The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story by Sophie Morgan Read Free Book Online Page A

Jim, the photographer, was grinning at me.
    ‘You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?’
    I nodded, feeling a bit sheepish and hideously uncool.
    ‘You did a good job. Nice one.’
    I was pretty much floating on air as I got back to the office and prepared what was undoubtedly the most overwritten piece about a harvest festival ever. The news editor nodded at me when I handed it to her.
    ‘That’s fine. Nothing else we need there.’ Later I’d learn that newsrooms weren’t places for effusive praise, buteven a seemingly understated reaction –
fine? Just fine? What about the bit where I got the headmistress to talk about the most unusual thing that the children had brought in for the harvest boxes?
– couldn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I’d written for school and university magazines and papers, but that wasn’t the same. This was. It came through my parents’ front door and everything. I was hooked. I was going to become a journalist. As soon as I figured out exactly how you did that.
    Seven months later I moved out again, permanently. I’d done my research on respected postgrad journalism courses around the country, been horrified at the prices of courses in my immediate vicinity and come to the conclusion that a college around four hours’ drive from my parents was the best option – it was almost a fifth of the price of nearby courses and as such with my savings and a bit of weekend work I’d be more than able to survive while I studied. My parents drove me to my new flat in convoy, with my most treasured belongings literally stuffed into every corner of the cars. They took me to the supermarket once we’d unloaded to buy me shopping to last well into the first term, and my mum insisted on a cafe lunch, seeming genuinely worried I wouldn’t be eating, and – once my dad had checked the security of all the windows and doors, and had a mooch round outside to try and get a look at whether my neighbours looked suitably undodgy – they left me to unpack. I was living on my own for the first time, and I loved it.
    The year flew by. Every week made me more sure I hadchosen the right course of action. I loved the challenge of interviewing people, the creativity of writing and even the more dry elements of the course – law and endless lessons about how councils worked – suddenly seemed fascinating, acting as a key to the door of my potential dream job. Our class had people from all over the county, ranging from those wanting to become broadcast journalists to a guy whose dream job was to be the football correspondent for Tranmere Rovers. We all wanted to be there though, and settled in as a fairly cohesive group, albeit tempered with a kind of friendly competitiveness which made for occasionally hilarious drunken chats about how particular assignments had gone. As suggested by our lecturer, we had all secured as much work experience as possible through the year, in the vague hope that it would lead to paid work as soon as we finished.
    I hit the jackpot. The low-paid, unglamorous jackpot, admittedly, but a jackpot nonetheless. The paper I did most of my work experience at offered me a job. My dad was horrified when I told him what the starting salary was – definitely not a graduate wage, much less a postgraduate wage – but living so far from the city meant I could afford to survive, as long as I didn’t worry too much about luxuries. Like heating. Or going out much. I didn’t care though. I was an actual working journalist, with a byline. One day on the way home I even saw someone on the train reading a page with my name in the middle of it. I was so giddy I nearly missed my stop. I couldn’t have been prouder if I was writing for a national newspaper. Plus restaurant reviews and theatre reviews meant I could stillhave a little taste of luxury every so often, even if because I was the newest I always got lumbered with the knuckle-gnawingly awful am dram.
    The life of a junior reporter is a busy one. I