EARLY DAYS

Fiona Armstrong reflects on her days as a young journalist

They are the boomerang generation. DD has finished her media course and she is now looking for a job. Preferably paid, but probably not – well, not until she finds her feet.

Work experience, an internship, whatever you call it, is the way of the modern world. Young people have to get their work skills where they can.

Anyhow, darling daughter has been lucky enough to be offered a few weeks on the news desk with a local TV station, which means she is back living at home.

So far, so good, chez nous. Apart from a few kitchen clashes, we are managing to muddle along.

But office-wise, it is perhaps not the best of starts. One day she goes out on a story and is bitten by a dog – a Labrador of all things. On another she gets a ticket after outstaying her welcome in a parking zone.

Then she is sent further afield. She is put up in a hotel and spends half the night standing outside on the street after a fire alarm. She films the evacuation on her mobile phone. Well done, that girl – and welcome to the world of the reporter.

Then there is the car. My lovely old banger. Which she has commandeered to get herself to these various locations.

My four-wheel drive is ten-years-old and somewhat battered and bruised. But, despite it being passed fit in a recent MOT, the clutch has decided to stick and the driver’s window refuses to open.

She is not impressed with the poor old Subaru. ‘Mum why can’t you get a decent vehicle?!’

I sometimes ask myself that question. Especially when I am being towed to a garage at a most inconvenient time. But I like my old car. And I don’t care if it gets stolen, or bashed about…

In the meantime, the MacGregor and I fight over who gets to use the remaining vehicle – his vehicle. There is no chance of his windows not working. Or his under-the-bonnet-bits taking a turn for the worse.

His car is an all-singing, all-dancing piece of road engineering. It has not a mark on its gleaming green bodywork, yet it does not have the character of my ancient auto.

But back to DD. As I say, she loves the work, and she is proving very keen. ‘I’ve just found this great story about rubbish collections and I really think it could be the lead on the programme!’

It probably will, dear. Like the weather, a dustbin is something that enters all our lives at one stage or another.

Such enthusiasm takes me back to my young reporting days when we literally chased fire engines down the street. Yes, if an emergency vehicle went by, lights flashing, the eager among us would follow it to see where the fire was. Or the accident.

Then I, too, had my share of journalistic youthful mishaps. Like the time I was chased off a housing estate by an irate householder. Or out of a field by a slightly cranky bull.

Or the morning I covered a press event in the town hall. I was wearing a pearl necklace, which was stupid, really. Who wears fancy jewellery to a press conference?

Anyhow, I was nervous and fiddling with the thing when the string snapped and 20 (fake) gemstones scattered all over the floor. I remember seasoned hacks trying not to slide on them. Then there was the mayor. Down on his hands and knees gallantly picking up pearls.

I was mortified. Then you cut your teeth and you grit your teeth. We all have to start somewhere.

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One day she goes out on a story and is bitten by a Labrador of all things