Selfless Journalism - by Deb H. Cone

Oopsie Daisie, I was wrong but hey dude, la-de-dah. Up in Hoki where I drive in my convertible 5000cc Mercedes and mix with the vulnerable, when I said life doesn’t get better than fleecy jammies, lighting vanilla candles and poking the potbelly, weeell that was then and this is now. Chur. Why? Because nowadays dying is the meme and I can’t stop crying is the theme. That rhymes by accident. My Dad liked that, shuffling, rhyming, and me channeling poets. (Grammatically that should be ‘my channeling’ but ‘me’ sounds cool and I’m a cool kinda gal.)

Selfie to Facebook.

Jerry Collins (isn't he an Irish politician?), Lecretia Seales, Peter Williams QC – I weep for these souls, but I also weep for my sensitive self, a requiem for a woman, a writer, a single mother of young children who has to suffer the indignity of shopping for cupcakes and be bullied by a shop assistant who glares and says, “You don’t look like a mother!”

So I stepped outside and took another selfie and posted it to Facebook.

I, too, know how it feels to be marginalized. When I was taking 375mg of Effexor (antidepressant) a day I couldn't cry. I couldn't risk it. Then, I needed a break from my emotions until I had enough distance to be able to feel them without toppling into the abyss. But as the great writer E.L. James said in Fifty Shades of Grey, “I can’t help feel a residual melancholy either from the music or his demeanor. Christian Grey has a sad side.”

We all have a sad side. Selfie to Facebook. Nothing brings out a sad side like Christians. Red Christian Louboutins bought in NYC – “The muscles inside the deepest, darkest part of me clench in the most delicious fashion.” E. L. James again. Which makes me wonder, as I gaze into my Negroni while sitting at my favourite restaurant (which also happens to be John Key’s – selfie to Facebook) is sad really happy? (I’m a graduate in philosophy, in case you are wondering how I know these things, and Daddy was a neurologist.

Louboutins, bling, Dries van Noten, bling, Cybelle, bling, leather pants who-cares-if-I’m-over-40, bling, Silk, satin, cotton, rags. Silk! I’m an expert on Silk. Selfie to Facebook. As little-known self-help therapist Mrs Beeton wrote, “Pure silk washes well; the water temperature should never be above lukewarm (around 100 degrees F)”. Look what happened to me when I didn’t follow these instructions. (Yes, we know, we fucking know, we read about it for 10 months - Ed.) My depression and intimated breakdown was caused by an unhappy love affair. Oh sorry it wasn't a love affair, it was "just a few bonks" as the woodland creature involved chivalrously informed me afterwards. Chur. But I was the one who was wrong. The fact I ended up having a major depressive episode I now realise was not caused by him. 

“Tact and loyalty towards husband….are constantly required; it is a great mistake to discuss the shortcomings of any member of one’s household with friends or neighbours.” Mrs Beeton again.

Selfie to Facebook.

Bully for me. What kind of journalism are we going to get if I don’t keep on writing these columns, keep my chin up and soldier on, Petal? Campbell has gone.  Meehee Forbes-with-the-crazy-voice too. I alone am left, I who was once a feared financial journalist, to carry the blazing torch of courageous, empathetic, spill-your-guts writing – paunching as my favourite therapist, Mrs Beeton in Cookery and Household Management writes: “cut through the skin of the belly from the chest to the legs and draw out the viscera”.

Selfie to (Ed - No!).


Editor - Deb H.Cone was the winner of the 2015 Canon Media Award - best Columnist humour and satire section. She lost out on the overall award to Michele Hewitson. We think Judges Long and Pankhurst got it horribly wrong and would have changed their minds if this column above was submitted.