A Meeting with the Paps!

Since The Magic of Jack was published I have thrown myself into getting my book out there amongst the hundreds of thousands of children’s stories and illustrations. Not having done this before I have followed all the tips and advice from my publishers and whilst I am far from shy, I am admittedly a little uncomfortable in front of a camera lens.
I approached my local newspaper to discuss The Magic of Jack and I was pleasantly surprised that they wanted to run my story. The senior editor and I put a date in the diary for a telephone interview so that she could learn more about me, my book and what was in the pipeline. She also gave me a time and a date for the newspaper’s photographer to visit me at home to take some pictures to accompany the article.
I prepared for the interview by making some notes, some sensible and informative answers to questions I thought I might be asked. The interview went well – the senior editor and I chatted easily about me, my family, the book and my plans for the future. I was a little conscious of the things I was saying, tripping occasionally and using words in the wrong sense but by the end of the interview I had managed to convince myself that I didn’t sound completely amateur and only slightly cheesy. See, I could be an interesting person after all!
The photographer was due the same day as the interview. My house was a tip, I hadn’t prepared the school lunches the night before as I sometimes do and I needed to shower whilst getting all three children up, dressed, fed and out to school. Luckily, my youngest child decided to wee the bed that morning so we were up earlier than usual, stripping bed sheets and soggy pyjamas. From that moment on it was like I was on rocket fuel – washing machine emptied and re-filled with wet bed sheets, little one was sat down with his breakfast whilst I attended to the arduous task of the packed lunches. Ramming the lunchboxes into their school bags I shouted upstairs to the other two to get out of bed and get dressed or they will be late for school, the whole time the dog circled my feet trying desperately to get my attention too.
Having whizzed the hoover round I headed upstairs to choose my outfit for the picture – what do you wear for these things? Wanting to make a good impression, to appear smart yet effortlessly fashionable I opted for a pair of leather trousers and a cream jumper sporting a collar that Holly Willoughby would die for! Jumping out of the shower I now had all three kids buzzing around me washing their faces, brushing their teeth and generally getting in the way. I decided I didn’t have time to do my make-up before the school run so I did my hair and deposited all three children at school bare-faced.
I rushed home and applied my make-up, careful to put a bit more on than I usually would but not so much that I looked like I was going for a night on the town. Happy, I logged on to my laptop and waited for the photographer to arrive. As I looked at the clock for the 27th time my mobile rang. It was the photographer, he was stuck in Shropshire waiting for the second half of a climbing group to arrive and of course there is absolutely no way on earth the group can rearrange another convenient time to all be together for the picture. So, the photographer had to wait for the stragglers and rearranged me for another day. All that rushing, all that preparation and all those practice poses in the mirror for … nothing. Even worse, I had to go through the whole palarva again in a few days time.
The day for take-two arrived, the same outfit, the same carefully applied makeup. I kept glancing at my mobile expecting the photographer to call to postpone again. He did say on the previous occasion that they don’t have to rearrange often but there was something about the way he said it that made me doubt him.
I sat down, I got up again, I looked out of the window a dozen times, I straightened my cushions, I got out copies of my book and I waited. The allocated time came around and a strong knock came at my front door. The camera and lanyard around his neck was a clear giveaway that here was my photographer. As I expected he was older than me and only slightly taller than I am, a green anorak, bright eyes and a kind smile. I began to feel nervous as he made his way into my living room, rearranging my furniture to suit his requirements. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea while I dived into the downstairs loo to check my hair and make-up. He politely declined so I casually strolled back into my living room as if I always appeared this well turned out.
He asked me to perch on the edge of my pouffe, holding a copy of my book up to the right of me whilst looking into the natural light of the conservatory. He told me to smile with added emphasis on ‘smile’, my favourite and most comfortable pose probably looking more of a grimace. He didn’t know I hated showing my teeth when I smiled, particularly while my braces made me look like an oddly placed adolescent. I tried to find some of the poses I had practiced but they escaped me completely. Posing for the camera just doesn’t come naturally to me. To put it into context, I am a woman who on her wedding day pulled a face of shock when the photographer told her to picture her new husband naked when looking at him for the photographs – I am sure he was aiming for more of a sultry smile than a startled amused!
The photoshoot was over as quickly as it started. The photographer flicked through a few photographs on his camera which I forcefully cooed over. I hated them all, every single picture but then again, I knew I would. I hoped the riveting content of the article would detract from the picture of me trying hard to keep my mouth closed, my chin tucked in and my eyebrows raised just enough to defy the position gravity kept pulling them into these days.
As I shut the door behind my first experience with the paps I knew I had to get a bit better at accepting the image in front of me, loving the skin you are in and all that. And just enjoying the experience a bit more. After all, the more pictures I have taken of me, the more my children will have to remember me by – a morbid statement to make but a valid one at that.
The senior editor sent me the article with said dreaded picture and it wasn’t as ghastly as I thought it would be. So who knows, this brace-face may be a regular feature in your local newspaper in future … do look out for me!

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