Unforgettable story that was the very worst for the world

ONE of the nice things that has happened over the last few months – and there have been a few - is that matters have got slightly better for the regional press. We are hiring again. Print titles like the Western Morning News are still finding things tough, but they have proved more resilient than many thought and the digital arm of our Devon and Cornwall operation has been transformed. Hiring means interviews and over the past couple of months I have interviewed dozens of young and not so young hopefuls. All interviews have been done virtually from the comfort of my office here in The Girl’s bedroom. At the end of every interview I always ask the candidate if there’s anything they want to ask me. Often they ask about the scope of the job, or if we can offer more money.

This week someone asked about my career, could I outline my ‘journey’ (I tried not to roll my eyes) and what the best story I had ever worked on was. I always struggle with the last question because, invariably, ‘best’ means most dramatic which means pretty awful. If my legion of fans (Hi Mum) are reading this after lunch there is a good chance it is exactly 20 years since the most incredible story I have ever been involved in.

I remember that day in microscopic detail. I was then the news editor of the Plymouth Evening Herald. I had less grey hair, I had eaten a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch, and I had been outside to smoke a cigarette after eating. The newsroom was pretty empty, most of the reporters were in the field, the day’s paper had long gone. And I had a gentle afternoon of preparing for the next day ahead. I was in a good place, the newsroom was running on rails, it was stress free. My desk, right in the centre of the newsroom, had a TV just to the side, expertly placed for watching the news or indeed any sport that might be on. At that moment I was watching live news with no sound on. There were pictures of a thick plume of smoke coming from the top of the World Trade

Center. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen said it was believed a plane had crashed into the top of the tower. The clear blue sky and the magnificent Manhattan skyscape still dominated the screen. An assistant editor walked past, raised an eyebrow towards the TV, and asked: “What’s all that?” I replied: “I dunno, looks like a little bi-plane or something has hit the top. It’s weird.” Like every detail of that afternoon, I remember saying that so clearly. Soon the crowd around my telly had grown, nobody quite sure what we were watching, but all sure we were watching something out of the ordinary. We were all there when the second plane hit, a real-life disaster that sparked outbreaks of sweary astonishment, a few seconds of horrified silence and then saw a noisy and chaotically effective news operation throw itself into what it did best. Special editions were planned, pages ripped out and updated again and again, news bills written and rewritten as we went into a days-long news event that never seemed to slow or became any less dreadful. As we worked away, covering a story so far away but that affected every single one of us, we had little idea that in that single moment the world changed forever. It was 20 years ago today. In some moments it seems longer, in others it feels like yesterday. I still find some of the retrospective documentaries hard to watch. The eye-witness accounts are so plentiful, and too real. There’s no doubt that was the most remarkable story I have ever worked on. But the best? I’m not so sure.