First, I needed to find a job. My job hunting efforts began with editorial work in publishing and PR. Given my business background, I thought, at least I can to write press releases in PR. Hey, that's still writing. In three weeks, I managed to get two offers for internships at PR firms, and an almost spot in Cosmopolitan magazine. I'm so excited about my internship. I made up my mind to do such a great job that they'll have no choice but to hire me. The night before my first day, I set my alarm for 7 o'clock in the morning, and laid out the complete recipe for a big, nutritious breakfast. I hope my boss will like me.

The interesting thing about my internship place is that nobody needs to be there. There are seven or eight of us, all in our twenties, from all over the UK, and everybody has come to London for the same reason: to break into the glamorous world of advertising and PR. Nobody's mother has said to anyone, "You must work in media in order to be successful in life." Everybody, even the gorgeous blonde from Manchester (who really should be on the cover of Vogue instead of pitching products to Vogue editors) shares what I thought was my own personal motive: we all want to work in PR because it is interesting.

The PR office is located in grungy Camden, in an equally grungy building with ceiling fans and exposed brick walls. We were each assigned to a team, given tasks, and generally ignored for the rest of the day. Nobody paid much attention to us. Which made me wonder if they had so much work that they needed all seven or eight of us. Or if they'd even read our resumes. I made phone calls to community newspapers pitching Tough Mudder – the city obstacle course race, figured out the transit map for client meetings, picked up magazines from tube stations. After I did all that, someone asked me to reorganize the stock room.

"Please, promise me you won't leave?" said the guy who gave me the task.

I looked at him with bewilderment, thinking why would I leave because you asked me to organize the stock room?

Around noon, I go eat lunch with all the other interns at the café next door. We gather around a big table. Shyly, everyone does a little "Hello, My name is..." intro, as though it's the first day of school. A sharply-dressed gay guy who seems more seasoned than the rest of us says, "I've interned at Burberry and Vogue. This is my third internship. This PR company we are at is apparently a really good one. Like top three." Everyone looked at each, like frankly, that's an awful lot of internships, and slumped into silence.

While it did puzzle me how one small PR firm was going to hire seven or eight interns at once, and that things might get competitive around here, it hadn't occurred to me new grads often have to endure – not one – but multiple unpaid internships (each lasting three to six months at a time) before they will finally land a paying gig. Back when I was in the consulting industry, I had never heard of unpaid internships. I'm not even sure if my old company used interns at all. I remember all the consulting new hires got three weeks of mandatory training: one week in Vancouver, two weeks in Chicago. That sure was nice. Though it seems very far away now.

My cell phone rings.

It's Henry. He's checking in on how I'm doing on my first day. I met Henry (and his goatee, and his high-fashion specs) two weeks ago, at an Asians without Borders meetup. Since then, we've taken the thrilling elevator ride up the Heron Tower and eaten fried pig ears for dessert. He's one of my favorite phone-conversation companions, a thoroughly entertaining and surprisingly wise late night radio DJ packed in tight dragon boat t-shirt. When he's not paddling on Thames, he's analyzing systems at a Japanese bank in London and making more money than any of us.

So I step outside under the shade and take the call from Henry.

"Hiya! How's your first day of work in London treating you?"

Solemnly, I report the earth-shattering discoveries I've been making all morning, "I mean I'm trying to do a good job and everything, but I'm not even sure if they have a shred of interest in hiring any of us."

Henry laughed, "Oh dear. It's funny you say this because Justin [our mutual friend] just sent me a text before he left for Hong Kong. He literally texted, 'I'm afraid Michelle has seriously gotten on the wrong path. I'm going to be away for three weeks. Will you please look after her?'"

I burst out laughing.

"FYI. I'm not worried about you at all. But yes, dear, a lot of these media companies use free interns as holiday cover."

"'Holiday cover'? What's that?"

"When people go on holiday, the firm uses interns to fill in for a few weeks."

Ah, "holiday cover." My friend Nic calls this "modern-day slavery."

No wonder they aren't excited to have us. There's no point in getting to know us. We'll be gone before they even learn our names. Even though I already have several years of solid work experience, and can technically do "better" than this, I recognize I'm changing industries here. Which can feel like starting all over again. If working for free is what it takes to get my foot in the door in this new industry, then I'll do it. But it does not mean I don't value my time. If the internship gives me real responsibilities for real learning to occur, then great! But if there's no real intention to hire anyone, and most of my time is spent rearranging the stock room, then it's high time to get out of there.

Things begin to turn around quickly. On Thursday, I receive a call from Richard, the president of a boutique PR shop in Oxford Circus. He is inviting me in for an interview. I had applied for an internship but a full-time position opened up and he wants me to try for it. I spend days thinking of what to wear, what to say, how to say it. It had been so long since I'd been on an interview. I think the last time I'd gone for a job interview was back when I was in university... in fourth year, come to think of it. Dear God it had been ages.

So it's crazy hot today, and I show up to the office wearing all black synthetics and I take the interview. The conversation with Richard goes all well and good, until, he brings in three of his star employees: all girls, all in their early twenties, all wearing bright red lipstick. They greet me with a penetrating stare like three fairy tale step sisters and pose penetrating questions that only seem to highlight why I don't belong there. I did my best with their technical probes and scurry out of there on wobbly legs as soon as it was over.

On my way back, I stop by Le Pain Quotidien for lunch. The friendly European waiter seats me by the window, at a clean wooden table, in a patch of sunlight. I order an open face sandwich and a pot of tea. All the stress from the interview is suddenly wiped away by the serenity of my surroundings.

Sitting not far from me are two women having a conversation. I can't make out what they are saying, but I can see one of them is holding a baby. This baby is so weird-looking that I had to take a second look. His eyes are so round, and his hair is so straggly, he's practically a Teletubby in the flesh.

Which reminds me of a joke I'd once read on Facebook.

A woman got on the bus with her baby.

The driver saw the baby and said, "What an ugly baby it is!"

The woman went to the back of the bus, fuming.

The man sitting next to her asked, "What is the matter?"

"The driver just insulted my baby," she replied.

"You go back there and tell him off! Go on, I'll hold your monkey for you."

The remembrance of this joke while looking at this visual aid only makes me laugh louder. I amused myself watching him while I eat my avocado sandwich. Listening in on mommy's adult conversation, his face opens with wonder every few seconds, the corners of his mouth quiver in an uncertain smile, as if he can't quite make up his mind whether to be amused or frightened by all the craziness in this world.

I have never been interested in children. I'm not sure if I will ever want children. This cautions me against making any promises with any guy I happen to be falling in love with. At the beginning of my relationship with Matt, I asked him, "I may want children. I also may not want children. Are you truly okay with both of those possibilities?" He didn't answer. But he is certain he wants children. He stayed with me on the hope that I might change. But my coming to London only exhausted his patience. When I asked why he wanted to break up, he said, "The suspense is killing me."

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing here, I admit it. While Matt washed the car on the driveway, I could be planting gardens of tulips, raising nice children, and enjoying the bliss of domesticity. Teletubby babies aren't so bad... Vancouver isn't so bad...

If I hadn't come to London...

***

I start my second internship in London today. I have quit the first internship, having come to feel it is interfering in my efforts to find a real job. I can actually do this because two PR firms offered me internships simultaneously, with start dates within one week of each other. So I decided to give the second one a try.

Much to my delight, this company is significantly better than the first. They have read my resume. They are excited to have me. I am the only intern there. The office is modern and green. In the middle of Oxford Circus. Free breakfast is served buffet style. You can choose your own selection of fresh fruit and cereal. And most importantly, I get invited to team meetings, instead of just figuring out transit maps on how to get to those meetings. One of their big clients is Sony Xperia, so I get to do research on Sony Entertainment's big stars like Rita Ora, Chvrches, and make phone pitches to radio stations giving out tickets to music festivals. I nailed my first pitch within half an hour.

Sure, sometimes they will ask me to rearrange the newspapers, or pick up things from the store, but it's not all that common and it never gets heavy. The atmosphere at the office is calm and pleasant but also productive.

Just as I am beginning to settle into my second internship in London, the PR company whose interview I thought I had bombed emailed to offer me the job! I was beyond surprised. I read the letter twice with my jaw hanging off the keyboard. Like frankly, that's an interesting idea to lay on the table. It's an Account Executive position and they want me to start first thing Monday morning. But by now, a week into my new internship, I would much rather stay here. The question is: would they offer me a job?

So I speak with my manager.

I ask how her day is going, and I report how my day is going. I tell her that I've been enjoying my time here very much. I love the work itself and the people I work with. Then I explain that I've been offered a job elsewhere. That while it's a great opportunity, I would love to work here. Cautiously, I ask if there's a chance for me to stay.

She pulls me into a small meeting room, closes the door, and congratulates me.

Which is a lovely thing to say, truly. Which is just about the loveliest thing the manager of your dream internship could ever possibly say, when she's not saying, "Come back! Don't go! We'll give you a job!"

I sit across the table, staring at her.

Then she goes on and tells me the truth of the situation. She says the company is xxx millions in debt, and hasn't even paid their current freelancer who's been working for three months now. They do not have any openings and if they were to create one, it would take months of paperwork and red tape because any new roles they create in London must be approved by their North American headquarters. They won't be able to give me an offer right away. She said that I'm really lucky to land a job so quickly. She had to do a year of unpaid internships at various agencies before she became an Account Exec. The only way she was able to afford it was because she lived with her parents in London. She said, "For someone who has to pay rent, this kind of internships can't last long."

I thanked her for being so frank with me, went back to my computer and looked at the offer letter with fresh eyes. Setting aside the meager salary and the nervousness of confronting those fairy tale step sisters, I replied a straightforward and bottomless YES.