When your husband is also a reporter
By tying the knot with a fellow reporter next month, who is equally passionate about work as I am; I would be committing myself to journalism for life, and surely for eternity.
This means that arguments and discussions between a husband and wife might entail,
‘I didn’t like your intro!’
‘Why didn’t you add colour to your story’
‘Your question in the press conference was really dumb’.
This implies that the happy moments between a husband and a wife would be basking in the glory of having one’s story printed on the front page of the newspaper, and smiling endlessly to the positive feedback and the dozens of likes and tweets it receives.
Likewise, romantic outings would take a different meaning.
Instead of visiting the cool waters of Sandspit or the snowy hills of Switzerland, we might venture to impoverished areas and meet heartbroken victims for my stories. And for his stories, perhaps, going to the airport and harassing aviation authorities.
This means that spare time at home would be spent watching All the President’s men, instead of Titanic. It also means memorising David Randall’s The Great Reporters and reading three different newspapers with frequent outbursts of
‘Oh I wish I could write like this’.
This means that our circle of friends for life would remain the brave crime reporter, the hardworking obituary reporter, the curious education reporter, the dedicated court reporter and the only female sports reporter.
It also implies that our gossip at dinner tables would be,
‘I was interviewing this social worker and he cussed words at his staff’,
‘You know such-and-such politician called me himself and passed on his number to me’.
This means that a husband’s instructions to a wife would simply be,
‘There is no need to go to Kati Pahari. Do the story over the phone’.
This means that by working at the same newspaper and sitting at a distance of only one metre; lunches, teas and dinners would be together, and so would the trip back home. It also means putting up questions frequently to our colleagues of who is a better reporter.
And this means that in the future, when our children would be old enough to read, they would pick up the newspaper instead of the ABC book. This also means that when my husband and I are in our seventies, we would proudly narrate our reporting tales to our visitors.
It means that we are married to our jobs in more than just the literal sense.
Read more by Rabia here.
The views expressed by the writer and the reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of The Express Tribune.