Mistaken identity

Five years ago, on the fifth day of my first week at the FT, I was walking towards my desk when a senior colleague beckoned me into his office. From the colour of his face (London Bus red) and from what he was doing with his right hand (karate-chopping his computer keyboard), I could tell he was agitated.

I panicked as I pushed open the glass door. Maybe he had spotted an error in my first news story, which had appeared that morning under the tantalising headline: “Hauliers warn on cost of stowaway fines”. Maybe I had committed some terrible faux pas. He flailed around some more, stomped his feet. Eventually, he wailed: “Why does this thing not work?!”...

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