Monday, March 1

Lately I've been haunted by a recurring dream. Hands up if you've had this one too:

I'm the oldest reporter on '60 Minutes', just barely hanging on to my gig despite my age, with a combination of ruthlessness, exploitation, savagery, botox and hair dye.

Only, somewhere along the way I've become a little senile, and because everyone around me is a toad, a yes-man or a fawning aspirer, nobody has pointed it out to me. And then one day it announces itself as clearly as the nightly news.

The whole 60 Minutes team is recording an updated version of the opening credits, where each reporter sits in closeup, reciting their name. To get the whole team-thing jazz happening, the producer has us all in the same studio at the same time (for the first time that I can remember) and we're sitting in identical chairs, each about 10 feet apart - just far enough apart so that the egos don't collide too often.

"I'm Credible Middleweight", says the first, "I'm Serious Female Reporter", says the second, "I'm Token Sex Appeal", says the third, and then it's my turn. The camera cuts to me, and I'm supposed to say, "And I'm Trustworthy Anchor, and this is '60 Minutes' but my mind is a complete blank. Nobody has thought to autocue this.

"I'm... uhh... I'm... errr... Oh no, who the hell am I?... I'm... no, shutup, it's on the tip of.. oh, for chrissakes, CUT!"

Weird dream, huh?

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