notes: February 2006

Waiting for Mr Blair

Croydon; a grey day outside the public library. Myself and about 50 other journalists of various kinds were waiting for the arrival of the Prime Minister, one Mr Tony Blair, and I was shaking with nerves.

Not because I was star-struck. I've met my fair share of celebrities and famous names over the years, including Tony's predecessor John Major and Tony himself, once before, when he'd come to tour the offices of the news organisation for which I worked.

But this meeting was different because, for once, I was having to prove myself as a reporter to the bosses on the newsdesk back in the office, and I was terrified of getting something wrong.

There are plenty of reasons for my feelings of terror. I was never a good student, being fundamentally lazy for much of my life and prone to try and scrape through exams with the moderate pass and be happy with that, rather than aim to be the best I could be. The same thinking still applied years after school, when I was "learning" "journalism" and trying to find a job in the business. Ever since fluking my way into paid employment, I had been terrified of having to cover important events where it's vital to Get Things Right.

Thing is, in journalism, your mistakes are on display to the whole world, or at least your readers and your editors. The latter are more frightening, and can sack you if you get something wrong. The readers are less frightening but somehow much more powerful - they can take you to court, causing you to be fined or even imprisoned if the mistake is awful enough. I'm a tremulous person by nature; fear of getting things wrong, and the consequences thereof, affects almost everything I write.

So as I stood with the other journalists outside the library in Croydon, I was aware of something that chilled me: I didn't know what the story would be.

I was there to hear Mr Blair speak. He might say anything. But as I stood there trying to remember the shorthand for "politics", it occurred to me that whatever he said, I wouldn't know if it was new or old, important or trivial. I was the only person from my news organisation at that place, that time, and I had no sense of news.

This scared me a great deal. I wasn't that surprised, though. I'd been specialising in writing about the internet for years beforehand. I'd buried myself in browser wars and dotcom booms and cool software and even games I knew nothing about, because it was all safe to report on and there was very little danger of making serious mistakes that would annoy people. Sure, I made hundreds of mistakes, but at the time being a journalist whose role was to write about the internet was something quite new. Many of the sub-editors and newsdesk staff higher up the chain than me would read my stories and almost fall asleep with boredom; they didn't consider this geek stuff to be "news" at all, and they certainly didn't spot many of the stupid errors I made because they had no experience of the technologies I was talking about.

(The newsroom computers ran OS/2, for heaven's sake. They had Netscape Gold installed, but most reporters never used it.)

So there I stood in central Croydon, waiting for Mr Blair's official car and trying desperately to remember what political stories had been doing the rounds in recent days. I should have known. After all, I sat right next to two very experienced political reporters and had the opportunity to read everything they wrote via the office computer system. But I never did that, preferring to spend hours hunched over the little laptop I'd been given to use alongside the OS/2 desktop, browsing Haddock's directory and posting silly responses to mailing lists. I knew nothing about the real news of the day, the political headlines. Here I was, about to hear Tony Blair speak, and I didn't know what I wanted him to say.

Which was of course the worst possible situation to be in.

When Blair arrived, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely take any shorthand notes. All of us hacks crowded round him on the pavement, and I found myself shoved to the back of the pack, behind a camera crew from a national TV news programme. I huddled in close behind the cameraman, to make sure I could hear every word. Blair spoke for a couple of minutes and I desperately leaned forward, trying to catch every word and panicking as my woeful shorthand fell further and further behind what he was saying. I looked up at Mr Blair, only a few feet in front of me, silently pleading with him to slow down and repeat the last few lines.

But it was over. Blair swept away, followed by his hangers-on, leaving the hacks already whipping out their brick-sized mobile phones to call back to the office.

The TV cameraman, however, turned on me with a snarl.

"Couldn't you fucking keep still?" he roared, and for the tiniest second all heads flicked round to look at me. The traffic, which had been held up by the police while Blair's car arrived, started to move again.

"I - I was taking notes --" I clucked, feeling my cheeks turn red. I must have inadvertantly nudged his camera-holding arm.

"Well next time you wanna take some fucking notes in front of the Prime fucking Minister, don't stand up my arse," the cameraman said, turning away to follow the fast-disappearing Prime Ministerial backside into the library building.

I stood, still shaking, burning up with embarrassment and anger. Then I looked at my shorthand and the panic returned. Every other reporter around me was on the phone, dictating a story to their copytakers back at the office. Unless I filed some copy soon, my editors would be calling me and demanding angrily why the competition were carrying the story and we weren't. My shorthand looked like a work of modern art, and was equally baffling. I knew that I had to call my office and file something.

I didn't have the faintest idea what story to file. I dialed the number.

Labels: writing

Friday, February 24, 2006
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Me spouting off about email software; again

Tim Gaden interviewed me as part of a series of conversations he's been having with people who use, or have used, Apple's Mail application. There was a time when I liked Mail; and shortly after that, a time when I used it grudgingly. Then I switched to Thunderbird. Now I'm using Eudora. None of them are great, but I've spent so much time trying out so many email clients (and posting about this process at Mac DevCenter) that I'm bored of it, as is anyone who's read any of my rantings on the subject before. So there you have it. I have opinions about email software, and today my opinion is that I should be using Eudora for a little while. I don't expect you to care much, though. The plaster has dried on the walls in my newly-constructed office, and I've started decorating. I should be able to move in soon. I shall miss working at the kitchen table though.

Labels: tech

Monday, February 20, 2006
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We've had the builders in

I've been a bit uncommunicative recently, because we've been undertaking some major building work in the house. Over the last two weeks the half-a-garage we used to own has become a work room, and the wall dividing the kitchen and dining rooms has been removed, opening up a delightfully huge new space for us to play in.

As is the way when work like this happens, there has been disruption. Every other room in the house is crammed with the junk and furniture removed from the rooms that have been worked on. Dust covers everything, gets everywhere, lurks in the carpets and floats in the breeze. The tea bags, towels, computers, clothes, bed and front garden are all incredibly dusty.

Barney went to stay with grandparents during the worst of it, but he'll be back soon. We've missed him. I've been camping out in the living room with a laptop and an electric radiator, trying to get some work done amid the noise, dust, and constant need to make phone calls to tradesmen who are working for us. This is the first time I have "managed" a project like this, one that involved a builder, a kitchen fitter, a small herd of electricians, a gas fitter, and three blokes who specialise in cutting granite worktops. It's been much less stressful than I anticipated, though, and the work has almost entirely gone smoothly and according to plan. It looks like we shall be without a cooker for a weekend or so yet, but things are nearly done and all that remains after that is the decorating, and the filling of a dozen hoover bags with piles and piles of dusty dust.

Friday, February 10, 2006
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A Forca da Mandioca

A little gem I found on Google video...

Sunday, February 05, 2006
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Waiting for Mr Blair

Me spouting off about email software; again

We've had the builders in

A Forca da Mandioca

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