Some of us are dying of 'exposure'

This morning I was offered an amazing opportunity. A well-known, very profitable magazine, which makes millions of pounds each year for its seriously wealthy owner, offered to publish my original work on its web site. For nothing.

‘Wait,’ I puzzled. ‘What do you mean ‘for nothing’?  I'm not an advertiser. I'm a writer. I don’t pay to have my work published – people pay me to write it.’

Turns out they weren't confused. They were asking me to write for them for no wage.

I pointed out that I am not a teenage intern looking for ‘exposure’. I am forty-something years old and have been a journalist since I was twenty something. I have written for magazines, national newspapers and global companies. I've written books, proof read for legal companies and edited breaking news for broadcast interviews.

They already knew. They’d heard of me. That’s why they called. Because they have gazillions of readers and so us ‘working together’ would be mutually beneficial.

Like so many of my equally professional, talented and experienced colleagues, I'm constantly asked by friends to ‘just glance over this’ for nothing. I have friends who are doctors, yoga teachers and project managers who have decided to ‘do a bit of PR’ and ask me to check over the (shocking) press release they've written. I am asked to ‘fiddle with’ restaurant menus, corporate brochures and publicity leaflets by people who are setting up a new little business. If I had a penny for every time a mum at school said to me, ‘I've decided to do a bit of PR for my friend who’s just started making cup-cakes / bought a dancing school / become a florist – can you check it over for me?’ I would actually be able to retire to my villa in Tuscany and write the novel I've never got time to squeeze in because no one is paying me to do it.

I recently did some work for a very old acquaintance because they were in dire straits. I halved my rate for them (I know, I know). When the invoice was three months overdue, I managed to get through on the phone. ‘We can’t afford to pay you,’ they said, without a hint of regret. ‘You’ll just have to wait.’

'No problem', I said. 'I'm sure the mortgage company will be happy to hang on a bit'.

Imagine going to your hairdresser and saying, ‘I’d like you to cut my hair for free. You can make me look gorgeous and I will go and walk the streets and tell everyone and the exposure will be great for your business.’

Or asking a painter and decorator to come and smarten up your house for nothing, promising that every time someone comes to visit you’ll tell them who gave it the wow factor.

There are a few other professions where I know this happens. We all know that guy who has decided he’s a photographer because the local rag printed his sunset.  Graphic designers tell of mates who design their own logos and then need them tweaked; in Word.  A friend who’s a highly-qualified landscape architect with years of experience was recently asked if he’d very much mind arriving early for a lunchtime barbecue so he could cut the grass first.

So my plea today is this: pay us like you pay the supermarket, the vet, the mechanic. Pay us when we ask you to, not months later. Pay us in cash, by transfer, by cheque or to our offshore account (I wish).

Now I'm off to the local for dinner. I'm hoping their payment terms are 28 days, by which time it's possible I might have some money.  

CAN SOMEONE TAKE CHARGE OF THE HUMAN RACE PLEASE?

We all love the idea of free will and all that blah. But I don’t think we humans can any longer be trusted to make our own decisions. We’ve been left to our own devices since forever and while our ancestors may have been more community minded - feeding, clothing and hunting for the whole tribe (or not, I have no idea obviously) - we no longer give a tiny little rat’s arse about anyone except ourselves.

Every day I hear of another giraffe being shot for a laugh by a rich dentist and an elephant dies because some tool on holiday fancies a photo. Dogs are skinned alive because someone said it makes the meat taste better if they die in pain. Whales choke to death because there’s more plastic in the sea than salt. Baby chicks are hurled onto a conveyor belt by the bargain bucket load because we all want meat every day but only want it to cost a pound.

Kids are smashing each other to pieces in the playground because they live on sugar and iphones from two years old and can’t control themselves. We’re far too busy and important to feed them properly or teach them patiently. 

We must have a big shiny car that doesn’t fit in a supermarket car parking space because that’s what makes us worthwhile. And we must be able to fly to Africa for less than the cost of filling it up. We must drive it back and forth, back and forth all day, every day because it is essential that we get everywhere as fast as possible and we can’t Bluetooth our ipods on the bus. 

When I was a kid, roast chicken was a Sunday treat, salmon was for weddings and wine was only drunk on special occasions. No one felt it was their right to holiday in ever-further-off places. But now we feel we deserve winter sun as well as skiing.  People without a job consider it a human right to have the smartest smart phone and the latest HD curved screen plasma TV.

We want five tops for a fiver so when we’re bored of them next week we can bin them and get more. We want chia seeds shipped in from Timbuctoo. We throw away half-used lipsticks and apples with bruises.  There are hundreds of sheep in the fields around me but the shops only sell lamb shipped from New Zealand. 

We need to be stopped.

Everyone should be made to read the final chapter of the Bone Clocks, by David Mitchell. (Yes, you read that right. No choice. Made to). In his vision, only a few years from now, everything has run out. It is impossible to speak to your relatives far away in Dorset, let alone visit them. Gangs are looting everything from the solar panels on the roof to the communal food banks where food is distributed fairly. It is too dangerous to travel anywhere on foot. People with asthma die because there is no way to make inhalers. Children listen wide-eyed to the tales their grandparents (that’s us by the way) tell of the ‘olden days’ when anyone who wanted to could fly to the other side of the world. 

So I suggest we are restricted to only using our cars every other day. There must be a cap on gas and electricity use. Food should be rationed like it was in the war. We’d be fitter and better off, rainforests might exist outside of old picture books and there’d be a slim chance of eking out the planet’s resources

I know what you’re thinking. I know you hate the idea; you think I’m mad. But that’s the problem. You refuse to restrict yourself, won’t put up with the slightest inconvenience for the sake of future generations. You think I’m exaggerating, that it’s never going to happen.

For the sake of my grandchildren and all the tiny chicks who fell off the conveyor belt and got squashed, I hope you’re right.