If advising your younger self was an option, what would you say? The first problem is obvious. That question assumes you arrived at the Clarity Station after a long journey. Now omniscient, you move back through the train, handing out pithy pamphlets to curious window gazers.
“Enjoy the ride; you only go round once.”
“Trust your gut.”
“Find the funny. It will make the hurt go away.”
My ticket may have been stamped several times, but I have some ways to go.
Misplaced advice could also redirect travellers around the Tunnel of Errors and Mayhem.
Nobody should miss that part of the trip. Ever. Unless you have an allergy to the fun.
On the job, 1990
Do you want to advise your juvenile self at all?
Yesterday, a former TV colleague sent me a documentary about life in a 1980s newsroom. I spent the first half of my adult life in such a place. I was grass green when I began. A decade later, still shades from seasoned, I had nevertheless picked up a few tricks and some wonderful friends.
What you won’t see off-camera is a haven of hijinks.
At the company Christmas bash
I’ll let you figure out who the insufferable sorts were, starting with my younger version, seen at 16:36 in this clip, pretending I don’t have laryngitis. It’s hilarious now.
Hear that chugging? That’s the train. See me waving? I’m still getting off on the view.