Monday, July 21, 2008
1.
I caught the 13 bus back from town. I remember that. It was raining and the windows on the bus had steamed up the way they always do when it rains. I shuffled my way up to the top deck trying to avoid eye contact with anybody. The air smelt stale and sweaty. There was a vacant seat, which I took quickly and strategically positioned my bag next to me on the seat to discourage others from sitting there. I wiped the condensation off the window with my jacket sleeve and watched the people down below huddled tight to the shop fronts against the relentless downpour. Something whistled past my ear and I heard schoolboys laughing. Otherwise everything was normal.
When I first trained as a journalist I didn’t envisage myself catching the bus with the common herd. I saw myself as a serious investigative journalist uncovering the truth, exposing the big stories ‘excuse me Prime Minister, Nathan Bonney, BBC’, instead I find myself getting the bus to report on a bring and buy sale at a village hall which was far more bring than buy. I think people took it as an excuse to dump rubbish they had been meaning to dispose of for years. Anything that was of any actual value the women of the W.I ensured disappeared into mysterious bags under the fold away tables never to be seen again. These were the women who attended wakes, drinking tea while expertly scanning the homes of the deceased for items of value.
I got off on Albert Street and remember dashing for the office, holding the bag above my head for shelter. The Farndon Herald offices are a grim three-room operation above a greengrocer. The front door is old and worn; it reminds me of a Lowry painting hanging on its brass, part painted hinges; the window frosted, flaking and rotten. I kicked the door shut behind me with my heel and headed up the steep, narrow staircase to the office. It was quiet. I hung my jacket up on the peg and slinked to my desk past the editor’s office. ‘Bonney! Get in here!’ Mr Scullards familiar whiskey voice boomed without even looking up from his enormous desk.
Britland Scullard has run the Farndon Herald for as long as anyone can remember. A large, overbearing man with a huge barrel chest. The first thing that struck you was the jewellery. Four or five big gold rings, a huge gold bracelet with a large pocket-watch tucked into the pocket of his red waistcoat. I knocked tentatively and entered.
‘These articles Bonney, should have been on my desk at 10am, Its, what, ‘ he put his glasses that were hung on a string round his neck up to his reddening face and squinted at the clock that emerged from his pocket, ‘Three O’clock Bonney. This is no good at all; I can’t have people sat about waiting for when you’re damn well good and ready. If they are not on time next week your on the obituaries and classifieds for a month. Do I make myself clear?’
The obituaries and classified ads are the domain of the admin staff, the office junior, the monkey. They are a painstaking and thankless task that leaves your eyes throbbing and your brain numb. When I left Mr Scullards office Sophie had arrived and was at her desk. Sophie McCloud is another journalist, pretty with bob length auburn hair and always, always wears a cardigan. She has a kind of teachers pet; prefect look to her that I think is fantastic.
‘Another rollicking Nathan?’ she asked with a wry cute smile that showed off the dimples in her cheeks.
‘What’s new?’ I shrugged ‘I come to expect it. I always get the most mind numbing local tittle-tattle to report on while his favourite- Sebastian ‘golden balls’ gets all the juicy headlines.’ Sebastian was the other reporter in the office, Sebastian Brashman, by far the out and out favourite of Scullard. He was tall and slim, oozed good breeding, good looks, a hit with the ladies a sharp dresser and what’s more I suspected Sophie fancied him. There really was no question about it I loathed Sebastian Brashman.
I caught the 13 bus back from town. I remember that. It was raining and the windows on the bus had steamed up the way they always do when it rains. I shuffled my way up to the top deck trying to avoid eye contact with anybody. The air smelt stale and sweaty. There was a vacant seat, which I took quickly and strategically positioned my bag next to me on the seat to discourage others from sitting there. I wiped the condensation off the window with my jacket sleeve and watched the people down below huddled tight to the shop fronts against the relentless downpour. Something whistled past my ear and I heard schoolboys laughing. Otherwise everything was normal.
When I first trained as a journalist I didn’t envisage myself catching the bus with the common herd. I saw myself as a serious investigative journalist uncovering the truth, exposing the big stories ‘excuse me Prime Minister, Nathan Bonney, BBC’, instead I find myself getting the bus to report on a bring and buy sale at a village hall which was far more bring than buy. I think people took it as an excuse to dump rubbish they had been meaning to dispose of for years. Anything that was of any actual value the women of the W.I ensured disappeared into mysterious bags under the fold away tables never to be seen again. These were the women who attended wakes, drinking tea while expertly scanning the homes of the deceased for items of value.
I got off on Albert Street and remember dashing for the office, holding the bag above my head for shelter. The Farndon Herald offices are a grim three-room operation above a greengrocer. The front door is old and worn; it reminds me of a Lowry painting hanging on its brass, part painted hinges; the window frosted, flaking and rotten. I kicked the door shut behind me with my heel and headed up the steep, narrow staircase to the office. It was quiet. I hung my jacket up on the peg and slinked to my desk past the editor’s office. ‘Bonney! Get in here!’ Mr Scullards familiar whiskey voice boomed without even looking up from his enormous desk.
Britland Scullard has run the Farndon Herald for as long as anyone can remember. A large, overbearing man with a huge barrel chest. The first thing that struck you was the jewellery. Four or five big gold rings, a huge gold bracelet with a large pocket-watch tucked into the pocket of his red waistcoat. I knocked tentatively and entered.
‘These articles Bonney, should have been on my desk at 10am, Its, what, ‘ he put his glasses that were hung on a string round his neck up to his reddening face and squinted at the clock that emerged from his pocket, ‘Three O’clock Bonney. This is no good at all; I can’t have people sat about waiting for when you’re damn well good and ready. If they are not on time next week your on the obituaries and classifieds for a month. Do I make myself clear?’
The obituaries and classified ads are the domain of the admin staff, the office junior, the monkey. They are a painstaking and thankless task that leaves your eyes throbbing and your brain numb. When I left Mr Scullards office Sophie had arrived and was at her desk. Sophie McCloud is another journalist, pretty with bob length auburn hair and always, always wears a cardigan. She has a kind of teachers pet; prefect look to her that I think is fantastic.
‘Another rollicking Nathan?’ she asked with a wry cute smile that showed off the dimples in her cheeks.
‘What’s new?’ I shrugged ‘I come to expect it. I always get the most mind numbing local tittle-tattle to report on while his favourite- Sebastian ‘golden balls’ gets all the juicy headlines.’ Sebastian was the other reporter in the office, Sebastian Brashman, by far the out and out favourite of Scullard. He was tall and slim, oozed good breeding, good looks, a hit with the ladies a sharp dresser and what’s more I suspected Sophie fancied him. There really was no question about it I loathed Sebastian Brashman.
# posted by aworthlessexistence @ 12:21 PM 
