This conference is super awesome! Free Internet, free newspapers, free women. Free drinks, free lunch, FREE BREAKFAST!! Gosh these editors are free-loading dudes.
But they have to suffer for all those free lunches by listening to interminable speeches by politicians. These must get pretty old after a while. I felt like I was back in Mrs Cloete’s religious instruction class at Springs High when the deputy president went on and on about how she was tackling crime.
Still, she’s an amazing woman. She worked as a courier in Lesotho and now she’s in line for president! I wanted to ask if she also worked at DHL, like I did in school holidays, but it didn’t seem the right time. But if she can be president, I can be an editor!
Monday was a great day. I really feel like I’ve made some inroads into learning how to be an editor, and that I’ve got a great feel for the politics of the industry.
After my head had settled down from the previous night’s Cullinan episode, I came to the ICC wondering about the REAL importance of editors.
While I was contemplating the very essence of this serious philosophical question, munching on a mini pastry and pretending to read the Cape Times, that’s when I saw her.
I have officially met the woman that I want to join me on my fast-paced move up the editorial ladder. With her fierce organizational skills and her militant way of walking, there’s no doubt she’d be the best woman for my global ambitions. Forget Elmarie and her low-level newsroom desires. I’m going straight for the top – the cream of the crop!
And I’ve always wanted to make it with a fiery red head. Even if she’s a bit older. Maturity adds something to a woman – an executive position at the Independent Group for one. Woohoo!
I was so excited by this thought that I tripped over a network cable while making my way to my seat in an auditorium.
Wow, journalists are crabby people! Take away either coffee or the Internet and they turn into vicious monsters whose wrath is only compared with the attitude of an editor five minutes before deadline. Or my cousin Darien when you take away his Luckies.
Let’s just say that I’m never getting between a Mail & Guardian writer and his internet cable EVER again. Don’t be fooled by the little curls, chubby cheeks and those old-fashioned glasses like my Aunty Hester used to wear before she got her People magazine makeover – this dude is really a pitbull.
I’m starting to wonder how editors manage to control this strange subculture of journalists. They are fickle creatures, swapping political leanings and source loyalties. They talk about each other a lot, too. I distinctly heard one woman referring to a colleague as a “treacherous little toad”. He looked kinda random, unshaven and in scruffy jeans, so maybe she had a point.
After I had recovered from the stare of death from Mr. M&G, I looked around and realized how full the auditorium had become. Did this have anything to do with the huge amount of security we all had to go through to get in here? I wondered why they confiscated my special edition Grade III stun gun. Makes sense that the queue slowed down significantly after that. I settled down to what was evidently going to be a special occasion.
I had my special translator thingy on when I saw everyone stand up. I hadn’t heard who was coming in, but I watched with interest as a procession of seriously bulky men and one short looking one walk past me, looking very important. I wondered if this was Jacob Zuma. I heard he needed a lot of security to protect him from left-wing assassins.
After they had taken their place at the front, and after a rather uncomfortable silence, the national anthem started playing. Oh yes! That was who the short man was – the President! I was seriously going to have to do some more schmoozing to be at the top of my game.
I had a tear in my eye as the last few strands of the national anthem died out. Damn, it was a pretty horrendous rendition, enough to make a grown man cry. After that, things got better. The ceremony looked very spooky – sort-of “The Gods Must Be Crazy” crossed with the State Theatre – and expensive, at least two million rands worth, in my humble estimation. I guess the Sunday Times really has money to burn. As well as paying for the ceremony, they even gave each of us an encyclopedia!
Okay, I’m off. Apparently the other deputy president is also in the building. I need to check it out. Let’s hope his speech is more fun!
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