Untitled Document

a story by 'Brod'

- edited (sharpened, BIG cuts, tweaked.. ruined?) by me... Phil -

▼ Original ▼

FOTO FINISHED

When I joined the BBC's videotape department in the late 70s, I was impressed by the diversity of people the job attracted. It was a department of nearly 200, so there was a good chance of finding someone easy to get along with. I quickly made friends with Colin Dunnyman, an extrovert and conversationalist. We could often be found in the tea room chatting, and frequently laughing - about anything, to the amusement of anyone passing through.

At that time the BBC was considered a safe employer so that once you were in, you stayed, possible until retirement. Being a slacker, I could have stayed had it not been for Colin leaving in spring of '84. His wife landed a top job at the British Consulate in Sydney. I was backpacking around Europe at the time so knew nothing about this until I returned to work. Colin left me a 4-page letter and promised to write regularly. This was before low cost phone calls and skype, but true to his word, every month I received an airmail full of his adventures. The move sounded amazing with low house prices and fantastic weather. Colin quickly got a job at ABC television, the Aussie equivalent of the BBC, and said it was as if he had never moved; they used the same gear as the Beeb and he worked the same shift pattern. He ended his letters: '...you must get out here soon.'.

Until after a couple of months when one of his letters ended differently: 'Sharon', (his wife) he wrote, 'wants you out here for Christmas, and won't take NO for an answer!' Normally I would have shrugged this off, but I was beginning to feel a bit unsettled and was determined this time to do something about it. With annual leave all used, I made a bold decision. Not only did I resign the job, but sold the house too. I was going to see a bit of the Southern Hemisphere with no ties, no commitments, no return ticket. Naturally, virtually everyone tried to talk me out of it, which fuelled my resolve: to disappear with no way of ever being contacted again.

I would be working right up to, and including, Christmas Eve. I had a guaranteed finish time so I could fly out that same evening. I wrote to Colin and explained the plan. He was delighted and said it would work well. A traditional Aussie Christmas day with his family, and I would be landing Boxing day to join him and his wife on Bondi beach for a Christmas barbecue.

The big exit day came and I turned up to work at midday with a large backpack. It was precision-packed with every essential. I also carried a Polaroid camera that I came across during my clear-out that still had several unused shots.

Out of the six area managers, the one for Christmas Eve was Dick Fartcock. Cold, uptight and suspicious of anything I was doing, as if he thought I was going to trip him up, Dick sat firmly bottom of the list of preferred options – a sentiment that was widely shared. Christmas Eve was always quiet with just a handful of staff dubbing tapes for next day’s transmissions. Dick had assigned me, as the only Senior present that shift, to the 'important' copying of the Queen’s Christmas message. This was being worked on in an Edit Suite with a roomful of sharp-suited production staff.

I had nothing to do until they finished the edit, so I reiterated to Dick the importance of me getting an 8.30pm Taxi to Heathrow. He said nothing coherent but grunted ''see what happens'', so I disappeared up the bar for better company. Five colleagues, two of whom had forgotten I was leaving, shared rounds while we chatted about my prospective antipodean adventure. Around 6pm, Dick sidled into the bar and said sternly 'the edit is almost finished'. As expected, there were further delays, but I waited close to the Edit Suite for this ultra-precious ten minutes of pap to emerge for dubbing.

Around 8.20pm I saw Dick walking toward me as the Edit Suite doors opened. The finished tape was thrust my way by one of the exhausted staff who murmured: 'now to get the hell out of here'. Dick, noticing the look of impatience on my face, shouted rudely:

'Just get it started, I’ll switch off the area and return to finish it off. Get it rolling and leave, we are the only ones left in the building now and we all want to go home – not just you.'

Without hesitation, I slammed the tape onto the nearest machine and with a blank on its twin plunged them into dubbing mode. With my coat on, I swung my backpack over one shoulder ready to make a run for it. I then spotted my Polaroid camera on the table with one shot remaining. I held it high above my head and took a picture of my face with the dubbing machines in the background. Pulling the last picture from the camera, I shoved it inside a book I was reading 'A Voyage to Arcturus', then ran for the Taxi, depositing the empty camera in the tea room for anyone who fancied it.

The traffic was non-existent and the Greek driver pleasant company. Heathrow at 9pm was a ghost town so check-in and security were relaxed. As I waited in the gate lounge to board, the thought of Fartcock and his petty rules, along with my whole 10 years at the place, seemed to evaporate. Not having the need to ever return, even to the UK, suddenly put my whole life in perspective. Rather than daunting, the thought felt wildly liberating, exciting, a true peak experience.

The Qantas 747 left on time. Looking down at lights on the South Coast I imagined the family arguments and sozzled uncles I’d miss on Christmas day. The plane was about quarter-full. An hour later at thirty-two thousand feet and cruising quietly, dinner was served. I chose for starter a cheese paté with a half bottle of French red. When finished, everyone around me donned eye masks and went to sleep. I remained wide awake exhilarated at the thought of a new phase in my life. I switched on the overhead reading light, reached into my pocket and fished out the Lindsey book and that photo. Less that 4 hours had elapsed, but already it felt like a lifetime ago. I stared at the picture depicting my stressed look in the foreground, brightly lit by the flash, and the two machines dubbing the Queen’s message behind. Then my concentration narrowed and I felt myself go rigid. The photo showed the edited tape on one machine and the blank tape on the other, yet the machine in record was not the one with the blank. I wondered briefly if it was a trick of the light. But no, the record button was clearly glowing red on the wrong machine. In my haste to get things rolling and leave for the Taxi, I had pressed record on the machine with the edited tape. Rather than dubbing what had taken ten hours of hard editing, I was wiping it - the Queen's speech for that year was being erased. Fartcock would have easily taken 10 minutes to turn off the various areas, then retuned to find two blank tapes and nothing to transmit at 3pm tomorrow.

Suddenly my focus switched. Struck by the humour of it, I relaxed and began to laugh. Anyone looking at me after that might have wondered about me with my permanent grin. But I could only think of how, in 20-hours or so, Colin would laugh himself sick - and probably see it as an omen for Aussie turning Republican!

--------------- // ---------------

Original version (as received)

Photo Finished

When I joined the BBC's videotape department in the late 70s, I was very impressed by the diverse and interesting people the job appeared to attract. It was a large department of nearly 200 staff, so there was an excellent chance that any 'misfit' could find someone they could get along with. I quickly hit it off with Colin Dunstan, an amicable extrovert who was a fascinating conversationalist.
We could often be found nursing a brew in the tea room chatting, and frequently in laughing fits, about anything from central heating efficiency calculations to the effect of removing ones Amygdala – often to the ammusement of anyone passing through.

At that time the BBC was considered to be a very safe employer so the expectation was that once you were in, you stayed, possible until retirement. Being a reliable slacker, I could have easily stayed put had it not been for Colin unexpecibly leaving during spring of '84. His wife landed a top job at the British Consulate in Sydney and they had to move out there just one week later. I was backpacking around Europe at the time so knew nothing about this until I returned to work. I must admit to feeling fairly dissapointed not to have him around, but at the same time really hoped he made the best of it. Colin left me a 4-page appologetic letter in my pigion hole and promised to regulay write to me. This, of course, was in the years before low cost telephone calls, but true to his word, every month I recevied an airmail full of his adventures. The move out there did sound amazing with really low house prices and fantastic weather. Colin quickly landed a job at ABC television, their equvilent of the BBC, and he said it was as if he had never moved as they used all the same gear the beeb used and ran a carbon copy shift pattern. He always ended his letters with 'you must get out here soon'.

While I was away on my backpacking adventures, the managers had made a dicision to promote me to a 'senior' – a slighly higher pay grade with minor additional resposibities. I would be more involved with training new recruits and also working on what was considerd 'important' programmes. Effectively no change, but it was a show of trust in my attitude to the job and I certainly wasn't going to refuse a finantial increment. I had been in the new postion for a couple of months when another one of Colin's letters arrivived. This letter ended with 'Sharon', his wife, 'want's you out here for Christmas, and she won't take NO for an answer!' Normally I would have laughed this off but this time I did feel a rousing detemination to do something about it. I had foolishly used up my 6 weeks annual leave quota on the backpacking trip in May, so made an extrodinarly bold decision to resign!. Not only did I intend to resign from work, I would sell my house and see a bit of the Southen Hemisphere with absolutly no ties or commitments whatsoever. Natually, virtually everyone possible made the most monumental fuss, tried to talk me out of it and make me 'see sense', but this only helped to fuel my resolve. The more they pushed their arument the more excited I became at the thought of dissappearing with no way of ever being contacted again.

After countless discussions with BBC personal, an exit date was eventually set. I would be working right up to, and including, Christmas eve. I insisted on a guaranteed finish time so I could fly out that same evening. Quantas offered blinding deals on flights Christmas eve as it was the quietest day of the year. I had secured a business class one way seat for £196, which in 1984 was an unbelievable deal. I wrote and explained the plan to Colin, who was delighted and said it would work out really well. He would have Christmas day with his extended family in a traditional English way, and I would be landing Boxing day for a delayed Christmas day barbecue spent with himself and his wife on Bondi beach.

Once the plan was set in motion, I swung my whole weight behind selling the house and whittling down my possessions. The house was no problem as it was a buoyant market in my area, but the years of accumulated junk required an aggressive approach. Shedding as much nostalgic sentimentality as possible, I dumped huge amounts either in the local tip or a variety of charity shops. Some of the more precious items I gave to reliable friends on a sort of permanent loan understanding. Should I return in the future and have some requirement for them, they would willingly return them back to me. After six or so weeks, I eventually ended up living entirely with clothing and possessions that could fit into just two bin liners.

The big exit day came far sooner than expected, but fortunately I had been fully focused for a couple of months and I certainly didn't require any more time. I turned up to work at midday with a large backpack for the flight – precision packed, after meticulous planning, with every essential necessary. I also carried a Polaroid camera that I came across during my clear-out that still had 8 unused shots remaining. I was not a fan of Polaroid's but I decided to use up the photos at work, take them along for Colin and dump the camera in the tea room for someone else to make use of.

To my big disappointment, I discovered the area manager for Christmas eve was Dick Bartock. Out of the 6 area managers, who dished out the work and decided when you went home, Dick would have sat firmly bottom of my preferred list for my last time at work. I had always found him decidedly cold, uptight and suspicious of anything I was doing, for no reason whatsoever. It was as if he believed I was going to trip him up, the only comfort was that I knew that other work colleagues shared my character assessment. Christmas eve was always going to be a quiet day with a handful of staff dubbing tapes for tomorrows transmissions. Dick had assigned me, as the only Senior in that day, to the apparently 'deadly important' role of copying the Queens Christmas message. This was presently being worked on in a Edit Suite with a roomful of sharp-suited production, all sticking there ore in and probably making the editors life a misery.

I had absolutely nothing to do until they had finished the edit several hours later, so I reiterated to Dick the importance of me getting an 8.30pm Taxi to Heathrow. He said nothing coherent but grunted an unhelpful ''see what happens'', so I disappeared up the bar to see if I could find better company. I found around five decent colleagues, two of which had forgotten I was leaving, so rounds of drinks were hurriedly purchased as we chatted about the plans for my Antipodean adventure. None of us had that much to do and the time flew by with a few drinks inside us. Around 6pm, Dick sidled into the bar and said sternly that he thought 'things were happening' and that we should 'make our way back'. As expected, nothing was happening, but I waited close to the Edit Suite for this jewel of a ten minute programme to emerge, ready for dubbing. Several coffee's later, and with my drinking colleagues long gone, the Edit Suite was still working but I had made use of my time by taking a few Polaroid snaps of the area to remember it by.

Around 8.20pm I was starting to get a decidedly twitchy and I saw Dick walking toward my direction just as the Edit Suite doors burst open. The precious finished tape was thrust his way and the exhausted staff tumbled out with cries of 'lets get the hell out of here and home'. Dick directly presented the tape to me and noticing the angry look of despair on my face, shouted rudely:

''Just get this started, I will walk around and switch off the area and return to finish it off for you. Get it rolling and leave, we are the only ones left in the building now and we all want to go home – not just you.''

Before I had any time to protest, he whisked himself away to start his switch-off procedure as I stood there with this Royal tape in my hands. Without hesitation, I slammed it onto the nearest video machine and with a blank tape on the other machine plunged them into dubbing mode. With my coat already on, I swung my hefty backpack over one shoulder to make a run for it. I then spotted my Polaroid camera on the table with one last shot still remaining, so without much planning, I held it high above my head and took a picture of my face with the dubbing machines clearly in the background. Pulling the last picture from the camera, I shoved it inside the copy of 'A Voyage to Arcturus' I was reading, put the book in my inside pocket and ran for the Taxi, depositing the empty camera in the tea room on the way out.

The traffic was non-existent and the Greek driver pleasant enough company. Heathrow at 9pm was like a ghost town so check-in and security were all in professionally relaxed moods. As I waited in the gate lounge to board, the thought of that prat Barton and his petty rules, along with my whole 10 years at that place seemed to evaporate away. Not having the need to ever return to the BBC, or even the UK for that matter, suddenly put my whole existence in perspective. Rather than a daunting thought it was wildly exciting, liberating, a true peak experience.

The Quantas 747 left slightly early and in the calm, cold night sky flew as smooth as silk. Looking down at the lights of the South Coast my mind imagined the countless family arguments and sozzled uncles that would emerge on Christmas day. I settled back into my large reclining leather seat and tucked into the cheese plate and half bottle of French red that I had chosen as my meal starter. About an hour later we were at thirty two thousand feet and the quarter-full plane was quiet as a mouse. Everyone had finished their evening meal, donned their complimentary eye masks and dropped off to sleep. I was wide awake from sheer exhilaration at the thought of a new phase in my life. I switched on my overhead reading light, reached into my coat pocket and fished out my Lindsey book. I thumbed the pages and came across that last Polaroid photo. It was taken less that 4 hours ago – but already it felt like another lifetime. I stared at the picture depicting my stressed face in the foreground, brightly lit by the flash, and the two machines dubbing the Queens message behind. Suddenly my concentration narrowed and I felt myself getting wildly hot. I could clearly see in the photo the edited tape on one machine and the blank tape on another, yet the machine in record was not the blank tape but the edited one! I wondered if it was a trick of the light but no, the record button was clearly glowing red on the wrong machine. Rather than dubbing the tape, that had taken ten hours of hard editing work to a new tape, I was wiping the whole Queens speech for that year. In my haste to get things rolling and leave for the Taxi, I must have just pressed record on the wrong machine. Barton would have easily taken 10 minutes to turn off the various areas, then retuned to find two completely blank tapes and nothing to transmit at 3pm tomorrow.

	a story by 'Brod' - edited (sharpened, BIG cuts, tweaked.. ruined?) by me... Phil -
▼ Original ▼	FOTO FINISHED
	When I joined the BBC's videotape department in the late 70s, I was impressed by the diversity of people the job attracted. It was a department of nearly 200, so there was a good chance of finding someone easy to get along with. I quickly made friends with Colin Dunnyman, an extrovert and conversationalist. We could often be found in the tea room chatting, and frequently laughing - about anything, to the amusement of anyone passing through. At that time the BBC was considered a safe employer so that once you were in, you stayed, possible until retirement. Being a slacker, I could have stayed had it not been for Colin leaving in spring of '84. His wife landed a top job at the British Consulate in Sydney. I was backpacking around Europe at the time so knew nothing about this until I returned to work. Colin left me a 4-page letter and promised to write regularly. This was before low cost phone calls and skype, but true to his word, every month I received an airmail full of his adventures. The move sounded amazing with low house prices and fantastic weather. Colin quickly got a job at ABC television, the Aussie equivalent of the BBC, and said it was as if he had never moved; they used the same gear as the Beeb and he worked the same shift pattern. He ended his letters: '...you must get out here soon.'. Until after a couple of months when one of his letters ended differently: 'Sharon', (his wife) he wrote, 'wants you out here for Christmas, and won't take NO for an answer!' Normally I would have shrugged this off, but I was beginning to feel a bit unsettled and was determined this time to do something about it. With annual leave all used, I made a bold decision. Not only did I resign the job, but sold the house too. I was going to see a bit of the Southern Hemisphere with no ties, no commitments, no return ticket. Naturally, virtually everyone tried to talk me out of it, which fuelled my resolve: to disappear with no way of ever being contacted again. I would be working right up to, and including, Christmas Eve. I had a guaranteed finish time so I could fly out that same evening. I wrote to Colin and explained the plan. He was delighted and said it would work well. A traditional Aussie Christmas day with his family, and I would be landing Boxing day to join him and his wife on Bondi beach for a Christmas barbecue. The big exit day came and I turned up to work at midday with a large backpack. It was precision-packed with every essential. I also carried a Polaroid camera that I came across during my clear-out that still had several unused shots. Out of the six area managers, the one for Christmas Eve was Dick Fartcock. Cold, uptight and suspicious of anything I was doing, as if he thought I was going to trip him up, Dick sat firmly bottom of the list of preferred options – a sentiment that was widely shared. Christmas Eve was always quiet with just a handful of staff dubbing tapes for next day’s transmissions. Dick had assigned me, as the only Senior present that shift, to the 'important' copying of the Queen’s Christmas message. This was being worked on in an Edit Suite with a roomful of sharp-suited production staff. I had nothing to do until they finished the edit, so I reiterated to Dick the importance of me getting an 8.30pm Taxi to Heathrow. He said nothing coherent but grunted ''see what happens'', so I disappeared up the bar for better company. Five colleagues, two of whom had forgotten I was leaving, shared rounds while we chatted about my prospective antipodean adventure. Around 6pm, Dick sidled into the bar and said sternly 'the edit is almost finished'. As expected, there were further delays, but I waited close to the Edit Suite for this ultra-precious ten minutes of pap to emerge for dubbing. Around 8.20pm I saw Dick walking toward me as the Edit Suite doors opened. The finished tape was thrust my way by one of the exhausted staff who murmured: 'now to get the hell out of here'. Dick, noticing the look of impatience on my face, shouted rudely: 'Just get it started, I’ll switch off the area and return to finish it off. Get it rolling and leave, we are the only ones left in the building now and we all want to go home – not just you.' Without hesitation, I slammed the tape onto the nearest machine and with a blank on its twin plunged them into dubbing mode. With my coat on, I swung my backpack over one shoulder ready to make a run for it. I then spotted my Polaroid camera on the table with one shot remaining. I held it high above my head and took a picture of my face with the dubbing machines in the background. Pulling the last picture from the camera, I shoved it inside a book I was reading 'A Voyage to Arcturus', then ran for the Taxi, depositing the empty camera in the tea room for anyone who fancied it. The traffic was non-existent and the Greek driver pleasant company. Heathrow at 9pm was a ghost town so check-in and security were relaxed. As I waited in the gate lounge to board, the thought of Fartcock and his petty rules, along with my whole 10 years at the place, seemed to evaporate. Not having the need to ever return, even to the UK, suddenly put my whole life in perspective. Rather than daunting, the thought felt wildly liberating, exciting, a true peak experience. The Qantas 747 left on time. Looking down at lights on the South Coast I imagined the family arguments and sozzled uncles I’d miss on Christmas day. The plane was about quarter-full. An hour later at thirty-two thousand feet and cruising quietly, dinner was served. I chose for starter a cheese paté with a half bottle of French red. When finished, everyone around me donned eye masks and went to sleep. I remained wide awake exhilarated at the thought of a new phase in my life. I switched on the overhead reading light, reached into my pocket and fished out the Lindsey book and that photo. Less that 4 hours had elapsed, but already it felt like a lifetime ago. I stared at the picture depicting my stressed look in the foreground, brightly lit by the flash, and the two machines dubbing the Queen’s message behind. Then my concentration narrowed and I felt myself go rigid. The photo showed the edited tape on one machine and the blank tape on the other, yet the machine in record was not the one with the blank. I wondered briefly if it was a trick of the light. But no, the record button was clearly glowing red on the wrong machine. In my haste to get things rolling and leave for the Taxi, I had pressed record on the machine with the edited tape. Rather than dubbing what had taken ten hours of hard editing, I was wiping it - the Queen's speech for that year was being erased. Fartcock would have easily taken 10 minutes to turn off the various areas, then retuned to find two blank tapes and nothing to transmit at 3pm tomorrow. Suddenly my focus switched. Struck by the humour of it, I relaxed and began to laugh. Anyone looking at me after that might have wondered about me with my permanent grin. But I could only think of how, in 20-hours or so, Colin would laugh himself sick - and probably see it as an omen for Aussie turning Republican! --------------- // ---------------


	Original version (as received)
	Photo Finished When I joined the BBC's videotape department in the late 70s, I was very impressed by the diverse and interesting people the job appeared to attract. It was a large department of nearly 200 staff, so there was an excellent chance that any 'misfit' could find someone they could get along with. I quickly hit it off with Colin Dunstan, an amicable extrovert who was a fascinating conversationalist. We could often be found nursing a brew in the tea room chatting, and frequently in laughing fits, about anything from central heating efficiency calculations to the effect of removing ones Amygdala – often to the ammusement of anyone passing through. At that time the BBC was considered to be a very safe employer so the expectation was that once you were in, you stayed, possible until retirement. Being a reliable slacker, I could have easily stayed put had it not been for Colin unexpecibly leaving during spring of '84. His wife landed a top job at the British Consulate in Sydney and they had to move out there just one week later. I was backpacking around Europe at the time so knew nothing about this until I returned to work. I must admit to feeling fairly dissapointed not to have him around, but at the same time really hoped he made the best of it. Colin left me a 4-page appologetic letter in my pigion hole and promised to regulay write to me. This, of course, was in the years before low cost telephone calls, but true to his word, every month I recevied an airmail full of his adventures. The move out there did sound amazing with really low house prices and fantastic weather. Colin quickly landed a job at ABC television, their equvilent of the BBC, and he said it was as if he had never moved as they used all the same gear the beeb used and ran a carbon copy shift pattern. He always ended his letters with 'you must get out here soon'. While I was away on my backpacking adventures, the managers had made a dicision to promote me to a 'senior' – a slighly higher pay grade with minor additional resposibities. I would be more involved with training new recruits and also working on what was considerd 'important' programmes. Effectively no change, but it was a show of trust in my attitude to the job and I certainly wasn't going to refuse a finantial increment. I had been in the new postion for a couple of months when another one of Colin's letters arrivived. This letter ended with 'Sharon', his wife, 'want's you out here for Christmas, and she won't take NO for an answer!' Normally I would have laughed this off but this time I did feel a rousing detemination to do something about it. I had foolishly used up my 6 weeks annual leave quota on the backpacking trip in May, so made an extrodinarly bold decision to resign!. Not only did I intend to resign from work, I would sell my house and see a bit of the Southen Hemisphere with absolutly no ties or commitments whatsoever. Natually, virtually everyone possible made the most monumental fuss, tried to talk me out of it and make me 'see sense', but this only helped to fuel my resolve. The more they pushed their arument the more excited I became at the thought of dissappearing with no way of ever being contacted again. After countless discussions with BBC personal, an exit date was eventually set. I would be working right up to, and including, Christmas eve. I insisted on a guaranteed finish time so I could fly out that same evening. Quantas offered blinding deals on flights Christmas eve as it was the quietest day of the year. I had secured a business class one way seat for £196, which in 1984 was an unbelievable deal. I wrote and explained the plan to Colin, who was delighted and said it would work out really well. He would have Christmas day with his extended family in a traditional English way, and I would be landing Boxing day for a delayed Christmas day barbecue spent with himself and his wife on Bondi beach. Once the plan was set in motion, I swung my whole weight behind selling the house and whittling down my possessions. The house was no problem as it was a buoyant market in my area, but the years of accumulated junk required an aggressive approach. Shedding as much nostalgic sentimentality as possible, I dumped huge amounts either in the local tip or a variety of charity shops. Some of the more precious items I gave to reliable friends on a sort of permanent loan understanding. Should I return in the future and have some requirement for them, they would willingly return them back to me. After six or so weeks, I eventually ended up living entirely with clothing and possessions that could fit into just two bin liners. The big exit day came far sooner than expected, but fortunately I had been fully focused for a couple of months and I certainly didn't require any more time. I turned up to work at midday with a large backpack for the flight – precision packed, after meticulous planning, with every essential necessary. I also carried a Polaroid camera that I came across during my clear-out that still had 8 unused shots remaining. I was not a fan of Polaroid's but I decided to use up the photos at work, take them along for Colin and dump the camera in the tea room for someone else to make use of. To my big disappointment, I discovered the area manager for Christmas eve was Dick Bartock. Out of the 6 area managers, who dished out the work and decided when you went home, Dick would have sat firmly bottom of my preferred list for my last time at work. I had always found him decidedly cold, uptight and suspicious of anything I was doing, for no reason whatsoever. It was as if he believed I was going to trip him up, the only comfort was that I knew that other work colleagues shared my character assessment. Christmas eve was always going to be a quiet day with a handful of staff dubbing tapes for tomorrows transmissions. Dick had assigned me, as the only Senior in that day, to the apparently 'deadly important' role of copying the Queens Christmas message. This was presently being worked on in a Edit Suite with a roomful of sharp-suited production, all sticking there ore in and probably making the editors life a misery. I had absolutely nothing to do until they had finished the edit several hours later, so I reiterated to Dick the importance of me getting an 8.30pm Taxi to Heathrow. He said nothing coherent but grunted an unhelpful ''see what happens'', so I disappeared up the bar to see if I could find better company. I found around five decent colleagues, two of which had forgotten I was leaving, so rounds of drinks were hurriedly purchased as we chatted about the plans for my Antipodean adventure. None of us had that much to do and the time flew by with a few drinks inside us. Around 6pm, Dick sidled into the bar and said sternly that he thought 'things were happening' and that we should 'make our way back'. As expected, nothing was happening, but I waited close to the Edit Suite for this jewel of a ten minute programme to emerge, ready for dubbing. Several coffee's later, and with my drinking colleagues long gone, the Edit Suite was still working but I had made use of my time by taking a few Polaroid snaps of the area to remember it by. Around 8.20pm I was starting to get a decidedly twitchy and I saw Dick walking toward my direction just as the Edit Suite doors burst open. The precious finished tape was thrust his way and the exhausted staff tumbled out with cries of 'lets get the hell out of here and home'. Dick directly presented the tape to me and noticing the angry look of despair on my face, shouted rudely: ''Just get this started, I will walk around and switch off the area and return to finish it off for you. Get it rolling and leave, we are the only ones left in the building now and we all want to go home – not just you.'' Before I had any time to protest, he whisked himself away to start his switch-off procedure as I stood there with this Royal tape in my hands. Without hesitation, I slammed it onto the nearest video machine and with a blank tape on the other machine plunged them into dubbing mode. With my coat already on, I swung my hefty backpack over one shoulder to make a run for it. I then spotted my Polaroid camera on the table with one last shot still remaining, so without much planning, I held it high above my head and took a picture of my face with the dubbing machines clearly in the background. Pulling the last picture from the camera, I shoved it inside the copy of 'A Voyage to Arcturus' I was reading, put the book in my inside pocket and ran for the Taxi, depositing the empty camera in the tea room on the way out. The traffic was non-existent and the Greek driver pleasant enough company. Heathrow at 9pm was like a ghost town so check-in and security were all in professionally relaxed moods. As I waited in the gate lounge to board, the thought of that prat Barton and his petty rules, along with my whole 10 years at that place seemed to evaporate away. Not having the need to ever return to the BBC, or even the UK for that matter, suddenly put my whole existence in perspective. Rather than a daunting thought it was wildly exciting, liberating, a true peak experience. The Quantas 747 left slightly early and in the calm, cold night sky flew as smooth as silk. Looking down at the lights of the South Coast my mind imagined the countless family arguments and sozzled uncles that would emerge on Christmas day. I settled back into my large reclining leather seat and tucked into the cheese plate and half bottle of French red that I had chosen as my meal starter. About an hour later we were at thirty two thousand feet and the quarter-full plane was quiet as a mouse. Everyone had finished their evening meal, donned their complimentary eye masks and dropped off to sleep. I was wide awake from sheer exhilaration at the thought of a new phase in my life. I switched on my overhead reading light, reached into my coat pocket and fished out my Lindsey book. I thumbed the pages and came across that last Polaroid photo. It was taken less that 4 hours ago – but already it felt like another lifetime. I stared at the picture depicting my stressed face in the foreground, brightly lit by the flash, and the two machines dubbing the Queens message behind. Suddenly my concentration narrowed and I felt myself getting wildly hot. I could clearly see in the photo the edited tape on one machine and the blank tape on another, yet the machine in record was not the blank tape but the edited one! I wondered if it was a trick of the light but no, the record button was clearly glowing red on the wrong machine. Rather than dubbing the tape, that had taken ten hours of hard editing work to a new tape, I was wiping the whole Queens speech for that year. In my haste to get things rolling and leave for the Taxi, I must have just pressed record on the wrong machine. Barton would have easily taken 10 minutes to turn off the various areas, then retuned to find two completely blank tapes and nothing to transmit at 3pm tomorrow.