Journalism course today and with the week's events, haven't done my film review homework.
I come here. Stiggers has written a rubbish review or two. Take it, try and improve on it, before I hand it in.
I print out an old copy of an article I sent to the national press. Maybe my tutor can give me some helpful pointers as to where I'm going wrong, and where I could go right.
The class is visiting a local newspaper today; a Q&A session with the deputy. I'm going to be late. I jump on Zat and make my way there.
A few people on my course are standing outside. I'm not late; cool!
We go in and the editor welcomes us.
"Nick Clegg is supposed to be coming in today. You might get a chance to meet him."
"I wrote to him and asked if he would meet me," I say without thinking. "I haven't got a reply yet!"
"Oh you never know, you might get your chance," says the editor, or words to that effect.
I'm thinking oh my goodness. Angels, angels, I leave this up to you yes. If I meet him I meet him. If I don't, I don't.
The meeting starts with the deputy telling us about the paper, the sister papers. She's asked how she got into journalism.
A knock on the door and in walks the editor with Clegg and a few others and says something like:
"This girl here has a question for you!"
Clegg looks at me smiling. (He looks the same in real life as he does on telly, if you're wondering)
Do you know, I do not know exactly what I said. I did a charity walk, I asked that you sponsor me, I asked everybody, your camp got back saying you were committed to other charities but that's cool, I sent an email back asking if you would meet me because me and my son are being evicted and I haven't heard back yet.
He says he's sorry about that and he'll look into it and I say it's ok, I didn't expect a response. I carry on saying I feel bullied and threatened by the council to accept alternatives that do not benefit my child. I have written to the prime minister and he said it was up to the local authority and you are the local authority and your people say they can't help because they have no influence so a Tory is helping me at the moment and he's telling me to accept alternatives that aren't in the best interests of my child too.
He asked me for my email address and he would see what he can do.
I write my name and email and "is being evicted from her temporary acccommodation along with her son.... Thank you!" (Her? Am I talking about someone else?)
There's a mini photo shoot with all of us. He, the editor, their entourage, leave.
A few people say "well done" to me. I don't know what I'm thinking.
The meeting with the deputy reconvenes.
The editor comes back in and asks me if I will talk to a reporter afterwards.
I am reminded, if I had forgotten, that I am in the offices of a NEWSPAPER. This is a STORY. Clegg is in the CENTRE of it being caught off guard by ME.
Everyone is the room is very pleased with this. I bury my head in my arms and they laugh.
I think I looked attentive through out the rest of the meeting but I'll be honest with you, I didn't hear a thing. God knows where I was. God does know, I don't.
I'm gasping for Nicoteen. Absolutely gasping. My mouth is really dry. I've not had any breakfast.
The journalist says she'll talk to me outside and I'm really grateful for this. I'm talking what sounds to me like gobbledigoop, tripping over my sentences, running off at the mouth not wanting her to know why I'm so desperate. I tell her I'm a statistic, a stereotype, I fear a backlash, no don't say that, don't mention fear of backlash. Oh fuck what am I saying? She's taking it all down in shorthand.
"What's your name?"
I don't want to give my name but I know I should because this is a story that has to be told only I was a journalist once and you know, you want to tell the story not be the story.
She understands this and says she'll let me think about it.
I'm thinking don't let me think about it, thank you for letting me think about it, There's a monumental problem happening, I shouldn't have to think about it. Did I tell her at any point in all my gobbledigoop that I write a 'secret' blog?
The editor comes out. It's an opportunity for me. He laughs saying he bets Clegg didn't expect that, probably thinks the paper set him up.
I didn't tell him I write a blog. I was tempted to, but not infront of everyone. My son my sun my son.
We chat, I tell him about others in the same situation, agree it's part of a much bigger story.
Oh my son my sun my son. Mummy finds herself in another storm, but is it in a thimble?
I can see the story. It's a good one. Any journalist can see that.
The point to my post?
Clegg caught off guard by mother facing eviction from temporary accommodation.
I still haven't eaten but I will roll myself another cigarette.