I cancelled my subscription to The Press about 3 years ago after a series of spectacularly thick articles written by a reporter (not the gorgeous @beckeleven or Glenn or Sam I hasten to add) who was dumb enough to tell me at one point “I’ve already written the story I just want your quote”. The fact that what he had written, when he told me, was factually incorrect and he wouldn’t change it made me so angry I cancelled my subscription in protest.
I’ve been scrumping neighbours’ copies since the earthquake. (And sometimes the Press got it wrong and delivered to me instead of to Gwyneth next door. I’m pretty sure she was pinching it from Jennifer and Russell across the road so it all evened out in the end).
But then it stopped and I didn’t like it. I’ve got back into the habit now of breakfast at the table with a paper, not reading online as I can. And I have been finding it very soothing – cathartic at times. I’ve kept the copies, many of them slightly spotty.
But now it’s causing me grief again.
I unwrapped my first paid for Press today, and with every page my heart sped up just a little more. I knew why. It’s because I had my little table-top calendar sitting beside me so that I could add dates for funerals to it. It’s the waiting for names and the awful sinking dread.
No new names in the paper this morning – although I didn’t know about poor Pedro’s son. That poor, lovely man. Son, business, home, gone in a heartbeat.
And a name in the paper of a woman I don’t know, never met – but she will have been one of the people Nick saw in Cashel Mall. Heart going boom boom boom.
I need to get dressed now. Still in the lime green polar fleece dressing gown with the purple flowers. Newstalk ZB ringing me at 10.10 Jendy Harper, my old CTV mate, coming round with TV3 at 10.15. And then I’m going for a big run with Pepper. Nature’s valium. And if that doesn’t work I’m taking the real stuff.