The Worst Thing About Journalism

The worst thing about journalism is doorstepping. Hands down.

I'm sitting outside the Agriculture Ministry on Paseo Colón, doorstepping an emergency meeting because of the drought that's affecting all the country's crops. It's blisteringly hot, I haven't had lunch and the nearest shop is at least 10 minutes' walk away - and I can't walk off to find food and water in case I miss the important ministers when (if) they come out to speak to the press.

I got the last-minute call an hour or so before lunch time. I'd been day-dreaming about lunch all morning... Sushi and salad at Green Eat... yes, please! Then suddenly, the phone rings and I'm summoned to the Agriculture Ministry to follow this meeting. 

"Shall I buy lunch on my way there?" I think to myself. I ponder. I ponder some more. "Nah, I'll be back in time for a late lunch and it'll be much nicer. And if it goes on for hours, I'll find something over there."

Big. Mistake.

First rule of journalism: Press conferences always start way after they're scheduled to start. It doesn't matter if you're in Argentina, the UK or Kazakhstan. One of the worst moments of my journalistic career was standing in the freezing cold in the middle of a golf course in St. Andrews, Scotland, waiting for then-Prime Minister Gordon Brown to exit the hotel where he'd been at a G-20 leaders' meeting. Were he to come out of the hotel, I was under strict instructions to pounce on him, ask questions and elicit breaking-news answers. Did I have any questions to ask him? Did I hell. And did he come out of the building? Did he hell. I waited there for over an hour and all I got were blue lips, rosy cheeks and freezing-cold mitts.

So I should've known better. At least with Gordongate I was well-fed. No such luck this time. I need a pee and I'm starving hungry. There are about 35 journalists here and I have no clue what I'm doing. Worse, they are all in pairs and can at least do tag-team to buy refreshments. And, very much like Gordongate, I have no questions to ask the minister when he comes out. Oh, and just to add insult to injury, I stubbed my toe on the freaking bank steps yesterday because the security guard was being so uncooperative, and now I'm limping around everywhere. Life sucks...!

In total, I spend five hours at the Agri Ministry. I eventually return to work, utterly ravenous and sun-scorched, with a very minor, very un-breaking-news-like three-line story. So that was worth it then...