Becoming a basket case

My apologies for calling politicians basket cases as I’ve become one overnight. See, I got a job. Well, sort of. Three days a week in a newspaper office I’d left yonks ago. Nearly turned down the offer when told the editorial system used sounded like foie gras – via satellite. And operates from baskets.

I see fat, force-fed ducks beamed from SatNav plonking down on my desk in a basket. I was filled with abhorrence the first time I heard how the delicacy (sic) of duck’s liver was processed.

A television crew pitched at a farm where this horrendous practice took place. Clips show an obese farmer’s wife gripping a poor lean duck between her legs, forcing a sackful of grain down its gullet until its liver swells like a balloon. The obvious painful discomfort the duck is undergoing makes frightful viewing.

So no way am I going to work for a company using foie gras to churn out newspaper copy.

But I hear wrong. The system is called Pongrass, and is internet driven. Easy. Wrong. Two smart-Alec journos take great pains teaching a slow-laner the ins and outs of, what they call, a straightforward word processing system. Yeh, right.

Each editorial division has its own basket, and once a basket is full, it’s sent to another basket, then a final basket. Once all the baskets have done their jobs, the newspaper is ready for printing.

And, the journos proudly announce, pointing to the monitor, this is your basket. I muster a nervous nod. Watch, they say. I watch. I see text appearing. It comes from the reporters, they explain. From their baskets.

So my basket is now overflowing with words, and my job is to make head or tail of the articles. “And when you’re through, you send it to the editor’s basket to see whether the stuff in your basket is acceptable for publication. Then he passes it on to the proof readers’ basket, after which it will be sent to the production team’s basket. See?” I don’t see.

I’m left sweating over my basket, but I nervously proceed panel-beating stories. Time will tell whether or not my basketful of words is approved.

Watch this space, sorry, basket.