The other day I took the most important photograph of my career.

 

We got the call at about 10.30am on a Thursday. It interrupted my meaningless conversation with my editor. I backed out of her office, expecting it to be just another phone call. But it was the call that would change my life. The call was from her neighbour, who happened to be at the local council building witnessing breaking news unfold. Wild, unbelievable scenes were unravelling and needed to be recorded. The world had to see what was happening in our little town.

 

“There’s a crowd outside the council chambers! Someone get a camera and go!” my editor said.

 

My other co-workers looked a little taken aback. They had jobs to rush off to in 10 to 15 minutes time. Neither of them put their hands up. Which was a good thing, because I was hungry for the chase. I wanted the story. It was mine.

 

I had worked in this industry for more than four years. I had two university degrees. I watch both Nora Ephron movies in which Meg Ryan is a journalist on a regular basis. I was more than qualified for this. I was hungry for the story and I wasn’t going to wait to daintily cut a slice of the action and put it on a saucer – I was grabbing a fork straight of the fucking drawer and digging in like the ravenous, irrational overeater I am. The story was a family-sized custard tart and I was going to devour it.

 

“Me, me, me!” I shouted, abandoning the inside-voice I had been semi-successfully working on since probably my third day of school. I was jumping up and down like an overconfident, self-important child (i.e. me) wanting to do the reading on the church pulpit instead of the microphone like those plebs in my grade who couldn’t even manage the basic appropriate inflections. Suddenly I was the chunky schoolgirl I used to be, unafraid of hogging the spotlight with reckless abandon and elbowing bastards out of my way.

 

With the enthusiasm of a grandmother clutching a Frozen doll at the annual pre-Christmas Target Toy Sale, I grabbed the only camera available I sprinted out the door.

 

I didn’t have far to run, which meant I was able to get to the scene fast. But that also meant I had no time to think of a game plan. Within two minutes of getting the call, I was metres away from the action. There was no time for strategizing. I didn’t have the luxury of stepping back and taking the scene in. I couldn’t take a second to think about what to do first. In front of me was sheer chaos and all I could do was react. I had to trust my training, put faith in my experience and let my instincts guide me.

 

Slightly sweaty and panting with the power of one thousand Saint Bernards, I arrived outside the council building. Before I could think, my camera was clicking like a machine gun in a Vietnam War movie. I was in the middle of a busy street crouching down capturing the madness in front of me. I didn’t care about my safety; I cared about getting this story. As I snapped photo after photo, I wasn’t sure what would happen in the next frame, but I knew I needed to follow the action and capture every movement.

 

In a frantic haze, I put away my camera and began interviewing bystanders. With shaking hands I took down names. Sweaty fingers recorded testimonies on my mobile phone voice recorder. Arrived back in the newsroom in a flurry and began uploading my photos, praying that I had managed to capture the essence of the morning’s events.

 

The images flashed up on the screen, and I heaved a sigh of sheer relief: there on my monitor was a crystal clear photograph of a grown man laughing as held up traffic with his stop/go sign to allow a family of ducks to cross the busy street.

 

I’ve done it. I’ve reached the pinnacle of human achievement. I was there for what was arguably the most significant moment in history.

 

I think I need a cigar.