THE NEXT MORNING, I wake at six o’clock. It’s pathetic, I know, but I’m as excited as a little kid
On Christmas Day (or as me on Christmas Day, to be perfectly honest).
I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown-up and laid-back and not think about it – but I just can’t resist it.
My mind swims with images of the piles of newspapers in newsstands all over the country. Of the copies
Of The Daily World being dropped on people’s doormats this morning; all the people who are going to
Be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what’s in the news.
And what are they going to see?
They’re going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print in The Daily World! My first national
Byline: “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” Doesn’t that sound cool? “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”
I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the
was really pleased with it. And they’ve got it on a color page – so the picture of Janice and Martin
Will be in full color. Really high profile. I can’t quite believe it. The Daily World!
Even as I’m lying here, it occurs to me, there’s already a wholepile of Daily World s at the newsstand in
The parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine, unopened copies. And the newsstand
Opens at. . . what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it’s five past six. So in theory, I could go
And buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the
Newsstand, and buy one.
Not that I would, of course. I’m not quite so sad and desper-ate that I’m going to rush down as soon as
The shop’s opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I’ll do is just
Saunter down casually later on – perhaps at eleven or midday – pick up the paper and flip through it in
Mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won’t even bother to buy a copy. I mean – I’ve
Seen my name in print before. It’s hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.
I’m going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can’t think why I’m awake so early. Must be the
Birds or something. Hmm. . . close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about some-thing else. . . I
Wonder what I’ll have for breakfast when I get up?
But I’ve never seen my name in The Daily World, says a little voice in my head. I’ve never seen it in a
This is killing me. I can’t wait any longer, I’ve got to see it.
Abruptly I get out of bed, throw on my clothes, and tiptoe down the stairs. As I close the door, I feel
Just like the girl in that Beatles song about leaving home. Outside the air has a sweet, new-day smell, and
The road is completely quiet. Gosh, it’s nice being up early. Why on earth don’t I get up at six more
Often? I should do this every day. A power walk before breakfast, like people do in New York. Burn off
Loads of calories and then return home to an energizing breakfast of oats and freshly squeezed orange
Juice. Perfect. This will be my new regime.
But as I reach the little parade of shops I feel a stab of nerves, and without quite meaning to, I slow my
Walk to a funereal pace. Maybe I’ll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if
They’ve got them.
Cautiously, I push at the door and wince at the ping! as it opens. I really don’t want to draw attention to
Myself this morn-ing. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it’s rubbish? This