That Makes Me Happy. By Aileen Cleave

When asked the random question of what makes me happy, my mind turns to numerous wonderful things, the 365degree view of the mountains from my roof terrace, the delicious scent of woodsmoke, the sweet smell of grass after rain, the principal aria from Madame Butterfly.  And,  of  course, every mother returns to the miracle of birth, to holding her child for the first time.

But I remember a time totally unconnected to any of these events when my heart felt fit to burst.  I was 23 and working for the BBC in Bush House in  London.  It was quite a lowly job, PA to AHAS.  To the uninitiated the BBC is, or was, run on initials,and this particular acronym translated as Assistant Head of the Arabic Service.  As I now understand it, this Service no longer exists, having fallen foul to deep Corporation cuts, but then it was considered very important. My job was both fascinating (as ever, so much happening in the Middle East) and deeply boring and not, I have to say, in equal measure.

It was during one of these many boring afternoons that I started to type out my frustrations, and a plan was forming in my head.  Once I had started to write, every sentence had to be perfect and I edited it several times before I was happy. I typed it on BBC letter heading and sent it to the Features Editor at The Daily Telegraph.  This was a disciplinary offence on two counts, unauthorised use of BBC paper and writing for another media outlet, but I knew, of course, that the BBC banner would attract attention amidst the many hundreds of unsolicited offerings.

That week I travelled north to visit my parents and enjoy a few days of home cooked food and central heating.  I would be lying if I said I thought no more about my scribbling.  Every writer here knows when they have written something good, but I didn’t dwell on it.  On Wednesday of that week, I decided to walk into town, just 15 minutes away.  I wandered somewhat aimlessly into the one and only newsagent, without holding out much hope.  The Telegraph was not and still is not the go-to broadsheet of choice in that area.  However, there were two copies lying on the counter and I quickly picked up one.  I didn’t open it - after all, it was crazy to think…..  I knew from my colleague at Bush House that the chances of a national broadsheet publishing unsolicited offerings was virtually nonexistent.  

I carried it home, and sat down on the old misshapen poufe in our sitting room, with Mum in the armchair behind me.  I flicked through the home news, and then the foreign news and came to Features.   I didn’t recognise the title, a sub had added that, but the opening lines, they were my words - they were all my words.  Now that made me happy, it made me gloriously happy.

There is a downside to this story.  Knowing the BBC ‘s diktat on writing for other outlets, which would have been in the contract I  signed , they had turned my clearly Irish name, Aileen Connolly, into a  Scottish  Eileen Scott.  I didn’t allow that to dim my happiness, my words were there if not my name.