I've just been scanning through the photographs on my computer. Mostly from the past eighteen months or so. it feels like a different life, looking back at picttures of Keira in particular. because that's all she is now; a few pictures on my screen. she looks beautiful. i can scarceley believe that i ever had anythig to do with that woman. bizarre is what it is. i loved her, more i think than i've ever loved anyone and yet she's barely even a memory anymore. these mementoes of time past are hardly even that anymore. all they are is what they are. what do they remind me of? the hurt itself is gone. i remember that she hurt me but not really how it felt. i've come a long way since then, been involved with other girls that have treated me a lot better. yet she's never going to quite go away. i wish she would.

Observing

I cannot tell a lie: my two weeks work experience at The Observer has not, at times, been all it was cracked up to be. Up until today I would say the sum total of my time actaully spent on WORK would be around an hour, maybe two.

(On the flip side I have managed to get an awful lot of stupid little essential jobs done that otherwise would not have been had I been at home or in Brighton. I've opened a bank acount, written several pieces for Subculture, applied for jobs and more work experience and sorted out the broadband for the new house.)

But then there's today, a day that has gone so far beyond anything I could have expected. I'm buzzing, I seriously am. Let me tell the long story, rather than the short one.

Last night was Franner's birthday do. Because the last sodding tube was at 12.30 (In one of the busiest, supposedly most cosmopolitan cities in the world. What a motherflumping joke) I had intened to just go out briefly to the boy's and come home and not spend the night sleeping on the floor using a hand towel as a blanket. I'd been feeling rough (and you know how much worse a cold is for a chap) and just wanted bed, with maybe a sprinkling of The OC.

But you know how I am. And how these things are. They just don't work out like that do they? Let's be honest I was never going to head home after an hour.

We were originally supposed to go to Button Down Disco at 93FeetEast but it got too late for that. I was having a good time anyway, scaring people I'd never met and chatting obnoxiously as I am wont to do. Then some girl called Lizzie (who I'm sure is lovely really but in that environment she just came across as a fit-but-you-know-it posh bint) decided that everyone was going to go to a club callled Turnmills in Farringdon - just across from The Observer actually - and was clearly one not used to not getting her own way. I said no. But not actively enough to influence others. And there were several others. But I was not goign to spend £15 getting into somewhere I had no interest in going to.

So I dragged my feet a bit, along with the other less enthusiastic folks and we'd missed the tube so it just wasn't happening. We went for a scuffle in a patch of scrubland and Francis went dustbin surfing down the road. Party on Ted!

So back to Francis' gaff (my word this is a very roundabout way of making a point, which I haven't even gotten to yet and might not even exist) and more beer, Mexican coffee and suddenly its 4.30am and I'm making bacon sandwiches for all.

The floor it is. Sleeping bag rather than towelette and sofa cushions to cushion but I had 4 hours before I had to get up. Bugger.

But get up I do. Borrow a fetching green shirt from Francis without his knowledge and on my way.

And actions stations almost from the off. Robin tasks me with writing an information panel for his big ass feature on biofuels. It takes a lot longer than it should and i start to sweat. But it gets done. After a few frighteningly cantankerous celtic barksI find some information.

Lunch. £6 for a steak sounds good but rib-eye is a crap cut of cow.

And then it kicks off. "I want this 600 word report turned into 200 words of interesting writing." growls the Scotsman. Now THIS is work. I read the piece on 'Pester Power' again and again (actually, having said that, I'm not sure I read the whole thing in one go at all) find what I think are the most pertinent points and attempt ot write something decent. Not sure if I succeed. Not sure if it's going. Not sure if that's even the point.

The point is I'm doing it. That's not TRYING to be a journalist, that's BEING a journalist. The sweat, the pressure, the deadline, the being shouted at. Before last week I THOUGHT I wanted to do this, now I know for sure. And I really think I can be good at it. BUt that's not the end of my day's excitement.

Shortly after this Robin throws a photo in front of me and demands 100 words on Open House London REALLY, REALLY quickly. Thank God for being friends with "archies" eh? Cos I actually know something about this.

Quick as you like 100 words - and specifically, 100 good words - emerge before Robin has even had the opportunity to hassle me. I'm pleased with what I've done. it's not much but this is one instance where size really doesn't matter. (Because of course, in all other areas, size is VERY important.)

And my name is in the paper again. But this time I feel no neet to blast everyone with an email because what I've done today feels self-validating. If people read it then great. I'll have a few copies but my ego isn't gonna overtake me as it did before.

This is what I want. This is what i can do.

9/11: Five years on

This is a really great piece.

Ego

What a strange thing one's ego is. It's an issue i've been giving considerable thought to recently. Firstly it was the dominant theme of a newspaper feature on Toby Young; then, in a piece in the Evening Standard magazine it was the spine of the story about some posh, rich twat called 'Lord' Eddie Davenport who apparently is desperate for the world to know how rich and twattish he is; it also seems to play an important role in explaining the dynamics of a new play I'm reading called Frost/Nixon about david Frost's interviews with Tricky Dicky after he resigned the Presidency (should that be capitalised? je ne sais pas).

My point, however, is - as it naturally should be - all about be. Yesterday I discovered I was to get a byline in today's Observer for an article I helped with about meethan emissions from Siberian thaw lakes. Sounds faaaaascinating doesn't it? (I can't find a link to it on the Observer website sadly but that's not really what I'm talking about anyway.)

I was, as any writer would be I suppose, very excited about the idea of seeing my name in print after just a single week's work experience. In a fit of "Raaaahh-ness" I then proceeded to sent an emmail out to, well, pretty much everyone, informing of my literary triumph. And then pretty much regretted it instantly. And then have been spending intermittent periods since wondering if I should be regretting it. Overwhelmed by internal conflict you see.

My first problem is simply the fact that I didn't really contribute that much to the story. Robin McKie found the original in New Scientist magazine, I just did a bit more research on the subject - the global warming potential bit is me - and composed a straight news piece on the subject which Robin used as a foundation for his more dramatic, more wordy, more Sunday newspaper version. My overall contribution was pretty minimal.

So I felt like a bit of a fraud for that. There's so little of me in the piece that I can't claim any credit for it. It was almost the same when I wrote stuff for the Georgetown newspaper last year. if it was in anyway edited, or if there were phrases in there that I knew weren't mine, - even if they improved the piece - I'd feel far less of an attachment to it. Almost like a father, informed that the child he'd been a loving and devoted parent to for years and years wasn't really his. He just can't love it as much. okay, it's probably nothing like that.

My second issue is with the fact that I felt compelled to inform all and sundy of my achievements at all. Who am I doing this for? Them or me? Who (or why?) do I want to be a journalist anyway? Public acclaim, respect, glory? I didn't think so before but now I'm starting to wonder. I write because I feel I have to. because I can't imagine not writing. That's what this
blog's for. I'm not really fussed if people read it or not - although obviously I used to email people when it was updated - but it's nice when I find out they do. It's like a diary I suppose.

Except it's not quite like a diary is it? It's in a public forum where anyone can stumble upon it, whether deliberately or not. There's writing which is done for public consumption and writing which is private. Before the internet it used to be that black and white. These days I don't think it is. Bloggin is a free expression because, in all honesty, it's unlikely that anyone's going to read. Keeping the reader in mind is less important with this so I can pretty much say i what i want. it's a form of free - but not completley free - expression.

If I write something in the Observer - for sake of argument - or anywhere else surely I want it to be read and surely I should be entitled to inform people that it's out there. That, I think, is okay but equally that is the source of the problem. I didn't really write the thing. it's just my name at the top. So really all it is about is ego. And wanting people to see my name in print in a national newspaper and say how great they think I am.

And that leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.