Think about the stereotypical journalist, the one you've seen in movies: Cigarette hanging out of his (or her) mouth, dirty coffee cup on a messy desk, whisky bottle in the bottom drawer. Probably small and insecure. Nothing is funny. Unless it's tragic, then it's a laugh-riot.
Think about the stereotypical journalist, the one you've read about in books: Jaded. World-weary. Tell him of the latest bizarre bit of bad news and you might get an eyeroll. And a grunt. This character has seen it all. If nothing is funny, then nothing surprises, either.
Think about the stereotypical journalist, the one you might have met once: A bit arrogant and self-important. Which is strange, considering the way he was dressed. Had bad posture. Probably did six things a day his doctor recommended against. Didn't work with animals or children. Barely worked with colleagues.
If there is one thing Michael and Celia Storey of this newspaper are not and never were, it's stereotypical. Which makes them so easy for the rest of us to love.
The person described above could be called the anti-Storey. Which is why Michael Storey, whom we lost on Sunday, meant so much to so many of his friends and colleagues. He was everything you'd never expect.
Editorial on 10/09/2018