plum-in-the mouth accent,
and his four-bedroom executive home in Chislehurst marked him plainly,
in the jaundiced eyes of cynics like Arthur Cole, as a poor boy made
good: more plainly than if he had worn a cloth cap and cycle clips.
Cole arrived in the editor's office on the dot of ten o'clock, with his
tie straightened, his thoughts marshaled, and his list typed out. He
realized instantly that that was an error. He should have burst in two
minutes late in his shirtsleeves, to give the impression he had
reluctantly torn himself away from the hot seat in the newsroom
powerhouse for the purpose of giving less essential personnel a quick
rundown on what was going on in really important departments. But then,
he always thought of these things too late: he was no good at office
politics. It would be interesting to watch how other?
executives made their entrance into the morning conference.
The editor's office was trendy. The desk was white and the easy chairs
came from Habitat. Vertical venetian blinds shaded the blue carpet from
sunlight, and the aluminum-and-melamine bookcases had smoked-glass
doors. On a side table were copies of all the morning papers, and a pile
of yesterday's editions of the Evening Post.
He sat behind the white desk, smoking a thin cigar and reading the
Mirror. The sight made Cole yearn for a cigarette. He popped a
peppermint into his mouth as a substitute.
The others came in in a bunch: the picture editor, in a tight-fitting
shirt, with shoulder-length hair many women would envy; the sports
editor, in a tweed jacket and lilac shirt; the features editor, with a
pipe and a permanent slight grin; and the circulation manager, a young
man in an immaculate gray suit who had started out selling encyclopedias
and risen to this lofty height in only five years. The dramatic
last-minute entrance was made by the chief sub-editor, the paper's
designer; a short man with close-cropped hair, wearing suspenders. There
was a pencil behind his ear.
When they were all seated, the editor tossed the Mirror onto the side
table and pulled his chair closer to his desk. He said: "No first
edition yet?"
"No." The chief sub looked at his watch. "We lost eight minutes because
of a web break."
The editor switched his gaze to the circulation manager. "How does that
affect you?"
He, too, was looking at his watch. "if it's only eight minutes, and if
you can catch up by the next edition, we can wear it."
The editor said: "We seem to have a web break every bloody day."
"fit's this bog-paper we're printing on," the chief sub said.
"Well, we have to live with it until we start to make a profit again."
The editor picked up the list of news stories Cole had put on his desk.
"There's nothing here to start a circulation boom, Arthur."
"Its a quiet morning. With luck we'll have a Cabinet crisis by midday."
"And they're two-a-penny, with this bloody government." The editor
continued to read the list. "I like this Stradivarius story."
Cole ran down the list, speaking briefly about each item. When he had
finished, the editor said:
"And not a splash among '. I don't like to lead all day on politics.
We're supposed to cover every facet of the Londoner's day," to quote our
own advertising. I don't suppose we can make Strad a million-pound
violin?"
"It's a nice idea," Cole said. "But I don't sup pose it's worth that
much. Still, we'll try it on
The chief sub said: "if it won't work in Sterling try the million-dollar
violin. Better still, the million dollar fiddle." "Good thinking," the
editor said. "Let's have a library picture of a similar fiddle, and
interviews with three top violinists about how they would feel if they
lost their favorite instrument." He paused. "I want to go big on the oil
field license, too. People are interested in this North Sea oil--it's
supposed to be our economic salvation." Cole
and his four-bedroom executive home in Chislehurst marked him plainly,
in the jaundiced eyes of cynics like Arthur Cole, as a poor boy made
good: more plainly than if he had worn a cloth cap and cycle clips.
Cole arrived in the editor's office on the dot of ten o'clock, with his
tie straightened, his thoughts marshaled, and his list typed out. He
realized instantly that that was an error. He should have burst in two
minutes late in his shirtsleeves, to give the impression he had
reluctantly torn himself away from the hot seat in the newsroom
powerhouse for the purpose of giving less essential personnel a quick
rundown on what was going on in really important departments. But then,
he always thought of these things too late: he was no good at office
politics. It would be interesting to watch how other?
executives made their entrance into the morning conference.
The editor's office was trendy. The desk was white and the easy chairs
came from Habitat. Vertical venetian blinds shaded the blue carpet from
sunlight, and the aluminum-and-melamine bookcases had smoked-glass
doors. On a side table were copies of all the morning papers, and a pile
of yesterday's editions of the Evening Post.
He sat behind the white desk, smoking a thin cigar and reading the
Mirror. The sight made Cole yearn for a cigarette. He popped a
peppermint into his mouth as a substitute.
The others came in in a bunch: the picture editor, in a tight-fitting
shirt, with shoulder-length hair many women would envy; the sports
editor, in a tweed jacket and lilac shirt; the features editor, with a
pipe and a permanent slight grin; and the circulation manager, a young
man in an immaculate gray suit who had started out selling encyclopedias
and risen to this lofty height in only five years. The dramatic
last-minute entrance was made by the chief sub-editor, the paper's
designer; a short man with close-cropped hair, wearing suspenders. There
was a pencil behind his ear.
When they were all seated, the editor tossed the Mirror onto the side
table and pulled his chair closer to his desk. He said: "No first
edition yet?"
"No." The chief sub looked at his watch. "We lost eight minutes because
of a web break."
The editor switched his gaze to the circulation manager. "How does that
affect you?"
He, too, was looking at his watch. "if it's only eight minutes, and if
you can catch up by the next edition, we can wear it."
The editor said: "We seem to have a web break every bloody day."
"fit's this bog-paper we're printing on," the chief sub said.
"Well, we have to live with it until we start to make a profit again."
The editor picked up the list of news stories Cole had put on his desk.
"There's nothing here to start a circulation boom, Arthur."
"Its a quiet morning. With luck we'll have a Cabinet crisis by midday."
"And they're two-a-penny, with this bloody government." The editor
continued to read the list. "I like this Stradivarius story."
Cole ran down the list, speaking briefly about each item. When he had
finished, the editor said:
"And not a splash among '. I don't like to lead all day on politics.
We're supposed to cover every facet of the Londoner's day," to quote our
own advertising. I don't suppose we can make Strad a million-pound
violin?"
"It's a nice idea," Cole said. "But I don't sup pose it's worth that
much. Still, we'll try it on
The chief sub said: "if it won't work in Sterling try the million-dollar
violin. Better still, the million dollar fiddle." "Good thinking," the
editor said. "Let's have a library picture of a similar fiddle, and
interviews with three top violinists about how they would feel if they
lost their favorite instrument." He paused. "I want to go big on the oil
field license, too. People are interested in this North Sea oil--it's
supposed to be our economic salvation." Cole
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