A foray into Journalism: Part One

   A few weeks ago I submitted a business proposal to my local paper. An idea occurred to me, one that had been bubbling over for awhile (and that I still yet may pursue...) so I popped into their office. I don't know what I expected, but I got a meeting for the next day with the deputy editor. Things took a serious turn, the nebulous idea now had a stake in reality. I would need a written proposal clearly outlining my idea. It was already after lunch, only a two hour window of availability for a printer (via my mother at work) and I had never written, nor knowledge of, a business proposal. But I have written a number of submissions, and had a clear idea and inception/hook.

 The meeting went well, my idea intrigued. The deputy editor needed to confer with the editor before getting back to me. They turned down the proposal, maintaining their strength as local news, but praised the proposal. A relief. They also offered me a weeks work experience, unpaid. I took it: a good opportunity to expand my writing skills, add to my CV and possibly get some publications.

Of course it wasn't as simple as that. An awful lot of life shuffling and negotiation ensued. Luckily a week came up on the calender where Rowan, my 5 year old son, could be picked up from school by his dad. Being a single mother poses all sorts of problems when it comes to flexible working hours- or rather lack of them.

Arrangements settle, nerves kick in and my first day arrives. I receive a friendly greeting, a quiet buzz filling the office. The paper goes to print on a Tuesday and Friday: Mondays start with a deadline: sink or swim. Untested, I suspect they do not know what to do with me. And I'm not relly sure what I expected...perhaps to shadow someone, fetch hot beverages and get tossed bits that no one else wanted. Ha.

Instead, once my attire is checked and approved (forest green dress and flat black boots), I'm sent out with the photographer to look for Prince Philip in a bog. For serious. We head out, swinging by a local buisness for advertising shots, then into the woods. We have little info, no press release. Just that it is something to do with giving out certificates.

It's a beautiful autumn day, golden sun filtering through the tree's as we turn down a winding lane near Sandringham. There, in an almost car park like verge waits a sinister black car, polish gleaming. Inside waits the Duke's personal security guard: suited and booted, eyes hidden by sunglasses tracking our movements. An old wolf prowling the edges of the wood.

We're in the right place, we realise with a frisson of excitement. The photographer gathers his camera, I my pen and mole skin notebook. A gift from a friend, softly speaking of support. I remove my sunglasses.

Beyound the security is a gate, of course, and here we encounter a problem. The royal PR team will allow only one photgrapher and a rival has been chosen. There is a bit of banter between the dejected photgraphers. As he calls to check in with the editor I make polite conversation with the gatekeeper. The event is to present certificates to voluteers on the conservation site, she is friendly and proud of their achievements. She invites me in, as long as no photos are taken.

I'm offered a coffee as I mingle and although I'm rather desperate for a cuppa I turn it down. I'm clumsy at the best of times. Juggling pen, notebook and hot liquids around royal pesonages? Not the best idea. Instead I listen, I engage, I take notes. Its amazing how much people are willing to talk if you are interested. There's a stir as the Duke returns from his ramble. He speaks quietly when he gives his speech, the wind nearly stealing his words. Yet it is clear that this is a place he feels at home in. Despite his notorius habbit of saying terrible things the presentaion is relaxed. I mind my manners, choosing a spot amidst the fading ferns, birch leaves tangling in my hair. Jotting down notes and qoutes but not intruding. Despite this I'm included, the Duke catches my eye, steers over a lady of some consequence to continue their conversation.

I didn't expect this. I pause my scribbling when he addresses me, smile at the curiosity in his eyes. The moment passes and he's swept away with other duties. Though every now and then, as I spoke with others I would catch his eyes upon me. I wonder what he thought. Between us we represent such disparate parts of British society. He the Queen's husband, I an olive complected, impoverished, single mother.

Oddly someone knew me there. She is now on the Natural England council, but remembered me from her days working in the local bookshop. I practically haunted the place as a teenager, finding immeasurable comfort in the scent of books and all those words, chatting with other book lovers and discovering stories old and new.

The photographer mostly leaves me to it, checking in every now and then. The rival photographer will let us use some of his unwanted shots, I'll get space for a small write up. When we get back to the office I'm shown a desk and the (extremely complicated) programme. They seem pleased I have a qoute, tell me to write. That's it. I had no idea on how long it needed to be. The deputy editor pauses a moment, watching me the tells me to write it up: they'll give me a lead article. So I do. They liked it, though it needed some light editing to keep it in line with the paper's style.

The next morning I had my first by line in print. Then it went to web. And also printed in the local free paper on the Wednesday.

A bizarre experience, thrown into the deep end, but fun.

In part two I'll share how the rest of the week fared and ins and outs of journalistic process.