Christmas is always a time of hope — even for those on the bottom rung of the ladder. In the grand scheme of things we hope the world comes together, stops hating and that COVID-19 will be eradicated, or at least suppressed enough, for us to get on with our lives.
Down here in the trenches we can hope for somewhere decent to live, a new pair of socks and a nice meal.
This Christmas my door is wide open because the horizon has changed and I am stepping into what Shakespeare described as the sixth age: the lean and slippered pantaloon / With spectacles on nose and pouch on side.
Yep — that’s me. My pouch is bulging with glasses, phone, a face mask, wallet, biros and a notebook because that’s what old blokes carry around with them these days.
Yesterday was my last working day at The News after 29½ years and so now I have nothing to worry about except me and my man-bag.
No more copy deadlines, overflowing email boxes and melting phones.
People ask me, what are you going to do in retirement? I tell them I have a verandah that needs constant maintenance, a dog that pleads for more walks, a guitar that demands to be played and a chief gardener that keeps finding jobs for a lazy assistant. There’s also the great wide open to explore.
That’s plenty to be going on with before the lure of the slippered pantaloon beckons.
My journalistic career began when I ran out of money, girlfriends and beer and ran away from the English countryside to the bright lights of London with a motorbike and, yes, a guitar.
As it happens, London was booming and there was plenty of work for a swashbuckling young wanderer prepared to saddle up and deliver parcels of legal documents, artwork and sandwiches around the metropolis.
This was the pre-internet 80s and so the only way to shift stuff was either by snail mail or motorcycle. Also the only way to navigate the streets was by using the hallowed A-Z London paperback. Mine became so dog-eared it fell apart along with my gloves, boots and jacket after the first winter.
Eventually I found work with the Press Association — Britain’s national news agency based in the now legendary Fleet St. They gave me a V-twin Honda CX 500 with a white fairing with ‘PRESS’ on the front, which made me king of the road.
I followed around a team of photographers who threw me a roll of film to rush back to the office and then distribute the prints around the papers — The Sun, Daily Mail, Mirror, Express, Times etc. The traffic was so slow I only fell off a couple of times with nothing but my dignity dented.
We snapped the royals, IRA bombings, politicians, celebrities, soccer and tennis matches, and Miss World models. It was tough, but someone had to do it.
After four freezing winters I got a job indoors writing extended captions for pictures — and boom! My journalistic career was off and running.
When I arrived at The News in 1992 with the chief gardener I thought we’d probably spend a year or two here with our baby son before heading back to Melbourne.
That’s what everybody else seemed to do.
Thirty years later we’re still here and my baby boy is a grown man with three boys of his own who lives 20 minutes away.
Such is the twisting mountain track of life, I now find myself at the peak and about to paraglide into the valley below.
I often ask myself what has kept me here scribbling away for three decades?
The easy answer is that I literally can’t do anything else. Power tools are my enemies — the only bookshelf I put up fell down a few months ago with a terrifying midnight crash.
I have no legal or business brain and I couldn’t sell pies to a starving man.
The only thing I can do is write, and I have been fortunate enough to find an employer that has given me the space, the time and the money to do just that.
Along the way, I’ve met people celebrating wins and achievements, people at the end of their tether or their journey, people with ramshackle sheds packed with history or gleaming machinery, people with stories of incredible courage, or struggle or joy. Each one has been a privilege to tell. Each one has left its mark on me, and I hope in a small way — the world.
I sometimes think I have never really been a proper journalist, because I haven’t annoyed enough people. Just a few.
I’ll finish by saying — thanks to everyone for sharing their stories. And thanks for continuing the conversation about what it is to be human in this sweet and bitter world.
•John Lewis is a former News journalist, legend of the written word, and all-round good bloke.
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