to get stuck for very long. Real journalism was happening elsewhere. Bill was quietly ambitious, but Si was beginning to notice and to use this knowledge to good effect.
âYeah, you never know. Depends how it develops, eh?â
âYeah, suppose so. Iâd better get on the phone, then.â
âGood idea.â
Bill shuffled off and Si pulled out a blank piece of paper. His plan for the day. He took a pencil, sharpened it and began to map out what would go on the page. Getting going was always the hardest bit. In half an hourâs time heâd be fine. He got a kick out of watching the empty space fill up. Beautiful black typescript trickling into all those vacant white gaps. Yeah, he enjoyed his jobâwell, most of the time. Wouldnât swap it for anything else.
After heâd covered his blank piece of A4 with a complex diagram showing all the options available, he laid down his pencil. With a sigh he realised there was no time like the present. He flicked through the phone book and then dialled a number.
âHello, can I help you?â
Si affected his best Russian accent by imitating a James Bond villain. Time to expose the naughty diplomatâs weakness for Rubenesque sopranos. He thought idly that he might write this up as a sort of spoof
Traviata
, depicting the dying Ambassador sprawled on a
chaise longue
with his fickle lover dancing attendanceânot a dry eye in the house. âGood morning. Is hospital?â Si vaguely remembered chatting up a Russian girl at last yearâs
Londonerâs Diary
Christmas party in the Irish Club: she had explained that in Russian there is no definite article.
âYes, how can I help you?â
âGood, good. I believe my brother, he is not well and is in your hospitalâ¦â
âCould you tell me your brotherâs name, Sir, then I can try and put you through to the ward.â
âYes, thank you. My brother⦠He is Russian Ambassador.â
~
It had been a strangely frustrating day. In one respect things could not have gone better.
Dougy had called him just before lunch to say how much heâd appreciated the Islamic converts story. âYouâre on the right track, kidâ¦â Unfortunately, heâd left it at that and Si was still none the wiser whether heâd been on the right track by implying that the Opposition party were in tune with the times and appealed to all religious groups or, if Dougy had read the story another way, that the Opposition were as ridiculous as the claims that London was infested by evil and that thousands were converting to the teachings of Mohammed.
Dougy had also let out a belly laugh that almost deafened Si, who was holding the earpiece too close in his anxiety to please his boss. âI loved the Russian Ambassador piece. Brilliant. Brilliant. Where do you find them, kid?â But without waiting for an answer heâd rung off.
The rest of the day had been dreary and the stories they used were uninspired. Si knew for a fact that he wouldnât be getting a congratulatory call from Dougy the next day.
He left work late and went straight to The Feathers to meet Jimmy. As he came out of the tube he passed a man who made him feel slightly uneasy. Well, not the man so much as a sign the man was carrying.
CHRIST HAS DIED.
CHRIST IS RISEN.
CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN.
It was printed on a sandwich board and enclosed the emaciated body of a forty-something man in a woolly hat and donkey jacket. The man walked ahead of him down the street and seemed impervious to the icy wind which penetrated Siâs woollen overcoat.
What had possessed the guy to humiliate himself in public by such an absurd display? Si increased his speed and stepped into the road to overtake, although there was probably space enough to pass on the pavement. You never know, reflected Si, he might be dangerous. But the soft expression which met Siâs passing glance was disconcerting.
Si looked
âYeah, you never know. Depends how it develops, eh?â
âYeah, suppose so. Iâd better get on the phone, then.â
âGood idea.â
Bill shuffled off and Si pulled out a blank piece of paper. His plan for the day. He took a pencil, sharpened it and began to map out what would go on the page. Getting going was always the hardest bit. In half an hourâs time heâd be fine. He got a kick out of watching the empty space fill up. Beautiful black typescript trickling into all those vacant white gaps. Yeah, he enjoyed his jobâwell, most of the time. Wouldnât swap it for anything else.
After heâd covered his blank piece of A4 with a complex diagram showing all the options available, he laid down his pencil. With a sigh he realised there was no time like the present. He flicked through the phone book and then dialled a number.
âHello, can I help you?â
Si affected his best Russian accent by imitating a James Bond villain. Time to expose the naughty diplomatâs weakness for Rubenesque sopranos. He thought idly that he might write this up as a sort of spoof
Traviata
, depicting the dying Ambassador sprawled on a
chaise longue
with his fickle lover dancing attendanceânot a dry eye in the house. âGood morning. Is hospital?â Si vaguely remembered chatting up a Russian girl at last yearâs
Londonerâs Diary
Christmas party in the Irish Club: she had explained that in Russian there is no definite article.
âYes, how can I help you?â
âGood, good. I believe my brother, he is not well and is in your hospitalâ¦â
âCould you tell me your brotherâs name, Sir, then I can try and put you through to the ward.â
âYes, thank you. My brother⦠He is Russian Ambassador.â
~
It had been a strangely frustrating day. In one respect things could not have gone better.
Dougy had called him just before lunch to say how much heâd appreciated the Islamic converts story. âYouâre on the right track, kidâ¦â Unfortunately, heâd left it at that and Si was still none the wiser whether heâd been on the right track by implying that the Opposition party were in tune with the times and appealed to all religious groups or, if Dougy had read the story another way, that the Opposition were as ridiculous as the claims that London was infested by evil and that thousands were converting to the teachings of Mohammed.
Dougy had also let out a belly laugh that almost deafened Si, who was holding the earpiece too close in his anxiety to please his boss. âI loved the Russian Ambassador piece. Brilliant. Brilliant. Where do you find them, kid?â But without waiting for an answer heâd rung off.
The rest of the day had been dreary and the stories they used were uninspired. Si knew for a fact that he wouldnât be getting a congratulatory call from Dougy the next day.
He left work late and went straight to The Feathers to meet Jimmy. As he came out of the tube he passed a man who made him feel slightly uneasy. Well, not the man so much as a sign the man was carrying.
CHRIST HAS DIED.
CHRIST IS RISEN.
CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN.
It was printed on a sandwich board and enclosed the emaciated body of a forty-something man in a woolly hat and donkey jacket. The man walked ahead of him down the street and seemed impervious to the icy wind which penetrated Siâs woollen overcoat.
What had possessed the guy to humiliate himself in public by such an absurd display? Si increased his speed and stepped into the road to overtake, although there was probably space enough to pass on the pavement. You never know, reflected Si, he might be dangerous. But the soft expression which met Siâs passing glance was disconcerting.
Si looked
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