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At forty-two years of age Tom is the freelance cub reporter on a weekly suburban paper. He lives his days in a state of controlled terror. The editor hired him as a stringer after Tom persuaded him that he knew more than he really did.

Tom used to work in a fuel merchants; but global warming abolished his job overnight so he became a full-time writer and almost starved. He read all the books on writing and for two years sent a piece each week off to editors in the hope of breaking in.

Tom is a modern man; so, when the editor told him he would pay on the article produced he understood this to be market forces. The editor said he would take whatever Tom produced. No spiking. Tom was pleased with that. No rejections. This was journalism of the highest order.

What the editor glossed over was that the paper was expanding into Tom's home area and Tom was about to become the lynchpin for the operation. The distribution department rang him about contacts. the advertising people asked him about leads. The photographers wanted to know where they would get photo opportunities. Tom's wife offered to leave home if it would help.

Tom had business cards made with his name and the fact that he was a real writer on them. He gave the cards out and suggested that, if he were given news leads, he would see that the source would have the national press in his debt. But, since most of the leads were about missing dogs and badly parked cars, it was unlikely that he would have to bother the nationals much.

He shook hands with everybody he met. He wanted people to remember him when the next big story broke. However, he could not recall whom he had actually shaken hands with, so he shook hands with everybody again.

When the editor first spoke to Tom he gave the impression that Tom would supply the odd item on a weekly basis. Well, more than an odd item, several in fact would be taken. This was good. This was continuous work, something Tom's wife had sug-
gested he would never see again if he persisted in his writing ambitions.

Tom enquired, in the last days of peace before his first deadline, just how many pieces he should have polished, spellchecked, and ready to go?

When the editor told him Tom thought he had misunderstood, or, at least, the editor had misunderstood his experience. There would be three tabloid pages for two editions, which meant six tabloid pages, and two different pages of photo cover-
age and Tom could do the lot if he wanted and if there were any other photo opportunities then he should tell the photographers pool about them and they would
decide amongst themselves who was to cover it, and did anybody mention that the deadline was a serious business? And, by the way, do check your copy for
libel.

Fine, Tom said and telephoned everybody he knew to see if there was a party some-
where? He was asked how much he was charging for photographs and would there be keyrings?

And Tom said, no, he was not actually taking pictures for a Iiving, yet. Others thought he wanted to go to a party and made suggestions about vague happenings they had heard about. With some people his stock rose and others pointedly asked how his wife was these days?

Tom managed to get enough copy together for what he learned, to his growing hor-
ror, was to be the launch issue. His trepidation increased when he realised he was about to fulfil a cherished dream. Everything would have a byline. People would know he wrote it.

At 4am, Tom pushed the whole bundle of copy through the letterbox of the paper. Deadline was first thing next morning and he was afraid that commuter delays could see him miss his time.

Two days afterwards, the paper came out and he went from outlet to outlet casually reading his own name on the front page over a newsflash that the dramatic society would be doing a Willy Russell soon and was looking for more bodies to help out.

Tom wondered if they would be able to handle the influx of people it would bring.

He discovered quickly that he was more likely to be ignored than read. Anyway, there was a new sub-editor hired which meant there was somebody else to blame if everything went up in flames. Except, the sub speaks about the grand scheme of the
tabloid world and is very knowledgeable about the exact amounts of compensation payable in libel cases. When he tells Tom on the phone that he has just 'jazzed up' a piece, Tom loses sleep.

Once, when he was trying to stay alive with odd jobs, Tom worked as a milk deliveryman. At a posh Council reception a woman recognised him and insisted on re-arguing about a two-year-old milk bill. Another day, he interviewed a 100-year-old man, taking longhand notes with a fountain pen. Shaking hands on leaving, he was certain the crack he heard was the old man's finger bones breaking.

But Tom is sure he is the hardened newspaper man by now. He is part of a grand plan to bring enlightenment into people's lives.

The trouble is, when he rings the paper, the operator asks what the call is in connection with before she puts him through. And, the other night, when he went to cover a local fundraiser, he found himself selling programmes at the door
while he waited for his free entry to be cleared with the committee.

Still, he's working on a story about an 86-year old man losing his council house while he was in hospital. The man's wife signed the papers on his behalf, in absentia.

It is the use of the Latin phrase Tom worries about: will his readers understand the Latin, or should he explain it?

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