I had a brief stint as 'People's Journalist' for the West Sussex

Host: The pub was half-empty, its lights low and honey-colored. Outside, rain tapped against the windows, tracing rivers across the glass. The faint hum of conversation drifted through the air — the sound of lives casually unfolding in the background. The fireplace crackled in one corner, throwing shadows across the worn wooden floor.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat at a small corner table, two half-empty pints between them. The ashtray was full, the kind of clutter that comes not from haste, but from stories shared too long. Jack was leaning back, the glint of ironic amusement in his grey eyes, while Jeeny, notebook open, tapped her pen against the page with restless rhythm.

Host: On the napkin between them, written in blue ink, was the quote that had started this strange, nostalgic conversation:
“I had a brief stint as 'People's Journalist' for the West Sussex Gazette; I'd do golden-wedding anniversaries and pet deaths. I was always looking for an angle; it wasn't great.” — Alex Horne.

Jeeny: “You know, I kind of love that quote,” she said, smiling into her glass. “There’s something sweet about it — like failure told with fondness.”

Jack: “Sweet? It’s tragic,” he said. “A man chasing meaning through obituaries and dead goldfish. That’s not endearing — that’s existential comedy.”

Jeeny: “It’s humanity, Jack. Small lives, small moments — that’s where truth hides. Those golden anniversaries and pet deaths, they’re the heartbeat of the ordinary.”

Jack: “The ordinary doesn’t sell papers.”

Jeeny: “No, but it writes them.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a spark spiraling upward. The light caught Jeeny’s face — soft, curious, alive with that kind of empathy Jack still hadn’t decided if he admired or envied.

Jack: “You know what I remember about small-town journalism?” he said, swirling his drink. “Everyone wanted a story, but no one wanted honesty. You’d write about their cat dying, and they’d complain you didn’t make it sound heroic enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because people don’t want the truth — they want meaning.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. Truth tells you what happened. Meaning tells you why it mattered.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping low.

Jack: “You think pet obituaries and wedding anniversaries matter?”

Jeeny: “To the people living them, yes. And isn’t that what journalism’s supposed to be? Not about scale, but sincerity?”

Jack: “You sound like a Hallmark card.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who forgot why he started writing.”

Host: He smiled then, the kind of half-smile that carries both amusement and regret.

Jack: “Maybe I did. I used to think every story had to expose something — corruption, hypocrisy, injustice. But you know what I learned?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Most people just want to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windows like applause for their reluctant epiphany.

Jeeny: “That’s what Horne was getting at. He wasn’t mocking it — he was confessing. There’s something humbling about realizing your job is to honor the lives no one else will write about.”

Jack: “Or depressing.”

Jeeny: “Depends on whether you see yourself as a cynic or a witness.”

Jack: “I’m a realist.”

Jeeny: “You’re a romantic in denial.”

Host: He laughed, taking a sip of beer. “You always think you see through me.”

Jeeny: “No, I just see you. The same man who used to scribble notes in train stations, chasing stories that never made the front page — the ones that were too quiet, too human.”

Jack: “You make mediocrity sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not mediocrity. It’s intimacy. Someone has to write the small truths — the kind that don’t make headlines but build worlds.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming the edge of the table.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange that is? That a cat dying or an anniversary can mean as much to someone as the fall of a government?”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange. That’s proportion. Our hearts don’t measure importance by global scale. They measure it by love.”

Jack: “So love is journalism now?”

Jeeny: “In its purest form, yes. Every obituary, every tribute, every little column about a neighbor’s 50th anniversary — that’s love documented. Maybe not elegantly, but earnestly.”

Host: The bartender turned the volume down on the television. The pub quieted. Somewhere, a man in the corner began tuning a guitar. The moment stretched — fragile, reflective.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a pause, “when I was twenty-two, I covered a retirement party for a teacher. Fifty years in the same school. I thought it was pointless — filler material. But when she walked out, the entire town showed up. Kids she’d taught decades apart. People crying, hugging. It hit me then. I wasn’t reporting a story — I was recording gratitude.”

Jeeny: “And did you write it that way?”

Jack: “No. I turned it into a headline about budget cuts in education.”

Jeeny: “Of course you did.”

Jack: “It was the only way the editor would print it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you should’ve quit sooner.”

Jack: “Maybe I should’ve believed it mattered sooner.”

Host: The rain softened. A quiet melody began to drift from the corner — slow guitar, a song about love and leaving. Jeeny closed her notebook, the conversation settling into a silence that didn’t need words.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe the best stories aren’t the ones that change the world. Maybe they’re the ones that remind us it’s still turning.”

Jack: “You mean the ones no one notices?”

Jeeny: “No. The ones everyone feels but no one writes down.”

Host: He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the flickering firelight.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Horne meant. That the stories he thought were meaningless were actually the ones teaching him how to see.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every pet death, every golden anniversary — they weren’t failures. They were apprenticeships in empathy.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — two people surrounded by quiet light, framed by rain and laughter and the faint music of memory.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny,” he said softly, “if I ever start writing again, I think I’ll start with the small things.”

Jeeny: “Start with the true things. The rest will follow.”

Host: The fire cracked softly. Outside, the storm eased into a gentle drizzle — the kind of ending that feels like forgiveness.

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, catching the reflections in the rain-streaked window: two figures still talking long after the world stopped listening, two storytellers rediscovering the art of noticing.

Host: And Jeeny’s voice — low, warm, unhurried — carried into the quiet:

Jeeny: “In the end, Jack, every story is someone’s everything. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones.”

Host: The scene faded on the glowing embers of the fire — a humble flame burning for all the unnoticed stories that keep the world human.