sea change

So there I was, sitting in the airport lounge, waiting for my flight, typing up the notes in my head into notes on the screen, and trying to organise them into the vague form that theyll have to take eventually.

Ladeez an Gentlemen, Easy jet flight number EZ864 is delayed by 30 min-yoots. Please remain seated until this flight will be called

The thought-to-screen process was going well, and I kept a separate window open, switching back and forth as I tried to work out which thoughts were for the work thing, and which I might get to keep for myself and – when the time seemed prudent – my little red boat.

I sat back to read over what Id written, and then sat even further back to think a little more. And also to stare out of the window, willing my plane to come. The elderly gentleman next to me coughed.

Excuse me he said but I couldnt help but notice what you were writing- you type very fast, I must say. Are you a journalist?

I looked down at my screen, and quickly ran through the reasons I was there, sitting in an airport lounge, alone, in France, and – the dealbreaker, pretty much – writing about it.

Um I said.

Um, yes?

And silently added

Or at least I think so, maybe. Although not really. But for all intents and purposes, and taking everything as it comes and with recent events taken into account, then Then I think I might be, yes.

Which is odd, because I dont think, in the last few years, I ever intended to become one (though I kind of did when I was 12). And Im still not sure I do, but I cant, at the moment, work out the difference between journalist and writer, and which one I might want to be. I just know Im not the kind of blogger who gets famous for blogging. Which is sad. Because if I could, that was actually what I thought I might like, and

Oh forget it. Apologies. Feel free to mentally pour scorn upon me in a Oh it must be SO HARD to be you. Diddums etc kind of way.

It is a difficult thought to articulate without coming across as an ingrate, a charlatan, a fool and generally a bit of a poohead.

I should have thought that through. Thats what a journalist would have done. Or sounded more confident about what I was saying. Thats what journalists are able to do too. Then I got all shy. And a journalist wouldnt do that. Or maybe I was just quiet because I was hungry, having been too scared to go into a restaurant on my own all weekend. And a journalist would have. Theyre trained for that, you see. So a journalist would have behaved completely differently, in the circumstances.

So over all, really, I dont think I am one, then, in retrospect.

If youre out there, old man: No, sorry. I am a blogger, though. Just not the type that becomes famous.