The final deranged ramblings of a deputy editor: Make sure your journalist has enough water and sunlight

And, for now, it’ll end my time as one of the strange creatures known as regional journalists.

I’m heading overseas until I run out of money or get bored, (money will probably come first, considering how little journalists are paid) and then I’ll settle down in the big smoke near friends and family, whom I’ve missed for six years.

Maybe I’ll become a monk and take a vow of silence. Maybe I’ll become a mechanic. Maybe I’ll come back to journalism, but gee whizz, it’s a slog sometimes.

Journalists are powered by caffeine, sugar and alcohol, by anxiety and the primal fear of deadlines.

Be kind to your regional journalist next time you see one. Give them a pat on the head or a scratch under the chin, and if you have one in your street, leave out milk and cookies for them.

It’s a job unlike any other.

Whenever I hear sirens, my ears prick up.

Whenever my phone buzzes at 10.50pm, I jump at the thought of it being someone angry about a story, or reaching out with something happening right now, or a colleague needing something — when it’s probably just my mum (hi Mum).

We’re constantly on the clock and constantly on edge, in a world where deadlines are no longer just 6.30pm for tomorrow’s paper; they are always, as soon as something happens.

We’re underpaid and overworked, and spend so much time interacting with people having or reliving the worst days of their lives — sometimes someone you know.

(Nurses and emergency service workers and social workers and teachers and so many people have messier jobs, which would weigh on the soul more. I don’t mean to detract from anyone else who has a rough old time of it.)

In times of crisis during my time at the News we’ve cranked up the live blogs, during coronavirus lockdowns and floods.

I can’t tell you the panic and terror and out-of-body experience that comes with watching Daniel Andrews walk out in a suit instead of a North Face jacket and not just trying to process what his words mean and interpret it for an audience, live, but process what his words mean for you, personally.

The feeling of dread being at a flood information session and looking at the bright blue blob telling you which houses will be underwater and seeing your house very firmly covered by it makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

I’ve done a decent amount of crying at my desk or in the bathroom in my six years in regional media.

For anyone who wonders why my silly, whimsical columns are the way they are, it’s because they’re an attempt to bring the fun into what’s an otherwise brutal profession.

Because so much of what we deal with matters all the time.

Does being a journalist suck? Yeah, kind of. But — despite the whack I’ve just given it — it’s also sometimes the best job in the world.

That’s why we have the pet page every week; not just for you, but because we have so much fun writing the stories.

We get to go to the openings of things, see stuff other people won’t get the chance to, and chat with cool people on the regular.

That’s why we all love making TikToks about Wes Anderson films or basketball or interviewing animals.

That’s why when I have a chance to scream to the three (3) loyal readers of this column (hi Mum, Dad and the subeditor who edited this) about my car not working for the 14th time this month and make silly little jokes about something that doesn’t matter, I do so over the course of 800 words.

And so, as I prepare to drive off into the sunset, wondering why my engine light has suddenly come on for what feels like no reason at all, I ask you, dear reader, to make sure your journalist has enough sunlight and is properly watered.

Make sure they’ve got their snacks and a packed lunch as you send them off into the wide, woolly world.

Make sure you give ’em a little smooch on the head, to fix the boo-boos in their brain.

You have no idea how much it helps.