Adios..

Tomorrow is my penultimate day at Vogue.

I will be free!  Free from the tumultuous unpaid existence as an intern.

And I feel very sad to be leaving. After all, it has been my first proper stint in grown-up world and I was getting quite comfortable there, without the every other day hangovers and constant impending essays at University. Photoshoots, Fashion week- I couldn’t have asked for a better place to work. Despite the one time that I had to run around Madrid in a torrential downpour collecting clothes, trying to protect a 600 euro fur jacket from the rain with my measly umbrella and then getting chased around a very bizarre, very expensive shoe boutique by a greyhound, still guarding that godforsaken coat, it’s been a very smooth run.

It seems like everyone is trying to bombard me with as much work as they can in my last week before I leave. But I’m trying to drink it in and remember it all. At least my name will be immortalised in the glossy pages of the past 9 issues and the next few to come. And thankfully I have one month left to play in the sunny streets of Madrid before hometime.

The post-it always sticks twice.

In the current climate of economic unease it seems to be becoming more difficult to get away from the words credit crunch, or, as the Spaniards like to call it “crisis”. However,  I have to be honest- I haven’t really seen firsthand the knock on effects of this new age of austerity. Perhaps it’s because I intern at one of the leading fashion magazines of the world, where opulence, luxury and high fashion are paramount. Fashion world and economic crisis are two terms that do not complement each other well.

The only significant way I have been affected by the recession is the pound-euro exchange rate, making everything for me here in Madrid SO expensive- I’m having to buy Carrefour’s own brand sweet corn instead of my beloved Green Giant. And I’m trying to avoid Madrid’s only Topshop at all costs. Call me uninformed but other than that, I am living in blissful ignorance. I am, after all, a student- and a bad one at that. Student’s are supposed to be poor. For the first 2 years at Uni I refused to buy Sainsbury’s basics, carried on eating at Pret at every opportunity, and continued to shop to my heart’s content whenever any pieces of coursework had been stressing me out too much.  

Other than that, I can see no other real way in which the crisis affects me personally. Unemployment has risen; I understand this much, and it’s my friends who will be graduating and unfortunately not continuing to grace Bristol with their presence next year who could be looking at a hard time. I’ve received an excess of emails for talks on “How to find employment during the economic crisis” and have read in my Uni paper “what the real value of Bristol degree is during the recession”. I find this all quite intimidating and I will cross this bridge when I come to it. Thankfully I have one year left of being a student and right now as a mere intern my job isn’t on the line. Like I said before, blissful ignorance.

Last week, I sat at my desk pondering about the changes I’ve seen in my department due to the economic situation. Unemployment rates at the moment in Spain are worse than in England, yet the only noticeable changes I could think of was the fact that I am no longer allowed to send out copies of the magazine to other countries. Oh, and the stationary cupboard is no longer full of veritable treats of highlighters, waterproof pens, felt tips and different coloured post it notes. I have to reuse my post-it notes now. Hard times indeed.

I hadn’t realised the implications of the crunch until that fateful day, when, whilst I was un-sticking my post its from lookbooks, one of the assistants in my department came over to say a teary goodbye, consequently informing me that two (the only two) fashion assistants in my department had been fired, just like that, and now it was up to us. The interns.

I was, and still am stunned and gutted. The assistants were like the older sisters of the department, and were always so patient with my Spanish. They knew everything. They knew how to arrange DHL pickups, which show rooms carried what brands, where to get a steel telephone and a 1950s typewriter from....... In short- if I messed up or didn’t know something, I would go to them. Everyone would go to them. 

And if that wasnt enough, the lovely post guy that would come round the whole of our building has been reassigned to head of the Condé Nast mail department, because the previous receptionist has been fired. He delivered all our mail directly to my desk and pick up all outgoing mail without me having to lift so much as a fingernail.  Now this means that we have to go down to the basement and collect all the post. Everyday. A lot of people post a lot of things to my department. 

So, back to work today as per usual. Now I am fashion assistant and intern and postwoman rolled into one. Picking up the pieces and completing the work they’ve left. It’s going to be a long month.......

the diary of an intern

One pair of Louboutins. Some Marc Jacobs ballerinas. A Miu Miu skirt. One Gucci clutch. And that Balmain denim military jacket that sold out in Madrid in one afternoon. Thousands of Euros worth of attire in just two, albeit large, shopping bags. I haphazardly skip my way down calle Serrano inbetween the shoppers and business men. I get back to the office just in time for the phone call with the girl from Prada.

This is the life of an intern for the fashion department of Spanish Vogue. Little fashion obsessed preened creatures that tiptoe around the office observing, pleasing and doing what we are told to without so much as a flutter of an eyelid. We are the assistants’ assistants. Scanning, phoning, carrying, picking up or dropping off clothes/bags/flowers/food- these are to name but a few of my daily tasks. The better responsibilities include requesting clothes from fashion houses on behalf of stylists for photoshoots; the not so good jobs include organising the cupboards full of backdated French, American, British, Russian and Japanese Vogues. The plus side is that I have an endless archive of publications at my disposal. My favourites include precious British and French Vogues from the 1990s.

A lot of people ask me what I wear to work. The fact of the matter is, I wear what I want. Sometimes I dress up, sometimes I wear my battered Converse. It is after all, a fashion magazine. Fashion is subjective; beauty is in the eye of the beholder etcetera etcetera. All the stylists, naturally, look effortlessly stylish whether it be in their Chanel pumps or puma retros. They own what seems like an endless number of coats, jackets, dresses and boots. Moreover, they all have an air about them, as if they’ve just rolled out of bed fresh-faced and elegant, throwing on the first thing they come across in their wardrobe. I am yet to perfect this- I think it’s a Spanish thing.

The head of my department always looks impeccable, petite yet chic in her over sized blazers, flowery dresses and tassled boots (she has the same ones as me and this makes me happy). As for my fashion editor- need I say anymore- she looks incredible every day. She towers above the rest of us with her Chanel bags (she must have at least 4) and Vuitton heels. Did I mention she rides a motorbike?

Heels- now this is something of a grey area in the office. I, for example, would not wear heels in the office. Not because I do not love them, sometimes even prefer them to flats, but because heels represent professional standing. There is a heel hierarchy. It’s a pretty safe bet, for instance, that the fashion editor will be wearing high heels. Sometimes she will sport some New Balance vintage trainers, but most of the time, it’s the 6 inchers. The junior stylists, however, wear chunky heeled boots, kitten heels or flats. I, as a meagre intern, therefore, tend to stick with my French soles or brogues, and the furthest I have ever gone was to wear some chunky ruffled mary janes, and even then that was with tights.

So, from my experience so far, I have come to the conclusion that the Devil does not wear Prada. Anyway, if he was to wear anything it would definitely be Armani.