F RIDAY : Last day at BBC London. A strange umbilical cord
to cut, this one. Do they think I’m a control freak? I only mention, as they have asked what I’d like in my leaving video and who I would like them to take off rota to make it. But this has been my home for the last four years. The place I first exchanged blows with that English rose Bob Crow; the place I elicited the first confession from Tony Blair that he had got anything wrong; the place in which I became so mesmerised by Alistair Darling’s eyebrows that I was rendered too speechless to ask him a follow-up question; the place George Galloway MP has called the home of ‘that Programme in All its Hideousness’. The spiral staircase down which we once manoeuvred a Dalek live on air, the tropical fish tank that always seemed to have a BBC biro floating at the bottom of it (oh please, don’t mention the licence fee). I feel bloody lucky. There has never been a day when it was a drag to come to work here. There is not one person here I would call anything other than a friend. Well, actually, I call them lots of things, but they are mainly friends. But enough of all this rambling. Slightly concerned that they have not bought proper leaving card. Perhaps I should draw up spreadsheet with alphabetical list of names?
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