So a story from my little provincial newspaper has blown up and gone national, being aired on tv stations, radio broadcasts and making the biggest selling daily paper in the country. This is how.
On Tuesday I received a phone call from Susan Henshall.
She is a lady from Dovercourt with only ten per cent vision in her left eye and uses guide dogs to get around.
She informed me that she had just been evicted from the White Coffee House in Kingsway, Dovercourt, for trying to take her latest guide dog, two-year-old Usef, in there.
She was offered a seat outside and refused, opting instead to report the cafe to the Guide Dog association and to call me.
Refusing to speak over the phone, Miss Henshall invited me to her bungalow where we discussed the details, I met Usef and invited a photographer along to grab a snap of them together.
I put the story together, spoke to the cafe regarding their side of events, stood it up with legislation from the Guide Dogs association and told my newsdesk I thought it was a strong contender for our front page that week.
It ran as a page three lead for the Daily Gazette and, sure enough, was promoted to a front page splash for the weekly Harwich Standard.
The following day I was in court covering District Judge day, when I got a call from my news editor, James Wills, informing me the Daily Mail wanted to buy the story.
And so it began to run nationally.
The next day I received a call from the Jeremy Vine show asking if they could use the story and asking me to contribute on air.
I handed the honour to my editor, Brendan Hanrahan, who took the interview in our office while we listened to the live broadcast through headphones.
(37 mins in).
It has now been on Daybreak, Anglia TV and Miss Henshall contacted me the day after to thank me for the piece and offered me an exclusive follow up for breaking the story.
I fielded a call from the son of the cafe owners who was unhappy at the level of the coverage but we came to an agreement that the article was only representing the truth of the matter and represented his parents comments to me well.
As well as being hugely self congratulatory, this post is more about the way a good story can be universal.
I've been reading, with amusement, the vitriolic comments under the Daily Mail story. People from all across the country commenting on my little story with such passion.
Miss Henshall herself has told me it will help raise awareness to cafe owners and guide dog users so they can discuss this grey area of the law more openly.
Incidentally, the photographs, which made the story, were taken by our Newsquest 'snapper' Seana Hughes. In many ways the photograph enhances the story.
(And it was her idea for a GV of the coffee shop).
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Friday, 5 August 2011
"Dance" A short stoy by James Cox
DANCE
It plays the song, the radio does,
And as it plays she sings along.
She learnt the words when she was young,
The song came on the radio and slammed the breaks on her day.
Her Pavlovian response was to squeeze shut her eyes and smile.
Without consent her body began to sway and her arms extended around the space where he no longer was.
If he were to fall out the sky at that moment, Jim would have slotted perfectly into the gap between her cheek and flattened palms just as he had done all those years ago.
The snare played a sassy shower. A trumpet blew a glassy melody.
She was twenty years old and at the Corn exchange home guard dance.
Jim was a taut 23 year old cutting a fine figure in his de-mob suit, with his thick tanned wrists and perfect nose.
He lead her to the shiny wooden floor with little more than a smile and they stayed there until the MC raised the lights.
When she opened her eyes she was 78, and wearing every year.
She wiped away the swell of a tear.
“You old fool,” she said aloud.
“This is a dedication,” read the announcer, “from Jim to Matilda. He says thanks for the memories and being you, even when I was barely me.”
The music played on and a nasal crooner with a geometric voice began to sing.
For a moment the tune was drowned out by applause as Jim span her into his arms and kissed her.
The claps were from the swathes of well wishers at their wedding, sealing their whirlwind affair after just months of courtship.
The man they hired to sing with the band that day wasn’t quite as good as the guy on the record – she had never cared for singers’ names – but the instruments played just about as close as the recording.
When they slow danced chest to breast, she could hear Jim whispering each word to her.
Each face that swirled into view over his shoulder, the beaming bridesmaid, her teary mother, vanished into insignificance at that moment and she wished she could trade the elation for privacy.
But still he whispered and still they danced, under the parasol of that song.
Matilda caught herself wearing a grin and shook it away.
“Old fool,” she repeated and filled the kettle.
She turned to kill the wireless but caught sight of the cracked, matt photograph on the shelf. The one of her and Jim suspending their boy between them as he shrieked with laughter.
Harry fell asleep much faster when Jim sang to him.
She would listen through the door and would hum along with the melody.
Without that sassy shower of snare and slippery trumpet melody the words were raw and aching.
When Jim’s volume tapered off she knew Harry had fallen asleep and knew it was time to creep off into the front room.
“It’s funny,” she thought looking at that photograph “how something as simple as a song can crop up so often.”
The photo was bleached from years of being on display and the colour had faded, apart from the flash of Harry’s red wellingtons and Jim’s navy suit.
He loved that suit.
He even looked dapper in that stubborn, double breasted suit when they buried him in it.
He laid perfectly still looking calm and grey.
The song played over a poorly amplified sound system and the snare was lost to the sniffles from the chapel.
Harry didn’t blink, not once during the service.
She stood beside Jim and said goodbye, kissed her finger tips lowered them onto his perfect nose.
She mouthed the last few lines of the song and prayed he would do the same. But of course he refused. It was the first time she had cried that he had not come to her.
The song finished and she found herself sitting at the table in her yellow kitchen staring at her thin hands.
She wondered how many times she would hear that song between now and her own death.
“Wasn’t that lovely,” said the announcer “Something nice and breezy to start the show, now for something all together more serious…”
It plays the song, the radio does,
And as it plays she sings along.
She learnt the words when she was young,
The song came on the radio and slammed the breaks on her day.
Her Pavlovian response was to squeeze shut her eyes and smile.
Without consent her body began to sway and her arms extended around the space where he no longer was.
If he were to fall out the sky at that moment, Jim would have slotted perfectly into the gap between her cheek and flattened palms just as he had done all those years ago.
The snare played a sassy shower. A trumpet blew a glassy melody.
She was twenty years old and at the Corn exchange home guard dance.
Jim was a taut 23 year old cutting a fine figure in his de-mob suit, with his thick tanned wrists and perfect nose.
He lead her to the shiny wooden floor with little more than a smile and they stayed there until the MC raised the lights.
When she opened her eyes she was 78, and wearing every year.
She wiped away the swell of a tear.
“You old fool,” she said aloud.
“This is a dedication,” read the announcer, “from Jim to Matilda. He says thanks for the memories and being you, even when I was barely me.”
The music played on and a nasal crooner with a geometric voice began to sing.
For a moment the tune was drowned out by applause as Jim span her into his arms and kissed her.
The claps were from the swathes of well wishers at their wedding, sealing their whirlwind affair after just months of courtship.
The man they hired to sing with the band that day wasn’t quite as good as the guy on the record – she had never cared for singers’ names – but the instruments played just about as close as the recording.
When they slow danced chest to breast, she could hear Jim whispering each word to her.
Each face that swirled into view over his shoulder, the beaming bridesmaid, her teary mother, vanished into insignificance at that moment and she wished she could trade the elation for privacy.
But still he whispered and still they danced, under the parasol of that song.
Matilda caught herself wearing a grin and shook it away.
“Old fool,” she repeated and filled the kettle.
She turned to kill the wireless but caught sight of the cracked, matt photograph on the shelf. The one of her and Jim suspending their boy between them as he shrieked with laughter.
Harry fell asleep much faster when Jim sang to him.
She would listen through the door and would hum along with the melody.
Without that sassy shower of snare and slippery trumpet melody the words were raw and aching.
When Jim’s volume tapered off she knew Harry had fallen asleep and knew it was time to creep off into the front room.
“It’s funny,” she thought looking at that photograph “how something as simple as a song can crop up so often.”
The photo was bleached from years of being on display and the colour had faded, apart from the flash of Harry’s red wellingtons and Jim’s navy suit.
He loved that suit.
He even looked dapper in that stubborn, double breasted suit when they buried him in it.
He laid perfectly still looking calm and grey.
The song played over a poorly amplified sound system and the snare was lost to the sniffles from the chapel.
Harry didn’t blink, not once during the service.
She stood beside Jim and said goodbye, kissed her finger tips lowered them onto his perfect nose.
She mouthed the last few lines of the song and prayed he would do the same. But of course he refused. It was the first time she had cried that he had not come to her.
The song finished and she found herself sitting at the table in her yellow kitchen staring at her thin hands.
She wondered how many times she would hear that song between now and her own death.
“Wasn’t that lovely,” said the announcer “Something nice and breezy to start the show, now for something all together more serious…”
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