As my time in journalism – and with this column – draws to a close, I’m going to be a tad self-indulgent and spend my final few editions reflecting on the past 27 years in this often crazy industry.
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I first walked through the doors of the newspaper on November 13, 1989.
Computers had only just been introduced and you could read Anna Karenina in the time they took to boot up.
I started the same day as the new nicotine addicted sub-editor but it took me weeks to find out what he looked like from all the passive smoke swirling above his ashtray.
However, lunchtime drinking sessions had been phased out, but mainly because the paper had just relocated from being conveniently next door to a pub.
As the years passed – to quote Carole King – I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. In my first week, I also saw a freak hailstorm that made nearly every car in Ballarat look like a metallic golf ball.
When I became a sports reporter nine months into my cadetship, I saw the entire Victorian cricket team in the showers during a test match against England in my home town after being told the press conference was being held in the change rooms.
Mind you, it was the early 90s. Baiting the one per cent of female sports journalists around was like playing Pokemon Go for male sportsmen.
I’ve had some great interviewees. (Jimmy Barnes is still an all-time favourite.) But then there was the comedian who definitely needed the molar extractors. Luckily they light up on the stage. The word ambivert was clearly invented with them in mind.
I’ve been knocked over by kangaroos in front of opposition leaders, accidentally dyed my hair bright pink before interviewing premiers and asked political leaders tricky questions about vomiting cats.
Clearly I’m the go-to person for the tough interviews! More to come next week.