Decades

Ten years ago I was running very late in what was my first media job. I was in the newspaper business. Grass-roots level. I was a paper boy.

I know I was running late because I got to work to find that the papers had not yet arrived at the newsagent because they had all been re-called. Apparently when a princess dies, you don’t want your front page to be focussing on the misdemeanours of Jason Donovan (or whoever else was the tabloid fodder of the day in 1997).

Many of the people on my round greeted me angrily- their Sunday morning apparently ruined by my late appearance with their newly re-printed Mail on Sunday. I had the unenviable duty of informing them that their papers were late not because of my over-sleeping (as most presumed), but as a result of a drink-driving accident in Paris. The reactions to the news ranged from stunned, shocked and sceptical through to intrigue and occasionally a continued state of anger at me for being late.

I also remember mis-informing my parents that she had killed herself, having heard this from a member of the public who passed me while I was returning to my house to wait for the newspapers to arrive. Never trust strangers. They are a very unreliable source of news.