My boss and I are walking over to Redhill Street to meet a journalist. An interview has been arranged at his old office so we’re off to get everything set up. I follow him in to the building, trying my absolute best to avoid looking like a work experience boy shadowing him. I’m a real employee, with a title and my own chair. God damn it, I have a mug!
They sign us in and we’re taken to the room in the fanciest lift I’ve ever seen. This one has two doors – only the best in this office. My head is darting back and forth to see which door will open more like I’m at Wimbledon than heading to the fourth floor. I’m pretty sure the left doors will open, and feel an entirely unjustified sense of smugness when they do.
Everything is pretty much set up when we arrive, so that’s a bonus. I check I’m not in the camera’s shot and get out my laptop to take notes in the corner. I always take notes for these kinds of things. I load up the document, and I enter the zone, ready to funnel all the information into an easily digestible format. It beats being sat with nothing to do but nod in agreement at what my boss says. But not too much nodding – after all I don’t want it to seem like everything he says is news to me.
The camera starts rolling, the light continues lighting and the microphone begins phoning micro-ly.
As I begin typing, the first thing that’s readily apparent is how amazingly quiet I am. God, it’s like I’m not even there! There’ll be a full transcript of the entire conversation immediately after finishing and no one is disturbed – there are no downside whatsoever.
You know what, I probably missed a career as one of those typists in a courtroom. Maybe that’s my calling! Hell, with the silence of my typing I could be at the scene of the crime itself while it was happening and no one would have known! I could become a keyboard ninja – penning short stories from the shadows while seeking out injustice and inspiration. Chronicling my escapades as a masked vigilante while stalking some ne’er-do-well and foiling his dastardly schemes. I could have him subdued and compose a ballad of my deed while waiting for the police to arrive, all without ever putting down my laptop.
I’m a hero, a genuine bloody hero.
At this point I notice my boss has turned to me and asks me to stop typing as it’s a bit distracting.
Oh.
It’s probably for the best – I can’t even touch type.
Craig is a Shoreditch-based, part-time, hyphen-overusing writer. You can find him on Twitter at @CraigJBeadle
Photo credit – JonoTakesPhotos
