The Secret Diary of Devil in Tights, aged 14.
We all remember work experience, right? Most people just go off to do filing in a back room somewhere, or maybe go and work for their Mum for a couple of weeks. Looking back on things, that’s just what I should have done.

But oh, no. Not me. I had to go and be different, didn’t I?

Aged 14, I’d grown out of wanting to be a train driver. I wanted to be a fighter pilot, just like Maverick in ‘Top Gun’. But that dream was shot down when, at an ATC ‘Careers Night’ the RAF recruiter laughed when I asked him if I could be a fast-jet pilot – because I wear glasses.

So, I wanted glitz and glamour, and a bit of danger. I had recently discovered the joys of the swimsuit edition of ‘Sports Illustrated’ (and some covertly purchased copies of The Sun/Star (or even Sport!) from my paper round); and I had thus decided what I Wanted To Do With My Life.

I wanted to be a photographer. Specifically, my raging hormones informed me by way of several steamy fantasies that I wanted to take pictures of women in bikinis (or not, as the case may be) draped over fast cars. Or on beaches. Or in showers. Whatever.

And so it came to pass that we had to apply for work experience. I applied to every photo studio in a 50 mile radius, hoping against all hope that somehow Beverley Goodway would find out about me and bring me in for 2 weeks looking at topless girlies.

However, my dreams were instead taken in the gnarled claw of fate, and dashed against the rocks of despair. All the decent photographic jobs were taken. I was left with one route open to me.

The NHS.

Using my high level contacts (Mum), I managed to get a job in Medical Photography. In my mind, I thought ‘OK, it’s not boobs – but taking photos of operations? That’s pretty cool!’, and so off I toddled.

Being 14, I was not allowed in to the operating theatres to take pictures. Being 14, I was not allowed to go in to outpatients to take pictures. I was, for the first few days, restricted to filing massive amounts of slides (with some extremely unsettling pictures on them) which just hadn’t been bothered with for a couple of years.

Then the fateful day came. My boss decided to sneak me up on to the wards, to take a couple of snaps. As we walked through, I spied a very attractive girl in a bed at the other end, and hoped against all hope that she was having an operation to cure a hopeless sexual craving for 14-year-old geeks, and they needed photos to prove it.

I was, however, lead to the bedside of a very, very old lady who had been hospitalised for some time. She was so strung out on pain killers that she couldn’t even say her own name. And she had pressure sores. Lots and lots of pressure sores. Her leg was lifted, and I took a picture of the sore on the back of her ankle while trying not to vomit at the smell the sore gave off, despite the dressing and the various creams that were on it. We then moved on to her other ankle and then her elbows. The Nurses then propped the lady on her side, and parted her gown. On the lady’s buttocks I saw what (to date, at least) was the biggest, weeping wound I could possibly imagine. I can remember thinking (while desperately trying to hold down bile) what awful, awful pain the woman must have been in.

I quickly took the snaps, and turned on my heels and ran the hell away.

Returning to the office – now pale of face and empty of stomach – I approached the head of Photography.

“Just what the hell,” I uttered “do you think you’re playing at?”

She laughed. She actually laughed. “I thought it’d be fun for you.”

Fun? Fun? No, this is not my idea of fun. Cutting my teeth out with a breadknife would be vastly preferable to this. I decided at that moment I wasn’t going to go back, I’d rather have gone worked in the school library than do this any longer.

Summoning up all my courage while the boss and her assistant went to lunch, I took a pen and a pack of Post-It notes. On each and every one I wrote “I Quit!” or a rude word, and stuck them to every available surface. There must have been well over 200 – I stuck them on computer screens, to the underside of cameras, on chairs, on desks in the developing room, on backdrops – you name it, I stuck it there.

As I was walking away, we passed each other in the corridor. I smiled a broad, shit-eating smile at her, and walked out of the hospital with my head held high.

Until I got home, that is, when my Mother tore a strip off me. But that’s another story.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 23 May 2008, 10:08, 6 replies)

Hmmm...
I loved the story.
*clicks*
Seriously, how easy do you think it is to get into medical photography?
It's never occured to me that it exists as a job.

I like taking photos, I don't get freaked out by anything, I've got a decent understanding of human anatomy, and a biology degree...
( Cawl, Fri 23 May 2008, 10:20, closed)

@kaol
You need an hnd,or possibly hnc in photography as well.
( Gooddeed89, Fri 23 May 2008, 11:48, closed)

Ah...
That's a shame.
( Cawl, Fri 23 May 2008, 11:50, closed)

Yeah, but on the other hand
it's taking pictures, how hard can it be to get a qualification in that?

*sorry if anyone's a photographer, but seriously, it's not that hard is it!*
(Bazongaloid, Fri 23 May 2008, 13:27, closed)

Yeah...
I think the subject material of the photographs would speak for itself.
( Cawl, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:01, closed)