In my line of work, I often feel like Harriet the Spy.

 (for those of you who don’t remember Nickelodeon’s epic first motion feature and Michelle Trachtenberg’s glorious introduction to fame)While I don’t have a Nanny following my around and I’m not a fan of tomato and mayo sangas, I do have an admiration for Rosie O’Donnell and I do creep around taking notes about and pictures of individuals going about their daily business.

The difference is that Harriet’s spying is pretty exciting, and from the vague misty corners of my mind, eventually produce meaningful results. The results of Dannielle the Spy are far less exciting and produce zero moral lessons. One of the many reasons why my life isn’t a movie and Harriet’s was. My spying is much more mundane, and instead of being risky but worth it, mine are just awkward.

While Harriet’s activities are probably against the law and definitely against moral codes, she gets away with it because she’s a cute little child. My “spying” either happens in public spaces or at functions/presentations/meetings/any form of gathering, which makes it neither illegal nor unethical, if I’m caught out my fate is worse than a minor stalking conviction: it is the awkward conversation – where you have to repeat the name of the paper you’re from thrice (which is followed by a geographical description and a weak joke about some town landmark or slogan) and explain that you’re not getting the person’s name or any intimate personal details, all while trying to be quiet enough not to interrupt preceding’s but doing so anyway.

You see, Harriet’s spying was kept at a safe distance to prevent her from being caught, thus revealing her spy status and all her bitchy secrets (SPOILER: that happens. I can’t remember how, but it’s pretty heartbreaking – I can remember feeling some sort of pain on her behalf. I also feel fictional movie characters’ embarrassment – which makes a lot of movies hard to watch. I’m a very empathetic person, as it turns out). My “spying” is kept at a safe distance to prevent me from being caught in conversation.

I prefer to get an action shot, get the general vibe of what’s going done and vamoose.

Today’s action shot was a man digging a hole, and another man looking at said hole. Unfortunately, this digging and hole-watching was going on behind not one, but two construction barrier fences, a strategically placed wheelie bin and an entire playground fortress. While I could have stood on the path as opposed to skulking behind the insufficient cover that was this bitter-sweet play equipment, I didn’t for fear of conversation. This is partly because the men, being in the middle of work for a council project, would have told me they couldn’t be in a picture. And there’s nothing more awkward than someone saying you can’t get a picture. My counter strategy is a mixture of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and “it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission”, which of course results in creepy skulking.

There’s a specific art to this manoeuvre, one that is refined over time. Rule Number One: don’t make eye contact. If you acklowedge that you are person and they are a person by looking at them, your cover is blown. Rule Number Two: you don’t really have a “cover” per se; if you try not to look like a journo, you generally look like a creepy douchebag taking pictures for personal use, and that doesn’t warrant a friendly response. Carry around a notepad even if you’re not taking notes. It establishes your character and therefore you purpose of photographing. Rule Number Three: even though you don’t technically have a “cover”, don’t blow your cover. How? By following Rule Number Four: move like the wind, strike like a snake. Non-terrible-vaguely-poetic-Chinese-warrior-instruction-immitation translation: Don’t dick around. Get in there, get it done and get out. The second you slow down or stray from your task is the second someone tries to talk to you. Just take a photo and go.

It feels like you’re doing something illegal or unethical, because you’re rushed and jittery and even a little dizzy sometimes. You feel kind of dangerous, unstable even. You begin to question the moral fibre of your being. This has nothing to do with skulk-related adrenaline, and, of course, everything to do with the fact that these “missions” always occur right before lunchtime.