Breaking into TV: Rejection, Roofers and Rashes

The plan evolved after graduation; move to Bristol. It’s the Hollywood of natural history TV; if you want to work in that industry, you move to Bristol.

Like most creative industries, everyone tells you that all it takes to get a big break is getting your foot in the door. What they neglect to mention however is, getting your foot in the door in the first place takes a ridiculous amount of tolerance for rejection.

Lots of doors will slam as you try to edge your toes over the threshold, so wear a decent pair of boots.

I’d spent over two years networking. Sending out a countless number of emails to producers, office managers, and talent managers. I bombarded the DM's of anyone remotely connected to the field. I took myself down to Bristol and set up coffee chats with people who kindly offered to meet me including, one of the Guardian Angels who'd inspired me into this situation.

I was desperate for advice but I soon found it was always the same words pitched in slightly different ways each time; Just keep at it.

The goal was to get into the industry as an office runner – the person who supports productions at the most basic level: driving around, picking up kit, running drives, making sure everyone is fed and watered when you're on location – and work my way up within a production house. Then came the global pandemic. All offices closed, and no one needed a runner because everyone worked from home. I couldn't see where my opportunity was going to come from.

But, like it always does, the universe had a plan.

I set myself a deadline to secure a job any TV job and, if I didn't have one by then, I was going to move without one anyway. I had found myself a flat that I'd only seen photos of online and the time to move was fast approaching.

Despite professing my okay-ness about moving to a new city in the middle of a global pandemic without a job, as the deadline drew closer, it felt much less okay. My normally chill demeanour was unable to suppress the uncertainty that simmered underneath. Uncertainty in the world, myself, and future.

Like a lot of people during that scary time for our society, I moved back in with my parents. I'd been working in Manchester on my MA in Wildlife Documentary Production (so niche, I know) when everything shut and I'd been back in my childhood bedroom for six months by this point.

They were getting the roof done. And, on this particular day, the builders were busy working on the section directly above my room.

'IS THAT IT AYE?' one of them roared to his pal above me.

BANG.

My eye twitched as the nail gun fired. 

Amidst the chaos of that morning, I sent one last email to a talent manager. I’d had multiple calls with her by this point and she always ended calls with 'just keep letting me know how you're getting on.'

It's always reassuring to hear from someone in a position to hire you that, no, you’re not bothering them, even though you feel like a nuisance after sending three "Do you have any work yet?" emails within a month.

BANG.

Her reply came quickly—before I’d even stepped away from my desk: "Nothing has come up that’s suitable for you yet, but we’ll keep you in mind. Don’t give up. Good luck with the move!"

Another BANG as what could only be described as a nuclear explosion-level of sound came from the roof above me.

I couldn’t help it—in that moment, staring yet another rejection in the face, tears leaked from my eyes, and my thoughts began to whir.

What was I thinking, moving to a new city with no financial security, job prospects, and no real plan? (Did anyone else picture that scene from Pride and Prejudice here?).

I'm supposed to move in with someone I've never met in three days.

BANG.

I've poured every penny I had into the deposit for a flat I’d never viewed.

BANG BANG BANG. 

And then, I felt it: my armpit was burning. I looked. Itchy, red blotches seemed to be spreading by the second. I reached up to scratch it, only to feel the other one burning with irritation too. Then, I glanced down at my thighs and sure enough, the same flaming patterns were emerging there too. 

A live-action horror show was playing out on my body.

The world slowed as my brain whirred into overdrive. The panic over the move was forgotten. Now, a rapid-fire slideshow of possibilities spun through my head: an allergic reaction? No, scarlet fever. Or maybe shingles? CONSUMPTION????

Nothing was off the table. Except stress. Stress doesn't cause physical symptoms, that stays firmly in your head... Oh, the irony.

I turned to my trusty, all-knowing medical professional: the internet. But typing 'red rash under arms and thighs' into the search bar only opened Pandora’s Box. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the rabbit hole, thoroughly convinced of one thing: I was moving to Bristol jobless and with Herpes. In the middle of a global pandemic, after more than six months of pure, monk-like celibacy, I had contracted Herpes.

Life carried on, oblivious to my spiral: I could hear Dad on a work call in the next room and Mum was making a coffee in the kitchen. The builders continued to thump nails into the roof above me though, to be fair, they might've been trying to drown out my sobs. I tried not to think that somewhere in Bristol, my soon-to-be flatmate was probably assuming I was a stable, functioning adult.

So that was it. My fate was sealed. I was moving to Bristol, jobless, financially unstable, and medically doomed.

Then, in what could only be described as divine timing, my phone rang.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, blew my nose on the sleeve of my dressing gown, and took a deep breath.

At that moment, the world around me fell silent.

Nothing else mattered because maybe, just maybe, I’d finally done it.