fun of his girlfriend who was seemingly being stalked by a demon, and was determined to find the cause of it all. He wasn’t laughing by the end of the film though!

Seriously, if a demon was stalking you and you discovered that you’d get out of bed in the middle of the night and stand and stare at your sleeping boyfriend for…wait for it… three or four hours!!!!, wouldn’t you be totally freaked out? Filming themselves sleeping the pair discovered that the girlf has some strange night-time tendancies which she has no memory of, but she’s not all that freaked out by it and just comes across as a regular moody bitch who likes sniping at her man.

Even when she said she was upset I didn’t believe her one bit. And the things that happened could so easily have been staged. I’ve no idea if this is supposed to be real or not but there are some seriously arty camera angles which suggest it wasn’t made by amateurs. Funny how they always capture the good stuff on camera huh? And if you heard someone walking up the stairs would your first instinct really be to grab the camera? I don’t think so.

Spoiler alert!

Okay, so the end is a bit freaky, but still totally set up. It’s night-time and the couple are asleep in bed. She goes downstairs and you hear her scream. He wakes up and dashes to his girlf’s aid, this time not taking the camera with him. Silence. She returns upstairs, walking like a zombie, with a knife in hand and red stuff all over her white vest. Why do people only kill others when they’re wearing white? Then she sits at the foot of the bed and rocks backwards and forwards for almost 24 hours – right in front of the video camera (how convenient) until the police come round and shoot her dead. Great.

Utter rubbish, don’t bother watching it. Ghostbusters is much scarier!

Picture the scene. Myself and two friends/esteemed colleagues are sat on a train heading from Milton Keynes Central to London Euston. We have the misfortune of sitting directly in front of the toilet, which provides us with a talking point, if nothing else.

Midway through the journey an innocent chap wardles up and presses the toilet’s “open door” button as, one assumes, he needed to pee. But as the door opens we come eye to eye with a poor lady sat astride the lav, with fear in her eyes as she realises her urine release isn’t a private moment anymore. With pants around her ankles, she attempts to grab at the door or the “close door” button, both of which are too far for her to reach from her position astride the loo. Plus, she’s mid flow – we can hear it – and moving would just cause further problems.

It felt like an age as the door – massive so as to allow wheelchair users in – slowly opens all the way and then just as slowly closes, leaving my buddies and I in fits of laughter, desperately trying not to make eye contact with the poor lav lady, who actually apologises in her embarrassment.

Wow. What a moment. Don’t get me wrong, it was hilarious and without doubt the highlight of my journey, but that poor woman. I think we’re probably at our most vulnerable when we’re caught with our pants down – literally – in a public place and doing something most of us like to do in private. I’m only grateful that it wasn’t a man, wanger in hand, when the door opened. In his haste to close it he may well have peed all over us!

While it’s given me an amusing story to blog about, it does highlight a major fault with those toilets. They’re not self explanatory as toilet goers tend to assume the door locks when it closes. It does not. You have to press the lock button but there’s nothing to actually tell you that that button has been engaged. Hence why I NEVER use train toilets, it’s not worth the risk.

The actual reason for our jaunt to London was to attend the British Interactive Media Association Awards which was far less entertaining than the train journey – incredibly loud music, vibrating floors, poor food and nowhere to sit – isn’t my idea of a swanky night out. They tried too hard to be trendy and failed me thinks. Plus, when does the “dress to impress” code mean rock up in jeans, trainers and an oversized hoodie?

Anyway, the train journey home was just as eventful as the one there..

Part way home a young chap from Bangladesh started chatting to us and after spotting the Arabic tattoo on my wrist he asked if we were all from Saudi Arabia. An interesting conclusion to draw considering I couldn’t be more white if I covered myself in snow. My buddy Jane, as serious as cancer, turns and says: “Yes, you’re from Saudi Arabia aren’t you Rob.” She said it so seriously that for a short second I actually asked myself if I was indeed from Saudi Arabia. Then I remembered my routes lie in rural Shropshire. They both begin with an S but the similarity ends there.

He then asked if Tracy was from Thailand. I don’t know about her ability to handle ping pong balls, but she doesn’t look like she hails from Thailand. She’s part Sri Lankan, go figure.

He thought Jane, on the other hand, was actually from England but she pointed out that her family hailed from Germany. So he was pretty much wrong on all counts.

This chap, in heavily accented English, confessed that his friends didn’t like to talk to him much, that he worked too hard to pay for his studies and that he was lonely and needed a companion. Here we go, I thought…

We played a mini geography game as he had us guessing where he was from and then he covered random topics like how Germany are great at football, how life is boring and other such conversations.

It was bizarre and ,added onto the toilet incident earlier in the evening, I was beginning to find train journeys much more fun than I ever realised they could be. The oddest part of the evening came when the chap from Bangladesh shook our hands and kissed us on the cheek before he departed the train in Tring. The fact he pressed the “open door” button before the train had actually stopped moving concerned me a little.

Picture credit: theogeo

Just four weeks away from my 30th birthday and I ain’t no spring chicken anymore…  here’s why…

• Radio 1 annoys the hell of me (but I haven’t started listening to Radio 2 or 4 yet!
• I prefer a night snuggling in front of X Factor with dinner and a glass of wine than throwing out shapes and drinking from pint glasses
• After playing sport it takes me two days to stop aching instead of one
• After a night on the wine it takes me two days to recover rather than one
• I avoid wearing high heels at all costs because they hurt my feet
• I write a comprehensive list before I go food shopping, rather than hungrily snatch random food off the shelves and arrive home to find I have nothing that combines to make an actual meal
• I don’t shop for make-up in my lunch hour anymore, I go home and watch Murder She Wrote
• Socialising isn’t my main priority, it’s sleeping
• I would rather pay full price for things than endure the sheer hell that is sale shopping
• I use anti-aging sun cream, rather than super tanning sun cream
• People compliment me on my cardigan collection
• I more often than not take my white wine with a dash of soda water these days, my head prefers it that way
• I can no longer stuff my face free of consequences. If I stuff my face I look Like I’m carrying a food baby in my stomach
• Dinner parties have suddenly become way more appealing than nights out on the pop. How very civilised
• I have absolutely nothing in common with my 15-year-old sister. In fact, I think she speaks a different language to me.
• When asked what I want for my birthday or Christmas I reply with “Well, cinema vouchers would be useful,” or “I could really do with a new blender”.
• I can no longer face going out two nights in a row. I need a night off in between social engagements so I can recover.
• I am one of the oldest players on my netball team. I’m not a good player anymore, I’m “experienced”
• Kids I used to babysit for are now old enough to buy alcohol
• A day out now is now more likely to be a trip to Asda than a trip to Alton Towers
• I can’t get away with wearing short skirts or dresses without tights or leggings underneath to protect my modesty. It just looks trashy
• The most used word in my vocabulary is tired.

The Jigsaw Man I’ve just finished reading this book and oh boy can Paul Britton put pieces together. It’s no wonder his book is called The Jigsaw Man! This chap, who hails from the Midlands, is a psychologist and offender profiler who over the years has given – free of charge, I might add – a fair chunk of his time to help police solve crime.

When I pulled open the first page of the book I was expecting it to be about an American, for some reason. Aren’t all decent crime stories from the US? Well, no actually. I found myself visualising Paul Britton at work in Leicester, the city where I lived for a couple of years, and visiting places I know relatively well. He started from humbled beginnings but worked his arse off to become a very talented psychologist, helping police track killers and kidnappers, offering interview techniques and piecing together the pieces of some horrific crime scenes.

Britton’s path crosses some horrible events – Fred and Rosemary West’s appalling killing spree in Gloucester; the distressing murder of toddler Jamie Bulger by two 10-year-old boys; the violent and sexual murder of a young woman and her small child; the brutal slaying of Rachel Nickell on Wimbledon Common and the abduction of baby Abbie Humphries; and he meets the man who killed his own wife and made up an elaborate tale of kidnap and gangs to cover it up.

In his autobiography, forensic psychologist Paul Britton asks himself four questions when faced with a crime: what has happened; who is the victim; how was it done; and why? Only when he has the answers to these questions can he address the fifth: who is responsible? While the book is a tad slow to start for my liking – but only because I like the blood and the gore – I soon found myself glued to the pages and the interesting police cases he was consulted on.

While clearly a very talented man in his field, an area which isn’t supported by everyone, Britton admits that with each case he left a little piece of himself at the scene. So why did he do it when he found it so harrowing? Why pore over crime scene photos into the early hours while his family slept? Because he knew if he could help put one more evil person behind bars, the streets would be a safer place. And that’s what drove him. Each time he promised to hang up his offender profile hat, a new and intriguing case would come along and he just couldn’t say no.

What’s also interesting is how he can’t meet people now without finding out all sorts of information about them that he’d rather not know. The way people dress, act, speak and carry themselves all give off not so subtle signals about the sort of person they are or how easy a victim they’d would make – and Paul Britton finds it tricky to ignore these signals even during a casual conversation.

While his profiling has clearly eaten away at him over the years, he has assisted the police in more than 100 cases, helping them to identify and understand the nature of the perpetrator. It’s a good book and not only a detective story, but an insight into what makes the criminal mind tick. It sure gets a thumbs up from me, and if you enjoy real crime stories then this is for you.

It’s been more than a decade since I trained to become a journalist so I’ve no doubt that things have moved along somewhat. However, the basic principles remain the same. So, if you’re looking for a job in journalism, here are my tips.

Get some experience
How do you know you want to be a journalist unless you’ve actually tried it? I know of many folk who’ve pulled up a chair at the newsdesk only to find it’s not for them a few months later. Go and spend a week on the local newspaper, radio station, a magazine or if you’re lucky enough, somewhere like the BBC. Try it out, ask loads of questions and then you’ll be better placed to say “Yes, this is the job for me” or “Actually, I’m not cut out for this”.

Be prepared to start at the bottom
It’s very unusual for a fresh-faced 18-year-old to step out of college and into a job writing music reviews for NME, football reports for the Daily Mirror or a regular column in The Independent. It’s more likely that you’ll have to start as a junior reporter on your local weekly newspaper but that’s no bad thing. Starting at the bottom gives you a good grounding of the basics of journalism and it won’t be too long before you can climb the ladder to the nationals or multi-media organisations. Those in senior positions who haven’t once been the office junior tend to be lacking something, in my opinion. Making a good cup of tea also helps.

Learn shorthand
My former editor wouldn’t employ anyone who didn’t have shorthand, preferably 100 words per minute. If you don’t know what this is, it’s a load of squiggly symbols which represent letters and words and makes writing down an interview with someone a whole lot easier. Why not record it I hear you ask? In this day and age there are plenty of dictaphones and voice recorders available but what if the battery is dead? What if you forget to press record? What happens if that two-hour exclusive interview you did hasn’t recorded? You’re f**ked, basically. Even if you do record the interview, take notes as well – detailed ones, if possible – and shorthand is the only way to do this. It’s invaluable and after a period of seeing roads signs in shorthand and dreaming in shorthand you’ll soon find that writing your shopping list becomes a whole lot quicker. Shorthand isn’t so common these days but it’s a useful skill to have.

Don’t take it for granted
Journalism is a competitive profession so if you’re lucky enough to be given a job, hang on to it. And this means working hard! I’ve trained reporters who think it’s perfectly acceptable to re-nose the intro on a press release and repeat all day long. Well, it isn’t. One reporter wrote me an intro which I didn’t understand so I queried it. She replied with, “Er, I don’t know actually, that’s what the press release said.” “Er, well, don’t you think it’s your job to translate the press release and write it in such a way that our readers will understand it? If you don’t understand what you’ve written, how is anyone else going to?” The penny had dropped. There’s no place for laziness in journalism.

Do your research
When you’re being interviewed it’s always useful to have a vague idea of what you’re talking about. So do your research! I used to get so many letters from work experience potentials addressed to Mr Slingsby. I am not a Mr, I’m a Miss and to confuse someone’s gender, or spell their name wrong, is not a good start. Also, if you’re being interviewed for a job, make sure you know about the company, the industry, the circulation, the area. It all helps. No one’s expecting you to have the answers to all questions but a little knowledge goes a long way. I once interviewed someone for a trainee reporter role who went silent when asked “what is news?” and someone who didn’t know the difference between a tabloid and broadsheet newspaper. These aren’t encouraging signs.

Qualifications mean jack shit
Okay, that’s not strictly true, they’re an added bonus. But I’d be more interested in seeing a portfolio of your work than a crib sheet listing your qualifications. An A Level in media relations is great but it by no means implies that you can be a journalist. Once again, get some work experience, submit articles and feature ideas, start a blog. Get writing!

Print is dead, get online
This isn’t strictly true either, but print is certainly not the popular news medium it once was. So, in order to give yourself the best possible chance, show how versatile a journalist you can be by getting some experience in online and social media. Set up a Twitter account, start writing a blog, read other people’s blogs, publish photos in Flickr, have a go at making a podcast or doing a video interview. It all helps. Even if writing is your passion, there’s a fair chance you’ll be doing it online at some point, so to have knowledge of what else is out there can only be a good thing.

If you don’t know, ask
No one likes to admit that they don’t know what they’re doing but when we start out in a new job that’s quite often going to be the case. But, instead of plodding on with little idea what you’re supposed to produce, ask the question. Bosses don’t like being interrupted constantly when they’re busy, this is true, but I guarantee they’d rather you ask when you’re not sure about something than go full steam ahead and get it wrong. Because you’ll only have to do it again. Never assume and don’t be afraid to ask for advice.

It’s not what you know, it’s who you know
Making contacts is invaluable and get sometimes get you a foot in the door. Get yourself known and doors will open.

I’ve been thinking that this blog has been looking a bit tired of late, and that it’s time for a change. The content will remain the same, I’ll be ranting on as normal, but I want it to be a bit easier on the eye.

So, I have employed the services of talented web designer and developer Richard Bateman (@west4street) to breathe new life into Robyn’s Nest. And it’s work in progress!

So, coming soon will be a new Robyn’s Nest – and pictured is a sneak preview. Watch this space! I am so excited about it I might just pee my pants. Oh… too late ;0)

Call me old fashioned but I’m shocked and appalled at the number of stories I hear about young folk – supposedly keen to get a career and make their mark on the world of work – who are given opportunities only to chuck it in because it requires some effort. Yes, sorry kids, working is tough and requires more energy than lying in bed watching movies all day or pissing around on computer games.

Take, for example, the girl on work experience at my mate’s PR firm the other month. She piddled around on Facebook all day and then didn’t bother turning up for the rest of the week. Then there’s the lad who can’t be arsed to get in work on time and leaves it until mid morning to call in sick. What’s that all about? And what about the kid who turned up at a newspaper office in trainers and asked if he could go home at lunch time because he was bored. Oh, and I once interviewed someone for a trainee reporter’s job who looked at me blankly when asked “what is news?”. Do your research peeps, it’s competitive out there!

When I was a wee cub reporter I made such an effort to create a good impression. Being given a job wasn’t enough for me, I wanted to keep it, and not only that – I wanted to be good it at. This was tough for me, I was painfully shy, but well aware that I was going to have to put myself in some uncomfortable positions if I wanted to learn and do well. I may have hated a lot of it, but it’s just what I had to do.

So, knowing that I wanted to be a journalist I spent two weeks’ work experience at two local newspapers because I knew I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting a job without a bit of experience. A lot of people think they want to be journalists but you only get taken on if you’re serious about being one. I was.

That said, those two weeks were hell on earth and the longest days on the planet. Time ticked oh so slowly and with my super shyness on top, I was soooo glad when it was all over. I knew one of the weeks wouldn’t be so great when I phoned a week before my arrival to ask what the dresscode was.

“Wear a shirt and tie lad, the usual office stuff,” said the editor down the phone to me.

“Erm, I’m a girl,” I explained, nervously.

“Er…er… then wear whatever you want,” he stuttered.

Ironically, a decade later when I was sitting in the editor’s chair, this man became my deputy. I never did remind him of his misplaced dresscode advice, or the fact he never signed and returned my work experience certificate.

During my first few years as a reporter, senior reporter and then chief reporter, I made sure to be the first in the office and the last to leave. Okay, so I may have been there only two minutes before and two minutes after everyone else, but I had a point to prove. And if my editor was working late then so did I.

I don’t do sick days, the only time I’ve had off ill is four days with flu back in 1999 and two days around five years ago because I had an operation and couldn’t drive. But if I ever do feel ill enough not to go to work, I’ll be sure to notify my line manager before 9am and preferably not by text message. It’s not good enough to call in at 10am when your boss has already sent out a search party!

Sometimes, there’s nothing I’d love more than to sack work off for the day and spend it in bed watching back-to-back Murder She Wrote, catch up on sleep or go shopping. But I don’t. I have a job to do, which for the most part I enjoy and which pays my bills. I have to go.

So for lazy teenagers or 20-somethings given a chance at their chosen career to not put the effort in – especially in the current climate when jobs are few and far between – is simply scandalous. Sorry folks, you will have to drag yourself out of bed in the mornings, you will have to sacrifice other things you enjoy doing in daylight hours and you will have to spend time doing mundane tasks before you get a proper footing on the career ladder. But jobs aren’t handed out and you usually have to do more than turn up every now and then to keep them. Oh, and another thing…. having a degree doesn’t mean you’ll fall into a job either and neither does it entitle you to one. If you have to work for free to get some experience for a while then that’s what you have to do. Work hard in the early days and you’ll reap the benefits in later life. Honest.

If you haven’t watched TV’s Come Dine With Me then you really should, it rocks. It’s car crash TV at its finest and while I find myself cringing at the Average Joes serving dinner to random strangers, I just can’t tear myself away.

I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of CDWM, you can just look it up. Tonight CDWM comes to Milton Keynes but sadly there won’t be any cameras, a witty commentator or even score cards at the end of the night. And there certainly won’t be a tray laden with £1,000 in cash for the winner.

What there will be is three couples, a starter, a main course and a pudding and no doubt a fair bit of wine. Oh, and a dog too, his name is Archie. Maybe he’ll be serving the drinks? Stranger things have happened on Come Dine With Me!

That said, the host for this evening, who yesterday went home from work with suspected swine flu is sticking to a pork theme with her menu.. she’s just sent this through…

STARTER
Face licks from Archie Buchanan, dog servant extraordinaire

***

MAIN COURSE
Pork and herb sausages with a red onion sauce & creamy chive mash

***

DESSERT
Chocolate swirl cheesecake
Tart lemon cheesecake

The host may be serving dinner from her death bed but I actually think/know that her hubby will be in charge of the kitchen and she’s just looking for an excuse not to do the washing up. And there’ll be plenty of that after we’ve spilled red wine on the new sofa, trashed their food and forgotten to take our muddy shoes off before entering the property. Oh yeah, I’ve just remembered that we get to rifle through her house too, although I’m not sure I want to know what’s lurking in her drawers!

Anyway, I am well looking forward to this dinner party with a twist. I think a generic email inbox will be set up for voting purposes as “scoring a one in the back of a cab” just isn’t practical, and besides, we have no cameraman.

So, tonight is the first of three soirees and the benchmark to beat. Bring it on! I don’t want to get too boastful though because it’s always the ones who think they’re fine dining experts and show offs and boasters who end up getting trounced by the more down to earth diners.

Fingers crossed I don’t wake up with food poisoning tomorrow…

I did something drastic this week – I quit volleyball. This wasn’t a rash decision mind, it took a lot of thinking and pondering to make my mind up but as soon as I said it outloud to a friend of mine, I knew it was the right thing to do.

I’ve been playing National League volleyball for a fair while now, and for the last four or five seasons for Leicester – a team of top girls with a good dollop of sporting talent and tactics between them. But I live in Milton Keynes so this means a good two-and-a-half hours in the car for every training session, one per week, plus jaunts to Leeds, Cardiff and Norwich etc for matches. I honestly spend more time in the car than I do on court and during the tail end of last season it was starting to take its toll.

I thought I’d be all refreshed after the summer break and raring to go again. But no. Plus when I got pulled over by a police car with flashing lights on the M1 a few weeks ago for speeding – I was doing 94mph apparently and had no idea they were chasing my ass – it was the last straw. I’m so keen to get home after Wednesday night training and rest my weary head that I break the law to get there and end up sitting in the back of a cop car in my shorts and volleyball hoodie, getting a lecture from the transport police, three points and a £60 fine. Far from ideal, I’d say.

Officer: “Do you have your driving licence or any identification on you madam?”

Me: “Er, no, sorry. I’ve just come from volleyball training so all I have on my is a pair of sweaty knee pads.”

Officer: “Hmm, knee pads eh. Well… I suppose we could identify you by your DNA.”

So, I played my last games on Sunday, at the home venue in Leicester. My team mates, unaware that I was on the brink of quitting, served up a storm on the court and we beat Sheffield 3-1 and Birmingham University in a very close five setter 3-2. What a way to leave the sport! With a double! I can’t ask much more than that although two days later and my muscles won’t let me forget what I put them through.

I also play netball on Monday and Tuesday nights – but locally thankfully, not 50 miles up the motorway – so now I can concentrate on just the one sport. Three nights of prancing around in shorts and trainers is too much, two is bearable, and I have a gym membership that needs using too. Very unlikely that after three nights on the trot I’m going to spend my free Thursdays pounding the cross trainer! Uh uh.

I’ve broken the news to my team mates now and feel terrible for abandoning them and giving them one less person to take the piss out of. I never thought quitting a sport I have been so committed to over the years would ever be an option for me, but I feel great relief at inheriting an extra night in the week and a helluva lot of Sundays.

This spare time will be used wisely, mind. I have a neglected novel that needs editing until it’s fit for an agent’s eyes; a group of fellow writers I need to brainstorm with; books piling up on my bedside table that need reading; friends to catch up with on the blower and a man who likes to spend time with me when I’m not tired and grumpy. I have a bike that’s covered in cobwebs and in desperate need of riding; a catalogue of restaurants I want to eat in; and movies I want to watch and sometimes…well, sometimes I want to do nothing.

Who knows, maybe I’ll be back at the net next season but for now, I’m looking forward to the break.

Okay, since the Liquid Bomb Plot was foiled a few years back, we’re now not allowed to take liquids onto flights. Well, in our hand luggage, no, but we can in our suitcases. Actually, no, that’s a lie too. We can carry on liquids but no more than 100ml in total and as long as it’s in a clear plastic bag. ‘Cos anything under 100ml and that’s contained in a placcy bag is gonna be safe right? Huh?

I can see why security was heightened at the time – some dudes were caught allegedly plotting to create liquid bombs disguised at soft drinks bottles – and airports were put on high alert. Understood.

But why now, some years later, do we still have to do the whole plastic bag, limited liquids thing? I’ve discovered that these are Government guidelines, not ones imposed by the airlines, but nowhere can I find out why this rule is still in place.

Every time I travel abroad I put my liquids – mascara and lip gloss usually, you know, the essentials – in a see through bag in my hand luggage. But only if I’m asked do I take that see through bag out of my hand luggage and put it in the tray to go through airport security separated from my other carry-on items. And when they don’t ask – and that’s about 50 per cent of the time in my experience – no one has pulled me up for it. So what’s the point?

Does the fact we put a limited amount of liquids in a see through bag make travelling on a plane any safer? Does it really foil those terrorists? I doubt it. So, if someone plots to blow up a lane using a bomb disguised as a bra, does that mean no one can wear a bra on a plane? I know I’m exaggerating here, I just think it’s a stoopid rule.

It may well have been necessary at the time, but now it’s just past it’s sell by date. One more thing for us to think about and one more thing for airport staff to enforce. Admittedly, it’s not too much of a hassle to put a few things in another bag, but for those not familiar with these rules it’s a chance for the airports to cash in and sell these bags at extortionate fees. At one UK airport there was even a machine installed where you could buy these bags just as you would a can of coke from a drinks dispenser. And for a similar over-inflated price.

I’m all for rules if they serve a purpose but pointless rules are just… well, pointless.

Rant over.