The Factory.

So, I think to myself as we park up behind the modern building, this is where stars are made. This is where they pick up the potential-filled children of all London boroughs and simmer them in their own talent before dropping them onto the red carpet. And guess what? They want to do this to me, too. It's rather comforting. The people here are nice, and don't boast that they taught the likes of Amy Winehouse, Adele and Kate Nash. Someone walking his dog looks at us as me and my Mother drive past them, singing at the top of our voices to The Saturdays (Why me, Why now?, If you were wondering), and I smile and wave at him. He doesn't have the courtesy to do it back. I get out of the car, pink suede portfolio under my right arm and walk through the car park. The glittery stickers I used to spell out my name on my portfolio blind me as they hit the sun and me and my Mother walk inside. My names on the list, which I feared so it wouldn't be, and me and my new-found-friend Ruby walk towards the art department.

Don't lets tempt fate, but I surprisingly did magnificently.