According to an ancient Sardinian legend the bodies of those who are born on Christmas Eve will never dissolve into dust but are preserved until the end of time.
Like all young reporters - brilliant or hopelessly incompetent - I dreamed of the glamorous life of the foreign correspondent: prowling Vienna in a Burberry trench coat speaking a dozen languages to dangerous women narrowly escaping Sardinian bandits - the usual stuff that newspaper dreams are made of.
We have that illusion that we are 'deciding' what to make a character do in order to 'convey our message' or something like that. But at least in my experience you are often more like a river-rafting guide who's been paid a bonus to purposely steer your clients into the roughest possible water.