Computers have revolutionised journalism. On quiet afternoons at the end of the week (past deadline!) we sometimes sit in the office while our assistant editor talks about ancient days where telex's ruled the roost and copy had to be read down the phone to copy takers so that it could be laid out individually for production. Where carbon paper was the office equipment of choice and you thought you were in with the modern technology if you had an electric typewriter.

Life is different now. The internet means it's quicker to look up someone's phone number online than tracking down the phone book (which underdoubtedly has been nicked from beside your desk by someone else and never returned). We work on networks where we save copy which the subs can then pick up to lay out on the pages and send winging it's way to our production offices about 100 miles away.

Which is all very clever, until the bloody lot breaks down.

Wednesdays are deadline day for us. Absolute deadline is 1pm. The reporters come in early (from about 7.30am depending on how many stories there are to do) to get their stuff ready, and then our ed and asst. ed do their thing after that. It can be stressful, especially if something big breaks, but generally as a system it works. So, let's look at today.

8am: I get to work. Quick bowl of wheetos (chocolatey sugar rush goodness) and a read of the news websites before I start phoning people to get quotes for my last two stories of this week's edition.

8.20: Other two reporters arrive. First cup of tea.

8.24: A grunt from opposite me as someone finds they can't save their work. 'Is anyone else having trouble saving to the network?'

8.25: I try with the piece I'm working on. My machine crashes. Much headscatching and swearing until...

8.50: Editor arrives. Tries to open a page and can't. First phonecall to Systems (based 30 miles away). Leaves message on answer phone.

9.05: Systems calls back. Ask us to reboot server. More tea.

9.10: Still not working. IT guru talks our editor through changing server ports on the router box mounted high on the wall - so watch him contravene all health and safety by clambering up on desk/chair combo to fiddle with wiring in a Lethal Weapon-esque 'which wire should I sever?' kind of way.

9.18: Admit defeat. We're all told to switch off while they access the system remotely.

9.30: Make cup of tea for something to do.

9.40: Still waiting.

9.55: Eat sausage roll after assistant editor goes on bakery run.

10.10: Editor phones systems to see if he was meant to phone them or if they were going to phone back. No answer, leaves voicemail message.

10.20: More tea.

10.35: Systems phones back. Everyone switch on.

10.45: Nope. False alarm not fixed. Everyone switch off again. People are beginning to look panicky now. More tea.

11.00: We start working on hard drive only. Production alerted we're running late. Another tea.

11.45: Network partially restored. Pages start being done again. Editor asks work experience girl to make tea.

Noon: Man from systems arrives having driven over. Looking harassed already (they must hate us, we're always calling them).

1.30pm: Final pages being checked. Systems man still tinkering. We're late, late late. All the reporters are done for now but have to stay until the paper is finished in case any queries. Stomach rumbling grumpiness all round. Is it time to go home yet?

Have decided in my lunch hour will buy new prescription sunglasses (view from window has been annoying unremittingly cheery and bright) or if not possible then About a Boy on DVD. Or a magazine. Something anyway. Sometimes it has to be done, payday be damned... days like this are what credit cards are made for.

What a way to spend a bank holiday. I am completely skint. As in completely.

Pay day is Friday, and I have completely run out of cash. I paid the (£130 something) council tax bill this month, and was hoping that therefore my SO would owe me some money to tide me over. But no, he produced the bills he'd paid this month, (TV licence, gas and electricity) which means he owes me the princely sum of £7.50.

So I am sat at my PC eating pot noodle I unearthed from the back of the cupboard, which I think one of us must have been given as a freebie at some point. On the plus side, it doesn't appear out of date, but that's because it's so old that the the best before date is partially rubbed off so it says 'Best Before: Ma' on the side. March? May? Sod it, who cares it's probably 2001 anyway, so what's few months between friends?

One of the ironies about my job is that everyone thinks it's brilliantly paid. In fact, a friend of mine sent me a cutting from the News of the World a few months ago which said that the average salary of journalists is £26,000 a year. Now someone out there is getting paid my share of that as I am on less than half of that - and actually damn lucky because I know people who haven't even breached the £10,000 a year marker. And they wonder why journos take up all the freebies going! (although in my case I'm so far down the pecking order I don't get much in the way of decent freebies. Oh well).

Off to have a grump and watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding on DVD. And eat the pot noodle.

Hmm. Am having computer glitchiness which is proving somewhat disturbing. My internet connection has slowed to the cyber equivalent of a bloke with a slab of rock and a chisel and I can't for the life of me figure out why. Am planning to have a tinker in a minute - there seem to be lots of programs running in the background nowadays, many of which I have dodgy sounding names (ptsnoop anyone?!) so I'm going to surf to see which I can safely delete.

Am feeling very hyper - two thirds of the way through a coffee pot and am singing along happily to the soundtrack of the Buffy soundtrack episode, much to the chagrin - I am sure - of my neighbours (except for the deaf old lady next door who misses out).

Went to see Phone Booth yesterday at the cinema as per my sad girl at the flicks on her own fantasies. There is honestly nothing nicer than sitting with a big bucket of popcorn (half sweet, half salt) and some diet coke in the second row of the cinema (not the first or you get neck trouble) central, shoes off and with everyone else about three miles behind you. Huzzah. It was a good film too. Rollicking pace, didn't drag it out (a la Minority Report) and made me happy I'd made the effort (very glad of the KS cameo though, otherwise I would have been disappointed). Was almost tempted to go straight back in to see How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days but decided that might be a step too far. Restraint. It's so rare...!

Hooray for Good Friday. I get to go into work late, there won't be many people around to talk to, and life will be quiet and (hopefully) relatively fun.

The SO has gone away for the weekend, so I am looking forward to having the house to myself and having West Wing DVD watching marathon with some red wine and possibly cheese on toast. With Lea and Perrins. Life is good...

Waiting. To. Go. Home.

Having arrived here at 7.20am I am now awaiting a call from a friend saying they can give me a lift home. It's been a looooong day, thanks mainly to a train strike which means there was one train going into work the whole day (at 7.07am) and one going back (at, er, 9.53pm). Thank god I didn't have to wait for that one.

I used to be very involved in my student union while I was at uni and even joined the student NUJ when I was studying to become a journalist (but not since I joined the paper - they don't like it or recognise it). Lately i have become a bit more (okay, a lot more) apathetic. I went on the big anti war demonstration (and enjoyed a happy evening in a wine bar with my friends afterwards in typical bourgeois style) and I have links with my local anti war group, but apart from that I don't do much now. And I must admit to thinking very uncharitable thoughts about the striking RMT bods when my alarm went off at ridiculous o'clock. Although they are striking for our health and safety (I think). I do think the firefighters deserve more cash though.

My SO is still as radical as when we met at university, in fact he was busy out giving a speech to a socialist meeting last night... while I was at home watching TV and eating yorkshire pudding (it was that kind of a night!). Hence, in fact, the name of this blog - once in an argument he called me a media spiv. Despite the fact that the paper I work for is (a) local and (b) responsible he still thinks at times that we stitch people up to get stories. Which isn't true because (a) you can't crap on your doorstep because if you do you'll never get a second story from someone and (b) this is local news and not as cutthroat as working on a slimy tabloid. And we don't loiter outside people's houses either.

Ok. I have once. But that's it. And it was a special case.

Thursday morning and I feel fine
Thursday morning (even if the date stamp on this baby is wonky - apparently Blogger doesn't support times for people outside of the US, which says something about the insularity of the US too profound for me to put into words before I've had my first cup of tea of the day). Am mooching around the office pretending to do work (mainly by surfing the internet in that special way where you type addresses in really loudly so it sounds like you're typing a story and just thinking a bit between consecutive pars) while waiting for copies of this week's paper to arrive for us to scrutinise.

I had the front page splash this week which was cool (it's been a few weeks and although we're not supposed to care, I defy you to find a reporter who doesn't have a bit more of a spring in their step when their byline is on the front). Our MP was lashing out at local anti-war campaigners and he came out with some really juicy (and surprisingly funny) quotes. He's pretty much a sit on the fence kind of guy and he's not really soundbite man, so it was fun to take what he'd written and play. I love political infighting and process so this was definitely my cup of tea.

Speaking of tea, I'm off to make one - I've mentioned it three times in three pars, and it's definitely on my mind.

Dreams...
Had a bizarre dream last night which shows my joint interests in current affairs and 24. (I borrowed a tape of the episode that would have been on TV if they hadn't been showing golf and it's left me gagging to see the next one!) I was in a taxi when the driver produced a gun and walked me to an open space where lots of people were kneeling down with their hands on their head waiting to be executed, gesturing for me to kneel down too.
I asked the person knelt next to me who the people with guns were.
"Almeida terrorists," he replied.
I know I can be dappy when I'm awake, so my subconsciousness must get confused sometimes, but you'd think it'd know who Al Q'aeda were by now. Just goes to show that whether you think you've a media mind or not, the truth will out in the end!