A new chapter - part one

WHEN I first told people last year I was leaving my job as a journalist to take a history degree and the path to a possible new career a few told me it was a "brave" decision.

This worried me a tad as someone more sensitive than most to people's choice of words.

There is a certain kind of courage which may be labelled "brave" in the same way that leopard print wallpaper is "interesting" and your new neighbour - an enthusiastic taxidermist - "seems nice".

And as is obvious to anyone who knows me I'm very much not known as one of life's risk-takers; I'm super careful reheating rice, I steer clear of canoes and I still wear a mask* when I visit the local Tesco. 

I leave gambling to other people who look better craning over roulette wheels and can at least shuffle a pack of cards.

Probably the last bold move I'd made was around 15 years earlier when I decided to leave university to train as a reporter - despite all the advice that this was a reckless course for a studious teenager whose school reports were littered with concerns I didn't ask enough questions. 

The irony that I was now going back to academia in my mid-30s did leave me with the uncomfortable question about whether this was a U-turn.

After some soul-searching early last September I eventually satisfied myself that even if it was I'd taken a scenic route. It had just slowly, gradually dawned that it might be time for a change. 

What it wasn't was the abrupt epiphany of dozens of undergraduates I'd seen on work placements whose belief that local news was a natural stepping stone to a job at Grazia disintegrated upon being handed a press release about highways maintenance funding. 

The important thing for me is that I'd enjoyed journalism. And I'd got a stint out of it which had far outlasted the likely expectations of nervous relatives and puzzled former teachers.

 It's a job where you meet a genuinely wide range of people, no-one cares if your tie's straight and - though this might sound twee - you feel you're being useful.

Perhaps my favourite period was the couple of years I spent largely working out of a broom cupboard-sized office on the local high street.

This often encapsulating two of the best things about the local press; being on patch and being in regular contact with the characters who exist in every community but seem to convene at the local paper.

During that period we had visits from someone purporting to have returned from a vampire hunt in Europe, a bloke who came in angrily brandishing some ageing shoes and Jeff Wayne - who arranged to meet me there for an interview over a cup of tea at Solihull's finest budget cafe.

If this was reporting at its eclectic I also experienced it at its most important when I later got a job as a local government correspondent.

Council coverage involves a lot of reading and research and long meetings and rather less time spent jostling for a position in front of police tape. 

This actually suited me fine as I have to confess I'd never much enjoying breaking news, not least because rapid response is made rather difficult when you're relying on a twice-hourly bus service which terminates a couple of miles from the road you need to get to.

I'd always bristled at the idea that a political beat is at the boring end of the news spectrum. This is partly because I'm a geek and get a more than unhealthy buzz from trawling planning portals.

But it's also an indisputably fact that everything from bins to speed bumps to building on nature reserves falls in the local government's orbit of influence. If you think potholes don't set pulses racing you've not been paying attention.

During Covid of course the job changed a lot. My routine of getting the train to the town hall a few evenings a week stopped dead and all meetings moved online.

On one hand I agree the switch from being the public's eyes in the room to being an unseen observer on a video-call took a bit of getting used to.

It was weird to see planning decisions start to sound like a seance as the chairman, eyes staring into the ether or at least the screen in front of him, would repeatedly ask: "Mrs Argyle? Are you there Mrs Argyle?"

But I had to admit that remote working had its advantages. 10pm finishes meant closing a laptop, not a half an hour cab ride home.

Taxi fares and distribution complaints aside, I've taken a lot from my time in reporting. 

In shorthand I'd finally got hold of a serviceable party trick - as I say, the card shuffling was never a flyer -  and I found new interests I certainly wouldn't have done otherwise: photography and the theatre to name but two.

Most importantly being a reporter knocked enough of the sharp edges off my shyness for me to get by.

Having to marshal an MP for a photocall or have criminals eyeball you in courtrooms or pick up a phone and ask "is this Harry Enfield?"** made things that used to terrify me - and most social interactions did - manageable.

I eventually accepted there were limits, perhaps because I'd only really learned to pretend that I was holding a notebook and pen to get through social situations.

This meant that my ability to blend in was somewhat constrained by how I might behave in my day-job.

Nonetheless it was major progress for someone for whom any room with more than five people had once felt like launching into a set at the NEC arena.

And I suppose the confidence that I had and could change direction persuaded me it was time to do so again. But the actual nature of the direction had initially eluded me. Now I think I've got some idea what comes next...

To be continued.

* - For public health rather than decorative reasons

** - I was calling him, obviously, it wasn't just a shot in the dark.