Back To The Future

Reporting from Washington DC circa 2005 ITV News

Almost ten years since I left the ITV Newsroom, I walked back in. It's always slightly disorientating when you return to a place where you spent so many formative years, like going back to school.You marvel at how much has stayed the same, as well as how much has changed. 

A lot of the people I knew are still there, which is lovely. So many familiar, friendly faces, it felt like coming home. And within hours, I was doing a report for News At Ten with very few pictures and an overworked producer. So that's the same then. 

The technology has changed though. Reporters are now expected to be able to edit their own pieces - in other words, to physically cut pictures and sound, weaving in special effects and graphics where necessary. I try not to be a Luddite. No-one wants to end up like their grannies, for whom the TV remote control is still the height of technology.  So I'm happy to embrace new skills and learn how to operate Avid and Newscutter. But fair warning, ITV News bosses - I am very, very slow. Also my OCD kicks in, making it impossible for me to stop tinkering until I'm completely happy with an edit. There is a very real risk I will miss a deadline if left to my own devices. (Unless my punctuality OCD cancels out my perfectionism OCD. Let's not put it to the test.)

Speaking of technology, I gave a talk to Journalism graduates last week. They were studying at Teesside University, which was kind enough to give me an Honorary Degree several years ago. I am always keen to encourage the future guardians of truth, justice, and a free press so I attended their Journalism Awards evening and talked about how vastly the industry had changed. When I started out as a reporter back in 1990, I had a notepad and a pen. If I was really lucky, I had a pen that worked. Social media? That was everyone gathered round the telly on a Saturday night. 

The students I met in Middlesbrough are light years from that. They all seem to have YouTube channels or websites or a gazillion followers. They all blog and vlog and tweet. I came away feeling both impressed and exhausted by their energy.

 I wouldn't normally post a photo without asking everyone's permission, but since they've all already tweeted about it I suppose there's no problem. The future of journalism is in safe hands. If any of you has offspring keen to get into this mad business, I do recommend the media and journalism courses at Teesside University. 

By the way, if anyone under 20 is reading this, could you please enlighten me about Snapchat? I totally get Twitter, Facebook, Instagram etc but the point of that yellow ghost thingy which is erased after a few seconds is lost on me. I have the uncomfortable feeling I sound like my mum. 

   

Head In The Clouds

Meet our Skyjib X4. Looks like something out of a sci-fi film, doesn't it? This is my new business partner - along with my husband, Simon. To be fair, the one is rarely seen without the other. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I say. So together we are now running a fabulous aerial filming company called Aero Productions Ltd. If you pop along to our website Aeroproductions.co.uk  you will see the kind of films we make.

I say 'we' but it's actually my husband who does the flying. While I was working in the desert all those months sans famille he was busy qualifying as a drone pilot with full accreditation from the Civil Aviation Authority. It all sounded like far too much fun for him to be having on his own, so I am now a co-Director of his company. Poor man.

Running a small business has really opened my eyes to the challenges for entrepreneurs in this country. The tax system for one. According to a Sunday Times investigation, six out of ten of Britain's biggest companies paid zero corporation tax in 2014. We'd barely registered at Companies House when we started getting stern warnings about about corporation tax through our door! Still, I'm sure it won't be a problem when we've made our first million.

So, what do Aero Productions do? We make amazing films using the best technology. We can offer aerial footage, inspiring photography and anything you require from short web videos to full-blown high-quality professional films to stun your competitors into submission. We also do media training, from handling friendly interviews to controlling the fall-out from an unfortunate incident. 

On top of all that, I'm also freelancing as a reporter. Viewers in the UK should start to see me popping up on ITV News every now and then. Got to keep my hand in. Reporters are only as good as their last story. It will be good to work with my former colleagues again: correspondents like Juliet Bremner, Paul Davies, Chris Choi. Anchors like Mark Austin and Mary Nightingale. Sorry to name-drop but I'm very happy to be back among them.

And last but not least, I am still honing my YA novel. It is now in the final stages of drafting. My agent, the fantastic London-based Sheil Land Associates, has said it is very nearly ready to be sent out to potential publishers. It just needs one more tweak. It's been like having a baby really. Lots of preparation and nervous waiting. To continue the analogy, I'm still in labour but hopefully the end game is in sight. 

So, company director, freelance reporter, nearly-author. Hmm. I may be rather busy in the forseeable....!

A Little Perspective

So I had lunch with a Hollywood film-maker the other day. As you do. Michael Singh is the Director of the epic Valentino's Ghost, a documentary looking at the portrayal of Arabs on film and in the media, and questioning whether the stereotyping of Muslims rises from the 'special relationship' between the US and Israel.

First released in 2012, it was re-released last year and includes heavyweight interviews with the likes of Robert Fisk, Gore Vidal, Anthony Shadid and Niall Ferguson among others. And a teeny tiny snippet of yours truly, to chronicle the rise of Aljazeera and other Middle East media trying to balance the anti-Arab ideology.

Whatever your take, and it's a difficult issue with the insidious shadow of ISIS now lurking everywhere, it's a fascinating tale. From the 1920's romantic hero (as played by Rudolph Valentino) to the hook-nosed embodiment of evil, the way Arabs and Muslims are portrayed on film, radio, TV and even cartoons has changed radically. (Remember Disney's Aladdin? The opening song features these lyrics: "Oh, I come from a land, from a faraway place, where the caravan camels roam. Where they cut off your ear if they don't like your face, it's barbaric, but hey, it's home." These lines were later changed.) 

The documentary seeks to question why these images persist,and how it links back to US foreign policy, but it's had a tough sell. 

It received a standing ovation in Venice, played successfully in Amsterdam, headlined at the Doha Tribeca film festival and was shown in several art-house venues in the US. But a wider US audience has been hard to come by - in one instance Michael was told it was "too politically hard-edged", in another "it would alienate their Jewish membership."

Michael is philosophical. He says the US like their documentaries safe, and that's the way to make money. But if you step out on a limb, like he has done, it is way more thrilling. You just need to have a tough skin. 

He's already working on his next documentary. I'm sure it will cause just as many ripples. Watch this space.

Happy Returns

There's a great hoax doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment. It's a good one because it rings true - but it's not. It's a fake news report about a mother who sends invitations to her son's seventh birthday party, and includes the caveat that gifts must be worth a minimum of £50 because "I'm tired of buying nice presents for his friends and getting happy meal gifts in return!"

It's a spoof, of course. I was thinking about this because my daughter is turning thirteen. Thirteen! How did that happen? One minute they're chewing on a dummy, the next they're chewing you out for forgetting to wash their favourite shirt.

I've decided this is the last birthday party I'm ever organising for her. Trying to get her to decide how she wanted to celebrate was a monumental task. I presented several ideas, the response to which ranged from "Ugh," to "So-and-so's already done that," to a contemptuous raising of the eyebrows. Finally, my daughter graciously accepted my suggestion of a 'Pamper Party'.

There are various companies that will organise a pamper party for you in your own home. They vary widely in cost, but they do the same kind of thing; face masks, mani-pedis, nail art, head massage and make-up. The company I've hired is also bringing spa robes and a non-alcoholic cocktail fountain. They sound very efficient, and I have high hopes that while the girls are getting their nails done, I can spend the entire two hours upstairs in my bedroom with Netflix and a glass of wine.

The curious thing is how regulated birthday parties are becoming. The company I've hired, for instance, insists that all parents complete an online waiver  before they will carry out any treatments. I suppose this is to absolve them of responsibility if one of the kids goes into anaphylactic shock from the face cream. But it's not the first time I've been asked to sign a parental waiver for a birthday party. It seems this kind of red tape is becoming the norm.

Then there's the question of party gifts. I absolutely HATE party bags. I know they're seen as a nice gesture, and many parents do them as a thank you to the children who've come to their parties. But why? Are we really so achingly polite that we have to organise, host, cater and pay for a party, and then feel obliged to present gifts to people just for turning up? It's barking mad. So I don't do party bags.

But I'm far too much of a wimp to just brazen it out completely and send the kids home empty-handed. So I cheat, and buy them a single chocolate rabbit or small chocolate egg. Not a party gift, you see, but an Easter gift.

Next year I might add a caveat of my own to my daughter's birthday invitations. No presents required for the birthday girl. But her mother likes bath salts and oatmeal cookies.

Well, it's worth a try.

Tired Of Caring?

Seeing the images of riot police clearing away tents in so-called Jungle City made me think. How must those families have felt, having fled war and tyranny, only to end up in some miserable tent in the winter? Unable to go forward or back, desperately trying to reassure their children that everything was going to be okay, wondering what would become of them, and then suddenly finding themselves facing helmeted security officers tearing down their makeshift homes? Any parent would shudder at this scenario, suddenly being alone and helpless, with nowhere to go and no safety for their kids. And what they've left behind - endless bombardment, starvation, the terror of ISIS - doesn't bear thinking about.

But here's the thing. You talk about it long enough, think about it long enough, you start to lose compassion. In the TV News business, we call it 'care fatigue'. There's only so much sympathy you can have for the sad tide of refugees fleeing the Syrian War before you start switching the channel to another rerun of Friends. 

The problem is that this whole thing is unprecedented. Of course, all right-minded people want to help people in their hour of need. And Europe, by and large, has a good track record in giving aid and succour. But when the numbers become alarmingly huge, when there seems no end to the human wave arriving on her shores, even decent people start asking their governments 'what is being done about this?'

The answer appears to be, stop them getting to Europe in the first place. A solution anyone can see is too simplistic. The only way to stop people leaving Syria is to make Syria a place they want to stay. 

That's why the international community has to work harder to make the ceasefire stick. That's why all sides have to support the political transition that was part of the negotiated deal last December. Of course, the main superpowers US and Russia are both deeply suspicious of each other. But if they were the ones dealing with the unprecedented numbers of migrants, the Syrian War would very possibly be over by now (cynical hack alert). In the meantime, we mustn't lose sight of the fact that this is a human tragedy, and the vast majority of these people are deserving of our compassion.

On the subject of caring, I've found myself involved with two charities this week. Both are hoping for more publicity for their causes, and both are extremely worthwhile. The first is the charity of which I am a Patron, and have been for some time. Build Africa (www.build-africa.org) is working on a project in an area in Kenya badly hit by Al Shabab. The group has successfully ruined the local tourist economy, leaving hotels empty. With no jobs, many young women and girls are leaving school to go into prostitution to make ends meet. It's a grim tale, but one which can be ended through initiatives improving education and entrepreneurial skills.  

The second is a grass-roots project in Bangladesh to save the Bengal Tiger. (www.wild-team.org) Originally, ecology experts thought there were 400 of them left in the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans, now they've revised that to a mere 100. They could disappear altogether, and all because stupid people think tiger bones can cure illnesses or make your willy large. I'm talking to you, Mr Chinese Idiot. Tiger populations have been massacred because of demand from China. Get with the program: tigers cannot cure rheumatism or meningitis or malaria. Making wine out of powdered tiger bone will not help your ulcers or your erection. It merely confirms what a complete and utter moron you are. Sorry if this isn't politically correct, but then killing tigers isn't morally, ethically or environmentally correct.

So there you have it. Migrants, forced prostitution and tigers. My list of what we should be caring about. What are the causes close to your heart?

It's That Time Again

Ah, it is almost upon us. February 14th. Valentine's Day. This has got to be THE most annoying day of the year for single folk. Frankly, it's pretty annoying for the rest of us too. Unless you've just started a new relationship and you're in the first pink flush of love, the pressure to 'do something romantic' is counter-productive.

So my husband and I are doing it differently. We are having our romantic evening tonight - a day early. That way, we can relax and roll our eyes at couples going out for over-priced meals or exchanging completely inappropriate gifts such as lingerie (which, gentlemen, we know damn well isn't really a gift for us, but for you.)

My husband has got it right this year. He hasn't bought me a present - instead, he asked me to pick a recipe out of our million-and-one recipe books, and he's going to cook it. I chose a dozen oysters to start, and roast duck to follow. And if he's lucky, his just desserts will come later.

To be honest, we both need a romantic evening. The last few weeks have been full on stressful, largely due to the issue of education. We have to select our daughter's next school, the one where she will do her GCSEs. It shouldn't be a tough choice, you can't swing a cat in Buckinghamshire without hitting a great school. But sadly, we are perennially indecisive parents.

 Our conversations of late have gone like this: This school's closer, but this school's got new science labs! Look, this school does polo as an extra-curricular activity! Polo! But this school has an Observatory! And this one's just won an award for its food! 

Which to choose?

I've even written out pro-and-con lists, but we STILL can't decide. So we have rather cruelly made her do four sets of entrance exams, thinking that would whittle the choices down. They haven't. Turns out our daughter is brainy (clearly from her mother's side) and she's won places at all of them. Darn. Back to the pros and cons list.

Of course the unspoken fear is that we can't actually afford any of these schools, and six months down the line we'll have to pull her out and stick her in a comprehensive where she'll get beaten up for saying 'barth' instead of bath. 

Anyway. Enough stress. Romantic evening beckons. Is that the pop of a champagne cork I hear?

You lot enjoy your Valentine's Day tomorrow. Mine's starting now! :)

Going It Alone

Cartoon by Dave Walker.

I've now been home from Doha for two months. It's been a great two months. I think, if I wasn't careful, I could quite grow to like the days where the most stressful decision I have to make is what to cook for dinner. 

But alas, that time is ending. I am a worker at heart, and I have to turn my mind to more important things. In other words, making a living. 

It's a big change for me, being self-employed. In Doha, every expat is only there because they're working for a company, or belong to the family of someone who's working for a company. You can't live there otherwise. And for those of us going in as highly-paid professionals - the bankers, the oil executives, the journalists, the doctors, the lawyers, the professors - it's a ticket to a lifestyle we wouldn't otherwise have. Big houses, big cars, big salaries, weekends by the pool, evenings at top restaurants like Nobu and Hakkasan, it was undoubtedly the best fun I've ever had. And although we lamented the lack of 'culture' in the early days, even that was  a thriving scene by the time I left. Museums, opera, theatre, film festivals, all were on offer. Even Kevin Spacey did a stint here with his Richard III. What's not to like?

There are only two reasons you leave a place like that. Either you get fired, or you start to feel you've got everything you need out of the experience and somehow, 'real life' is passing you by. The first option wasn't so common until recently. I've met people in Doha who've been doing the same job for ten, twenty years. But the plummeting oil prices have taken their toll and Qatar, a country dependent on energy prices for its wealth, has been forced to make cut-backs. Cue a stream of ex-employees heading back home.

For me, it was the second reason, coupled with the fact that  I missed my daughter who was going to school in Britain. Yes, there were secondary schools in Doha, but I was fussy. And now, here I am, facing a future where I am my own boss.

So, let me introduce you to the new me. My first and best-known expertise is in the art of reading out loud on the telly, and I'm pretty good at it, even when things are going bat-shit crazy in the studio. But I am now also a Freelance Reporter (or at least, I will be if next week's meeting goes well); a Corporate Video Producer (hey, if you run a business, I can make you a fabulous company promo for a very reasonable price) and a Media Trainer (want to learn how to deal with those pesky journalists? I'm your girl.) 

And this, of course, is the key difference with being self-employed - you have to sell yourself in a way you never have to do when someone else is your boss. It's fun, and a little bit scary.

I am also a writer, with aspirations of becoming a published author. My manuscript is still with my agent, who is no doubt putting big red lines through some of it even as we speak. As I wait to hear from him, I have been very disciplined about writing other things. Your creativity is like any other skill - you have to keep it honed. To this end, I have entered four short story competitions this week. I am waiting to hear on three of them, but I am proud to say I came 4th in one of them. It was a 'fast fiction' competition - that is, you go online and are given three titles to choose from (which you haven't seen until that moment) and you have exactly 30 minutes to come up with a story, write it and submit it. If you miss the deadline, tough. It's sort of like an open mic tryout for writers, and takes place every Saturday. 

Give it a go: Write-Invite.com.

Here was my 4th placed entry - it was written in around 22 minutes, so please excuse the lack of finesse. I hope you like it. 

Blown Away

He stood in front of the ticket desk, checking his watch every five minutes. She said she would be here - she couldn't have changed her mind, could she?

He watched the planes take off and land through the windows, smiling slightly as he remembered last night. She had been like an animal, holding him as if she'd never let him go.

"I'm leaving Richard," she'd breathed. "I'm going to do as you ask. Tomorrow, you and me, on that plane. A new life."

The fact that all this was taking place in Richard's bedroom had made it all the sweeter. He smiled grimly. He'd hated Richard for years, ever since they had been at public school together. Richard had made his life a misery. Now he'd taken Richard's wife, and very soon, Richard's money.

Payback is a bitch, he thought.

He had waited until his lover had finished showering, then helped her pack.

"Got everything?" he asked, as she glanced around the vast marital bedroom for the last time. "Mobile? Passport?"

She nodded. "Go on downstairs then, sweetheart," he told her. "I'll just grab my car keys." He waited till she headed down to the kitchen, then severed the gas pipe into the ornamental fireplace. A little extra present for Richard, he thought. His nemesis would come home that night, to a gas-filled building. He'd flick on the light switch, maybe even light one of his infernal cigarettes.... and when his lovely widow remarried in a few months time, his money would go with her. She really was attractive, the man mused. But she would be doubly so, as a rich widow.

"I have to go to the office to tie up a few loose ends," she told him at the front door. "You go home and grab your suitcase, I'll meet you at the airport. I can't wait, my darling."

But he had been waiting an hour now, and there was no sign of her. His mobile phone rang.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said, breathless, as if she'd been running. "I was on my way to the airport when realized I'd left my damn glasses on the bedside table. You know I'm as blind as a bat without them. I'm here now, I won't be a sec...."

He tried to shout down the phone, to stop her, to tell her to forget her glasses. But it was too late. He heard the sound of an explosion, rendered distant and tinny through his phone's speaker. Carefully, he pressed 'end call'. He looked at his mobile thoughtfully.

What a pity, he thought. He'd really quite liked her. Oh well, better luck next time.

He turned to the girl at the ticket desk.

"Just the one flight now, please," he told her, smiling his charming smile. "It seems my girlfriend isn't going to make it after all."

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