Two or three times a week, some radio or television programme telephones, usually in search of a soundbite. That I should be so lucky, you may say. How flattering. Yes, but nobody ever mentions money. The ability to turn a phrase is the only marketable skill a journalist possesses. No newspaper would ask a professional writer to produce even a couple of hundred words without mentioning a fee, however modest. Yet broadcast producers do this to hundreds of us every day. The assumption is that we will perform for the mere thrill of gaining access to the airwaves. Politicians, of course, are always up for it. Why should the rest of us be? Factual broadcasting is at a low ebb partly because it is pitifully underfunded. Contrast the parsimonious attitude of current affairs with that of the showbiz end of the trade. A BBC TV chat show rang when I was promoting a book, suggested that I should appear, and asked if a four-figure fee would be acceptable. ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Where do I send the cheque?’ ‘No, no,’ said the researcher. ‘We pay you.’ Yet the exposure was priceless to me, when I was peddling my wares. Whence the sudden BBC largesse? The programme was light entertainment, not current affairs. Sport is even more generous.
Reading Thomas Pakenham’s splendid new book on trees, I feel full of admiration for the way in which, over the past decade, Thomas has made himself a fine photographer as well as writer. He is also a master of Pakenham whimsy. Almost 30 years ago, he caused a great cabin to be constructed halfway up the trunks of four young conifers on his estate in Ireland, allegedly for the children. He said how eagerly he looked forward to watching the cabin soar skywards as the trees grew.
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