On days when my editor isn’t around, I call the shots.

 

It’s a confronting thought that someone who wears a shirt that reads “Merry Christmas ya filthy animal” all year round sets the news agenda for a population of actual people, but that’s the world we live in.

 

Usually the plonking of my juicy rear into the editor’s chair is short lived; restricted to an afternoon here and there. But the most recent occurrence of this lasted three whole days. This meant I oversaw the production of two publications. Two, guys.

 

To make matters worse, it was a slow news week. Most of the material from the last council meeting had been squandered and the upcoming meeting was too far away. The court list was dull. None of our elected officials had eaten raw root vegetables in weeks. The situation was worrisome.

 

Those are the times when you have to go digging for stories, squeezing yarns out of nowhere, collecting the juice and seeing what you end up with, as one does when looking at the tissue after pinching the blackheady area of their nose. Sometimes you crack into the honey pot, other times you just end up red-faced and disappointed.

 

Thankfully, the sebaceous glands of the community were clogged up with metaphorical dirt and oily residue was building below the surface, ready to be popped. Something had been brewing, and it was pure gold: a cat show.

 

Our trusty weekend photographer had once again come to the rescue, with the majestic kind of photos you would expect to come out of an event in which numerous groomed cats and their dedicated owners were gathered in the one place. A plucky co-worker selected the best one, and we all laughed along at the suggestion the story make the front page.

 

Our editor loves animals, but put it this way, she is a dog person. And in this world of black and white, hot and cold, intelligent or someone who watches You’re Back in the Room – you’re either one or the other. So the idea that she would use the photo on the most prestigious part of the paper was laughable. Thinking she would be back the next day to pull us into line, I jokingly assigned the photo to page one.

 

But by the next day, food poising settled in, and I was informed my 2IC was once again simply IC, and I had to steer the ship (i.e. the paper) through the storm (i.e. the balls to the wall mad rush to fill the thing) to the harbour (i.e. the printery). I was taking the helm. I felt like a new sea captain in a low budget made for television movie. It was up to me. Storm clouds were brewing, the compass was fucked and Navmans hadn’t been invented. I had to get us home, captain or no captain.

 

In my mind, I paced the captain’s cabin. I didn’t have much time. I knew the course my fearless leader would have taken, but conditions that way were choppy. I knew what my instincts were telling me, but it was a risky move. Pull it off and we’re lauded as heroes, but get it wrong and we’re adrift. Either way, I had to make the call. Time was ticking and the weather was turning.

 

Maybe it was the salt in my veins (from the horrifically processed chicken I live off) or the hydrogen bubble in my brain (can’t explain that one) but in the end I followed my gut and I charted my own course.

 

“Hoist the sales, man the poop deck” I certainly didn’t say to my team as I called a meeting in the captain’s quarters.

 

What I did say went something more like: “You know what, let’s just put the bloody cat on the front. It’s fantastic.”

 

So we did. And have never been more proud of what I have become.

 

Because this is a story the people needed to read. This was an important issue our readers had a right to know about. You look at this face and tell me that it’s not in the public interest:

Yeah. I stand by my decision.

In surprising news, I saw out that week still employed. Land ho!