I'm starting to enjoy being a journalist. Access is what I appreciate the most. Today I participated in a dreadfully boring conference on expert witnesses and their role in proceedings. Guest speakers included Lord Justice Leveson and Lord Justice Wall. Big names, those who wear wigs in court.
I just had to say "I'm a trainee journalist! I'm the press" and the doors went wide open. Badge with my name, free coffee, free lunch. Three weeks ago I got a wonderful goody bag full of toys to send home to my nephew for Christmas at a retailers' fair meant for the media. How lovely is that? I'm getting poor in expensive London, but at least I'm a journalist, which entitles me to some free meals and goody bags every now and then. I was thinking that if homeless dress up a little and attend this sort of events as "The Press", there it goes. They fill their bellies at the expenses of some rich companies.The conference, however, as I mentioned earlier, was painful for most of the time. Some people in the audience even fell asleep. And they paid loads money.
The funniest -and most embarrassing for me!- moment though, was at the very end. I was approached by an old lady who reminded me of the crone who introduced Anastasia to Dimitri in Disney's animation picture and had the voice of a transvestite. She asked me if I was a doctor and, of course, I said "No". Then she made some bitter remarks on my outfit, saying that doctors usually dress in a more humble way.
I felt a huge boulder right at the junction of the head with the neck. I was apparently too scantily dressed for her taste. "Luckily I am a trainee journalist and I'm young!" I added. She agreed that my outfit was alright for a journalist, flirty enough, but I wasn't wearing that much anyway. I was speechless, literally gaping. The two ladies I was talking to tried to back me up and reassure me. As the old crone left they told me I looked fabulous.
I didn't think I was dressed in an inappropriate way. I hope I wasn't. I went shopping precisely for this purpose last week. I dressed smartly for the occasion and now this woman tells me I don't have much fabric on me. How disappointing! Just because I'm wearing a tight skirt. Sorry if I'm 22 and I don't want to look like a nun!
i casi sono due:
ReplyDeleteo hai cabiato modo di vestirti e vai in giro scollacciata e con le cosce di fuori
o hai trovato semplicemente una vecchia rimbambita, un po' miope pure. non credo tu fossi quella vestita peggio in tutta londra.
Qui a Milano non ci sono agevolazioni per le persone creative, e i giornalisti siamo noi che li coccoliamo per passargli le nostre pubblicita'..
che mondo strano quello della comunicazione visto da questa nuova parte.
(I can't do translation, my english don't permit me a rich expression like my italian do. So, if you want, Anna, you could translate for me. Or maybe not. :P)
...sperando di non aver scritto una cazzata anche qui.
Bimba, non c'è problema. La gente non deve necessariamente sapere cosa ci diciamo -tanto sto blog lo legge mia sorella sì e no. ahahaha
ReplyDeleteI giornalisti sono coccolati dai pubblicitari. Ergo, coccolami... In fondo mi coccolavi anche a Verona no? E' strano pure il mondo del giornalismo. Cerca una storia che sia degna di essere raccontata, non farti imbambolare, goditi i privilegi della stampa perchè....perchè no?
Cmq sì, la vecchia era rimbambita. Avevo collo alto, camicia, gonna ascellare e calze nere. Ok, la gonna arrivava a metà coscia, ma era molto stretta in fondo, quindi non c'era pericolo che si vedesse nulla... Bah!
Mandami il link del tuo blog. Aspetto di leggerlo impaziente.