On my first national newspaper, The Sunday Times, I was summoned by the late, great Tony Bambridge.
I’d already clocked that Bambridge, a senior executive, was a joy to work with for any writer, that he could craft and hone copy like no other, and he was on the side of the journalist, provided they put the work in. He was holding a print-out of the draft of an article I’d written. “You did law, didn’t you,” he stated. It was true, my degree was in law. I nodded.
“What’s this?” He asked, pointing to his desk. “It’s a desk,” I said. “Well f*****g well say so. Don’t say, ‘it’s got a flat top and four legs, and therefore might be a desk.’ It’s a desk.”
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