I’ll happily stay safe and caffeinated in the comfy anchor chair, thank you.
I covered (and I used the term “covered” loosely) a couple of stories this week while we were short-handed in the newsroom. One was a piece of cake, a labour protest, where my presence was definitely wanted. The sit-in at MPP Chris Bentley’s office (and the offices of others across the province) was meant to draw attention to the plight of injured workers and the low compensation they receive. Pull up, point a microphone and say “go”.
The second was the scene of a rare shooting in downtown London. I wasn’t about to go stalking police or any such thing but I thought I might have a chance of catching someone who saw or heard something. Boy oh boy, you would have thought I was carrying an open vial of the Ebola virus and sprinkling it liberally on babies. Everyone from investigators to tenants to employees of the businesses at the bottom of the tower looked at me with disgust and refused to speak to me. I was a parasite, a bottom-feeder, a carp.
Now, for reporters, this is not a big revelation. it’s something they deal with on a regular basis, suck up and move on. But for me, who has never spent any great length of steady time as an out-and-about story chaser, it’s a creepy feeling. I suppose you get over it. Fortunately for me, I won’t have to.