Sydney Life

The first time I heard Meryl Streep (as Miranda Priestley) utter her famous dictum, 'That's all,' it sent shivers down my spine. Oh yes, the Prada-clad demon (loosely based on US Vogue editor Anna 'Nuclear' Wintour) made me think of all the nasty, conniving employers out there. And injected me with a dose of fear and panic, staving off my desire for full-time work for....oh, at least another four years.

The Devil Wears Prada, the big-screen adaptation of Lauren Weisberger's roman-a-clef concerning her internship at Vogue is a veritable cavalcade of clothes candy. It also stars the delectably laconic Adrian Grenier, for whom I'd leave my first-born child. But this is where the appeal ends.

Meryl Streep plays Miranda Priestley, editor of the fictional Runway magazine. Her arrival in the office each day is cause for ultimate panic and results in a flurry of activity akin to a military operation. Her Perrier and Starbucks are placed on her desk, her magazines and newspapers fanned out precisely, her staff are dressed to kill and her assistants are patiently waiting by their phones - so that MP can throw her coat and handbag at them as she sashays into her office.

The film made me think about the many bosses and colleagues who quite often succeed in making interns or graduates lives hell. I count myself very lucky to have a lovely boss, Miss J, who always looks out for her staff. But I've had some shockers in my time, too.

There was the McDonald's manager who took his measly pittance of authority a little too far. When we'd close the store, he would sit down at a table to read the newspaper while the rest of us fifteen-year-old slaves set about cleaning the store.

There was the Gloria Jeans lease-holder who insisted that we pay for all of our coffees. One plucky gal, Miss A, tried to buck the system once, and score a free Frappacino, but was cruelly rebuffed when the owner came sauntering into the store. She grabbed the icy coffee from Miss A's trembling hands and threw it onto her shoes. Miss A quit on the spot (just as she was about to be fired) and to this day, can't drink coffee.

Oh - and I can't forget the owners of a bar (a husband and wife team) who initially told me I'd be working one night a week. I thought that was a great arrangement, as I was at uni and didn't want my work to interfere with my study. By my second week at the bar, I was working five nights in a row. When I expressed my consternation I was quickly told that, in the hospitality industry, workers were at the peril of their employers. If your boss wants you to work, then you work, apparently. No questions asked. Needless to say, that was the end of that. (The upside, obviously, was that I learnt how to make a mojito, which has clearly come in handy).

So it is with great pleasure and not a little terror that I announce my intention to stay at uni as long as possible, so as to avoid the pitfalls of having a full-time boss. Yep, that's right - I'm headed to the Land of Academia, first stop: Ph.D-ville. I have at least another four years before I decide exactly what I want to do with my life. I also have another four years at uni - drinks at Manning, free access to the Oxford English Dictionary Online, free gigs, the festivities of O-Week and of course, the inimitable feeling of being a distinctly boss-free student.