Desk life....

Here it is, a wee snap shot of my desk at the Derry Journal - testament to my personalised work space.
I would have loved to show you a snap shot of a lovely writer's desk but I don't have one. It's just me and my trusty laptop - on adventure after adventure.
So to give you a guided tour - this is the view to my left. You will see my phone - a vital tool for a journalist. It is not usually so clean and shiny. Usually it is more than a bit grimy.
Behind that is my document holder which holds a list of all internal extension numbers in the Journal along with a card Joseph made me wishing me a good day.
On my computer sits my Kimmidoll- Choya who is said to promote self belief and attached to my monitor is a clay butterfly my niece made for me when she was about three.
To the front of the picture (insert appropriate weather forecaster type hand gesture here) is a can of Diet Coke. I'm all about the Diet Coke. It's an obsession and probably not a really healthy one, but I don't smoke and for the moment I don't drink so give me a break.
Next to the coke is a tube of Sanctuary hand cream. It smells delicious and beside it is a postcard portraying the new £13.8million Peace Bridge being built in Derry - which is one of the main stories I have been working on today. I went to the launch and got a free pen - evidence of which can be seen on top of the notebook to the forefront of the picture. (Again, insert appropriate hand gesture here).
The word scrawled on the notepad, just so as you know, is Imelda and that is the name of a PR rep who just called me about something. I'm ashamed to say I wasn't really listening. It was to do with music though.

Are you bored enough yet?
Good. My job here is done.

Blogging from the newsroom

I forget how to write news.
I'm staring at an article of approximately 350 words which is absolutely perfect length for a newspaper article and yet it feels too short.
Where is the mystery?
Where is the story arch?
Where is the key revelation in the last quarter?
Where is the love interest?
Am I doing too much telling and not showing?
Am I supposed to tell and not show? Or show and not tell? I forget.
Must write in really short and concise sentences.
Must not say feck. Or arse. Or other dodgy words.
Must not make witty observations about serious matters - not actually in the paper anyway.

I have been a journalist for 12 years and a writer of booky type things for 3 years. How can I not know this stuff? Pah!

Lunchtime Blog - things to try not to do in work

Without saying too much about the circumstances of the why and wherefore I cried today in work.
In front of the big boss.
Like a big eejit.
I seem to be crying a lot at the minute - damn hormones - but generally I reserve it for alone time (the car, over the ironing board, when I go to bed). Some times they are happy tears - I'm so utterly, utterly in love with my son it overwhelms me. I'm so proud of my hubby it amazes me. And I'm so blessed to be getting a gorgeous baby girl that it sometimes spills over into snottery sobs. (Of course, she might not be gorgeous. She might be icky. Joseph is seriously worried about the fact she might have some blood on her when she is born - something I'm not prepared for myself as Joseph was clean as a whistle when he arrived. My claim to fame - a hygienically clean uterus and cervix....)
Other times the weight of the world feels as if it sat on my shoulders (right beside the wee devil who tells me to eat chocolate even though it is guaranteed to make me feel horrendously sick. I don't need to mention what is happening with the economy in any great detail to know it is taking it's toll on all of us.
I'm also very, very scared of labour and delivery even though I know I've done it (and survived it) before. Note to self - must stop reading Take a Break magazine and tales of women conking it in childbirth, or worse, their babies conking it. NOT GOOD for my mental health).

And then there are times when I just need a good cry. I just wish those times didn't come in the middle of a meeting with my bosses.

As Aoife would say in 'Feels Like Maybe' - when they write the story of my life that episode will be filed under "Not Her Finest Moment".

So I should be out at my work's Christmas do...

But instead I'm in my jammies, sat at the computer with a glass of water and a variety of anti-sickness pills at my side. I've just taken my third 8 hourly dose of Cyclizine for the day and a dose of ranitidine to stop the inevitable puking that the morning will bring being acidic. (I can handle the puking now - I'm so used to it - but when it's acidy, I don't like that so much.).
I've actually managed not to puke today (there was a minor reflux incident when I drank some water this morning but no stomach turning retching).
Nonetheless I knew it would be unwise of me to join my colleagues for a four course dinner. Damn it, if I'm going to throw up in front of people I'd prefer for it to me drink related rather than 6.5 month pregnancy related.
So while I sincerely hope they are having a good time - and I'm gutted to be missing out on discovering who won the elusive 'Rear of the Year' award - I know I'm better off where I am.
And all being well I'll be asleep by 10pm.
The only question is whether or not I order a pink car seat from the Mothercare sale before I toddle off up the stairs. Even though three seperate sonographers have now told me this baby is a girl, I'm still expecting her to come out avec winky. Could I really subject a son of mine to a pink car seat for the first four years of his life? Perhaps not.

Tackfest...erm...Wednesday?

SORRY FOR my tardiness. You would not believe the week I've had...honestly it's been all go, go, go and I sit here now a frazzled wreck trying to do the rewrites on 'Rainy Days and Tuesdays' and longing for a couple of (bottles) glasses of wine and a kingsize Galaxy.

Monday was a killer. Work was insane and you know I had my first live interview to do about the book on Radio Foyle. I was desperately worried I would boke or swear or fart or something equally embarrassing live on air- but in the end it went okay.

Tuesday wasn't much better. We decluttered the house before Christmas and I spent a substantial amount of time driving around in my horrible untrustworthy Corsa hoping she wouldn't overheat or explode or something like that- which she likes to do just to freak the bejaysus out of me.

In the end my m bum did not hit the sofa til gone 9pm at which stage I was neither in tacky mode or Christmas mode.
Today has been almost as manic, but that doesn't mean I can't share some festive joy. This week's guilty pleasure is courtesy of Mariah Carey.

"All I Want for Christmas is You" is perhaps the most uplifting and cheerful festive song on the planet. Yes, I know 'Fairytale of New York' is good, but for feck sake the only thing festive about it is when you sing it in a drunken fit at the office do.

So Mariah Carey, I love you for making Christmas fun.

I promise to be more on the ball next week.

You've got that sinking feeling....

LAST NIGHT was the 'Journal' Xmas do.

Initially I wasn't going to go for a number of reasons- most especially as I was supposed to driving Bridezilla to Banbridge to order her wedding dress today and I wanted to be in a fit state to do so.

But there was a last minute change of heart and off we toddled expecting just to stay for our dinner and beat a hasty retreat. The retreat was to be even more hasty after we learned there was to be no free bar- instead we got a free glass of wine.

But somehow it turned into an amazing night. I danced like I haven't done since before I had Joseph- and even though I was with my work colleagues- people I would normally be quite reserved around- I just got down with my bad self.

I think the (paid for) five glasses of wine and two WKD may have helped.

I have to say I had a ball, and came home a very happy drunk- Erin and I treating the taxi driver to a rather suspect rendition of The Rose as we drove on our way.

But today I'm wondering did I make an eejit of myself and yes, I'm feeling a little delicate.

All I want is fatty food, Diet Coke on an intravenous drip and the assurance that I don't have to worry about to work on Monday morning.

But that said, it really was a cracking night.... I even ended up dancing with my shoes off!

Lois Lane seeks Clark Kent

BE STILL my beating heart. Superman is coming to Derry and I have become as giddy as a schoolgirl.

Anyone who knew the geeky teenage me will have known that when it came to teenage crushes and unrequited love affairs, my affections were reserved for the one and only Dean Cain.
As I spoke to local film director Danny Patrick this week, who is the man responsible for bringing Dean Cain to Derry, I let my professionalism slip a little and revealed my teenage crush.
When Danny told me that most girls he had spoken to had pictures of Superman on their posters or pencil cases, I admitted excitedly that I had him on my file in school. I may have thrown in a girlish giggle and a batting of the eyelids just for effect. It was not my finest hour.
Dean (as I liked to call him) was my first proper grown up crush. He replaced both Matt Goss and Dana Ashbrook (who was a man, honest, despite the girly name) in my affections and it's fair to say his portrayal of Clark Kent played somewhat of a role in my decision to become a bona fide journalist. (Who would have known the Derry Journal was not a hot bed of sizzling sexual tension? There was me hoping for a Clark Kent to investigate the burning issues of the day with and instead I ended up on my jack jones at a Council meeting discussing waste management.)
My mother used to refer to Dean Cain as 'the babe in tights', while I found myself singing the lesser known song 'Whatta man' every time I saw his picture.
We had a Saturday night tradition in our house that could never be messed with. I would finish work, come home, stick my aching feet in a basin of warm water and my mum would cook the tea. Then the pair of us would sit down, insist every other member of the household keep deathly silent and get our Superman fix.
Monday mornings in school also had their own traditions. They would inevitably include a discussion not only of what Teri Hatcher had worn in her role as Lois Lane but also a certain amount of swooning and sighing over Clark Kent and his tights.

Pulse racing
You see Dean Cain has it all. He has an amazing body, a strong jawline, muscular arms and eyes as dark as the night, but it is his portrayal of the man of steel, and his alter ego Clark Kent, that really sets my pulse racing.
Because lets face it ladies, what we all want is a superman in our lives- he could can leap tall buildings in a single bound or, if necessary, fly around the world so fast that he turns back time and saves our life.
I've always had a soft spot for this particular super hero which probably stems from my childhood and many a Christmas afternoon spent watching Christopher Reeve fly around the earth to that famous John Williams theme tune.
Who as a youngster didn't fall for the love story between Clark Kent and Lois Lane and long to one day visit that hotel room at Niagara Falls with the fancy fireplace?
Who didn't hope to one day find her own superman to share her life with- a strong man who fought for the greater good and could lift us without grimacing even the teeniest bit- no matter how much weight we piled on?
My attraction to the man in tights (or babe in tights, if you prefer) only deepened with the arrival of 'Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman' on our TV screens. At the time I was 16, just deciding to follow a career in journalism and I was caught up in the hype that surrounded the programme.
Yes, I had my hair cut in that famous Teri Hatcher bob and bought shoes which I thought were just 'so Lois Lane'. She was a wonderful role model; a strong, confident, successful and beautiful woman.
I could pretend I was watching the programme because of those very reasons, but no matter how successful Lois became or how good she was at her job, the main draw of the show was seeing how long it would take for her to fall for Clark Kent and for them to get their happy ever after. (And of course I watched to see Dean Cain in Lycra- that had a certain appeal).
You see the relationship between Lois and Clark is among the most romantic of all time and I am essentially a soppy eejit who likes to believe that love can be everlasting and overcome any obstacle.
Couple that belief with a handsome and strong male lead and you have a potent combination, especially in the eyes of a gawky teenager just learning about life and love.
That was, of course, before I learned the harsh truth that Lois Lane probably got hacked off picking Superman's discarded pants up off the bedroom floor just like the rest of us mere mortals. But nonetheless a girl can dream.
Speaking of which, I wonder if it would be at all possible to convince Dean Cain to visit the 'Journal' offices during his visit to the city? And if so, could I persuade him to sit opposite me for a day so I can at least pretend all my teenage dreams came true?