Curiosity killed the cat…

It turns out I simply cannot be trusted to stick to a daily schedule. Shameful, really. I can manage it with brushing my teeth, even washing most days, but putting something coherent down on a daily basis completely eludes me.

Let’s try weekly, then. I can surely manage that!

I’ve been thinking about journalism for years. If I’d thought about it while I was deciding what to study at eighteen (hah, what a bloody stupid age to decide things like that!) I probably would have gone for it, I think. It’s hard to say from this perspective. It’s all well and good, looking back ten years and saying ‘oh yes, surely I would have done X, if only I had known,’ but that neatly elides the intervening ten years worth of experience which leads you to believe that a completely different career path would be good for you.

I’m thinking about it again, and I can’t stop thinking about it. It crops up all the time, and my brain latches on to it like thoughts of a long lost lover you never got over. I can’t explain it. I think it’s the borderline pathological curiosity and skepticism that keeps me in love with the world. It’s the same force that drives my creative writing, constantly asking ‘what if?’

When I’ve thought about it for a while, I come around to a concern. I worry that my idea of a journalist (truth seeker – balancing the pursuit of what’s true with the need of the public to know and the potential ethical ramifications) is either horribly outdated or simply romanticised. You know, I suspect it is?

More research is required; watch this space. In the meantime, if you want to throw me recommendations for journalists or outlets whose work you like, or good reads about the profession in general, drop me a line.

In completely unrelated news, save that it’s something I’m interested in, it’s the seventieth birthday of the Geneva Conventions. Happy Birthday, Geneva Conventions.

On the 20th of November it’s also the 30th Birthday of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. It was the seventieth birthday of the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights last year, too.

A block buster period for human rights, and according to Amnesty International, there’s still hope for preventing us backsliding. Woo! (Though I’m interested to see what their 2018/2019 Annual Report says.)

It’s just finished hammering down with rain here. The clouds are breaking up and the pastel evening sky is showing underneath. The humidity that stuffed the land like damp cotton wool a moment before has been lifted, and there’s a gentle cool breeze blowing. It’s very nice.

One last thing – if any of you readers are sea swimmers, I have a question. What the heck do you do with your clothes? Car keys? I want to start swimming, nothing major, maybe just half an hour in the bay near me, as a little regular exercise, but I’d have to drive there, and I’d be going on my own. What the hell do I do with my effects while I frolic in the waist high, bone-chilling water? Answers on a postcard, please, (no, but seriously, leave a comment).

… but satisfaction brought it back.

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