On any given day the state of my desk gives a fairly accurate representation of my emotional, spiritual and mental health. Current status of desk: Let's see . . . imagine that Stig of the Dumpand Steptoe and sonshared a workspace, and then some other retro TV character with dubious hygiene decided to ransack it, leaving three days of canteen-related debris, several weeks of newspapers and a plastic cup of an unidentifiable liquid behind them. That's about the state of it.
Feeling as unloved on the inside as my desk looked on the outside, I came in on a Sunday for a pre-Christmas clean. This took three hours, two bins and a Lucinda Williams CD. Lucinda's latest features tracks such as Unsuffer Meand Rescue- a task-appropriate soundtrack.
The problem with this kind of cleaning blitz is that you keep finding random things you'd forgotten about. Distractions such as two pebbles, one decorated with a pencil drawing of Glastonbury Tor. A stick of Bundoran rock. An empty box of Jersey Cream Fudge, a present from Gilbert O'Sullivan. On discovery of the empty fudge box, several precious cleaning minutes were spent remembering Gilbert's worrying fall from the stage of the Olympia Theatre recently. He was pulled into the orchestra pit by an overzealous fan. After 30 heart-stopping seconds he got up and dusted himself off in time to sing his encore, which, fate would have it, was Get Down.
What else? Nine copies of the Sacred Heart Messengerwith a man on the cover leaning on some ruins wearing a freshly ironed shirt, a white jumper tied around his waist. I am very grateful to all readers who sent me copies of the Messenger after I mentioned it in a column. That kind of generosity of response makes me want to mention things like the fact that I would really like a new bathroom, in the hope that I will be inundated with free interior-design advice, tiles, taps, a toilet, a bath and a bidet. I'm joking about the bidet. Not about the other stuff.
Also on my desk were mountains of letters. Some, that had been opened but "filed" away in a wicker basket that hasn't been sorted since we moved into the new office a year ago. That's where I found all the jolly hate mail from easily offended people with no sense of humour - and also a lovely letter from Edith in Co Tipperary.
Edith is doing a career guidance project on journalism. I could respond to her by snail mail, but it would probably take me a few months to get around to it, and then her project deadline would have passed and she might fail, and I cannot have that on my conscience.
These are the things Edith needs to know: What are the daily perks of journalism as a career? Perks? I find that offensive, Edith. If by perks you mean boxes of promotional chocolates, free theatre and cinema tickets, invites to events where you can rub shoulders with cast of Fair Cityand, on a very good day, Rosanna Davidson, then, for sure, there are perks. But mostly it's a daily grind. I can't tell you how many times I've been on Google this week, and don't get me started on RWI (repetitive Wikipedia injury).
Does it take a huge amount of time and effort to make it to the top as you have? See above.
Is journalism a comfortable lifestyle? It's not as if we are digging roads or rescuing people from mountains or sorting out the health crisis. Ultimately, Edith, it's about comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. Having said that, when I was down in the newsroom recently preparing a story that was going to afflict the comfortable, I was asked what I was doing there. "I've got a scoop," I said. "The only scoop you know about is a scoop of ice-cream" was the reply. Fair point.
Do you have any regrets about your career choice? If I'm honest, Edith, sometimes I do wonder where I would be now if I had followed my dream of being one of those girls in the circus who wears a sparkly leotard and does elegant hand motions, directing the audience's eyes up to the woman walking the tightrope. Presumably I'd have eventually graduated to being the tightrope lady. On the other hand I may have just become the oldest hand-gesturing lady on the circuit, perhaps with some plate-spinning gigs on the side.
Where do you come up with topics for articles?
My diary. Newspapers. Overheard conversations. Down days. Up days. And, sometimes, cleaning my desk.