Brewing up a storm

I was chatting recently with my NUJ colleague Nika Talbot about a project she is working on related to women's magazines. This had us both reminiscing about our respective times at IPC and some of the funny things that happened there. One of these anecdotes I thought I'd share here - because, trust me, if you're having a bad day, it can't be as bad as my first day there.

Just to set the scene a little bit, this was back in the glory days of IPC when it was producing some of the best-known magazines of the era from the heady heights of King's Reach Tower in London. Among these was Woman's Own where I was fortunate to spend two summers interning at the start of my career. 

Growing up, I had always loved magazines - from Jackie and Smash Hits to Just Seventeen - and, later, pretty much every other title I could lay my hands on. To my mind, there was - and still is - nothing quite like that scent of fresh paper as you crack open the cover of a new issue. Anyway, I digress...

Suffice to say, I was pretty starry-eyed arriving at that imposing tower, with its Willy-Wonka-esque lifts that moved at the speed of light, and therefore keen to make the best impression possible. So, on my first day, wanting to demonstrate my general enthusiasm/gratitude/incredulity at being there, I offered to make the tea. This went down exactly as I had hoped - with quiet nods of appreciation as I collected the mugs.

I'd even had the foresight to take my new spiral notepad with me to write down the orders: features editor, one black coffee; editorial assistant, a tea with milk and two sugars; senior writer, a water... Nope, I wasn't taking any chances there. So far, so good.

Rather pleased with myself, I got things underway in what turned out to be the brightest, swankiest and most pristine kitchen I had ever seen. Ahh, the glamorous world of magazines. This was how the other half lived - and here I was becoming a part of things; I'd finally made it.

Imagine my surprise then when, moments later, I was greeted to a veritable symphony of shouting. Confused, I swung around to face an incandescent art director. Turns out I had inadvertently wandered into a photo shoot in the middle of their studio kitchen rather than the staff one.

Needless to say, I retreated pretty fast, clutching my motley array of mugs - and what remained of my dignity. I then skulked off to find the actual kitchen - which turned out to be little more than a small booth. 

Thankfully, though, I lived to tell the tale, and my internship resumed without further incident. Well, until the time I got lost on the way to 'Legal'. But that's a story for another day.