The Wednesday press days were bad. After the inevitable scramble to get the last pages to the printer by 5:30, it was never clear whether the celebrations at the Old Bell on Fleet Street would be the team’s last. Thanks to the job at hand, the mood in the newsroom was dark but never without a complete sense of humour failure: One Wednesday, we took to using a viral e-mail’s job predictor to guess our future careers.
The Thursdays, coming in to the office and expecting the worst, were worse. After weeks fo staggering on from week to week, Friday’s news that the magazine would close almost came as a relief to me.
A lot of bloggers and commentators have been mentioning the slow demise of my (now former) employer, and there will probably be more coverage this week.
Go read all that for now; I’m not writing a Press Gazette postmortem just yet.