Deathknock
My shames have to do with working for Sunday tabloids, something I no longer do because I have a conscience.

I was once asked to doorstep an academic because he was a pre-op transsexual. Trust me: this was not going to be a touchy-feely, beard-tugging Guardianista effort about respecting other lifestyle choices. After many hours hanging about I deliberately fecked up the story because intruding on this person's life made me feel nasty.

I interviewed a crying mother by the grave of her son.

Then there was the time I did a very difficult "deathknock" (doostepping the relatives of someone who has died) of the family of a bus driver killed by his own bus. The son, a very very upset kid, went from threatening to whack me to giving me the only picture he had of his Dad. I swore I'd send it back to him.

The stupid cnuts in the mailroom only went and lost it - the only pic this poor kid had of his dad.

I'm feeling sick with guilt even as I type this.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Thu 24 Nov 2005, 18:14, Reply)