In Pieces by Nick Hopton Page A

public fears rather than doing the real job.
    When Bill came in, half an hour later than usual because of another suicide on the Northern Line, Si tried this argument out on him.
    Bill just grunted. ‘Serves them all right for eating meat in the first place. Personally I don’t give a toss. I’m a vegetarian.’
    â€˜Oh.’ That took the wind out of Si’s outraged sails. He noticed for the first time a definite resemblance between Bill and his cousin Paul. Clearly a generational thing. Luckily, I’m more broadminded, he comforted himself. And, for the time being, his generation ruled over the upwardly thrusting accountant-brains fresh out of college. ‘How about a coffee, Bill?’
    â€˜Yeah, sure.’ And taking his cue, Bill drifted off towards the coffee machine.
    Si wondered what he could write about. Something unconnected to bovine diseases. Each day was the same. A pile of faxes from self-publicists, most of which were unusable, a few half-baked stories left over from yesterday and a large empty space to fill—approximately fifteen hundred words worth of white space—in tomorrow’s paper.
    â€˜Shit, I don’t know why I do this,’ he groaned. This was always the hardest part of the day. It was when he felt the full weight of responsibility upon his shoulders and sometimes, if he was honest with himself, it failed to excite him.
    He shuffled through yesterday’s scraps. Bill had started a story about Madonna in Argentina. Improbably she was cast as Evita in Lloyd Webber’s film of his musical. But although this sounded promising material, Bill hadn’t found an angle to bring the story to life. Si put it to one side. Perhaps he’d have another look at it himself later on. Then there was a half-hearted attempt to lampoon the Russian Ambassador, who had been blatantly pursuing an opera singer performing at Covent Garden. This had looked a dead cert until Si had phoned the Russian Embassy for a comment.
    â€˜His Excellency is not well today and we have nothing to say,’ stonewalled a nameless attaché.
    Si scented blood. ‘Could you say what is wrong with the Ambassador? Is he perhaps love sick?’
    â€˜I think your question is impertinent. His Excellency is in hospital since three days. He will be operated.’
    â€˜What type of operation?’ pushed Si, hoping that it was something ambiguous. A vasectomy was too much to hope for, but perhaps something to do with the heart?
    â€˜I can say no more. His Excellency is very unwell. Now if you please I have work to do… Thank you, good-bye.’
    Si wondered what to do. If the Ambassador was really ill, perhaps with cancer or even mad cow disease, it would be in bad taste to print the story. Even so, the idea of a great-chested diva mopping the convalescing diplomat’s brow would be a winner.
    He decided to wait until he could find out what was wrong with the Russian. Better safe than sorry. So far he’d avoided a bollocking from Dougy, but the editor’s tantrums were legendary. Si didn’t want to be on the receiving end because of some poxy Russian envoy infatuated with an obese, singing tart. The easiest way would be to phone the hospital and pretend to be a relative. Yesterday in the rush to finish the Diary there hadn’t been time, but there would be later. Not that the idea of deception filled him with great joy; it was one of the necessary, seedier sides of his job. Si put the story to one side for later. At least that was one piece that would probably make it into tomorrow’s paper. Two hundred words down… Only thirteen hundred to go.
    Si had one other story which he was determined to use. His first religious piece since Dougy had given him those instructions.
    A passing comment of Roberta’s had inspired him to take an interest in the Moslem convert Cat Stevens. Roberta claimed that the singer was just one of thousands of people who had