Here Comes Prince George
On average, I get two hundred emails a day comprising a delightful mix of requests from work back home, pictures of cats doing funny things, and invitations to events I wouldn't dream of covering - even if I was told I had to put together a 48-hour long news bulletin and it was the Sunday before Christmas.
Occasionally you get an email that sends a shiver down your spine; Curls your toes; Causes you to get a little bit flushed in the cheeks. The email from Kensington Palace informing the world the Duchess of Cambridge had gone into labour was one of those emails. Not because I was particuarly emotionally attached to the story, but because I knew I had just enjoyed the last eight-hour sleep I'd have for a week.
When you race to put on a suit, you are guaranteed to forget something. Usually it's a tie, or better yet, cufflinks. I forgot the latter and it was only in the taxi I realised I'd be flapping about like a wizard all day. My flappy sleeves and I raced to Buckingham Palace and it was going to be tight. I told the cabbie I'd give him an extra tenner to get me there on time. We drove through London like we were in a James Bond film (James would have remembered his cufflinks though - cufflinks that could kill a man).
At ten minutes to five Australian time, we arrived. I ran from the cab, fumbled to find my accreditation, burst through the security gates of the studios and found.... nothing. A bloke having a cigarette, two security guards eating breakfast and a tourist who had mistakenly wandered in and seemed to be contemplating which bits of electronic equipment he could walk off with.
In my excitement, I had forgotten the story really was at St Mary's Hospital. At this stage, the lovely Emma Dallimore was there for us, so I had to wait patiently for my time to come.
Slowly the other crews and journalists arrived. The BBC cameramen came off their lunch breaks and started to work. The Japanese producers with their bizarre collection of cardboard signs explaining the childbirth process set up their equipment. NBC opened its catering truck, offering a delightful array of snacks and drinks.
And before I knew it, it was media mayhem.
The actual mayhem began a few hours later. Once word went out that Kate had given birth, people started to arrive at the palace forecourt, waiting for the official proclamation to be brought down. Once again, I was caught out. I had gone back to my office to go through vision. Again, I got a cabbie to fly through the city at breakneck speeds. It was like the old videogame Crazy Taxi, although pesky London pedestrians made it more like Grand Theft Auto.
Often in this job, you forget to take in historic moments you somehow find yourself sharing with others. This time, I tried to soak it all in. Thousands of people celebrating the birth of the future king outside the palace is pretty cool. I was there for the unveiling of the easel while on the phone to a radio station (which one, I forget). I saw the proclamation, the celebrations and the happiness. Through some excellent timing, I got to see it all with my girlfriend who was covering the birth for Australian radio, leading to a royal couple selfie far too soppy to post here.
From there, it's all a blur.
People forget that stories don't just happen. You have to look through vision, choose grabs, write the story, and in my case, voice the story, edit it and transfer it as well. At some point, you then get to sleep for two hours. You then get up, try to look presentable and talk live to a nationwide audience of around 800,000 people.
Fortunately, the words seemed to come out okay.
George is Here. Now What?
The days seemed to meld together after a while. George leaves Kensington Palace, George heads to Bucklebury, George is named George, George has his photo taken (badly) by Grandpa. I'm sure interesting things happened on those days too, I just can't remember them.
I'm sure I was interviewed by a Columbian TV crew who thought I was a Prince Harry lookalike. I think I spoke to a cab driver in Bucklebury who occasionally picks Pippa Middleton up from the pub. And I'm reasonably certain I laughed at the 'royal insiders' who charge $500 per appearance, but actually have no idea what they're talking about. Maybe one day I'll hit my head and remember all the things I did during that frantic fortnight.
But for now, I put little George to bed - metaphorically - until he appears for a press opportunity, starts pre-school or has chickenpox.