Well Done, Us!
It was a fantastic feeling today, when the 5 large-screen televisions that are permanently on mute boomed into life at 7pm exactly.
Groups of colleagues clustered around the newsroom expectantly, drinking coffee with only one eye on their computer monitors, nervously making little jokes about after-parties and Russian fury. Everyone from the most high ranking editor to the most junior journalist (probably me), slowly wandered across the floor to join the little cliques forming in the centre.
Somewhere across the island, a huge crowd gathered in a field, keeping an impatient, buzzing vigil with restrained energy.
Even from where I was sitting, I felt a frisson of nervous adrenaline as minutes ticked slowly by, a humming undercurrent of excitement. And then, when the results were announced, waves of relief and delight surged and broke, reporters who could not have cared less hours before cheering and clapping, whoops of surprised pleasure.
In that field, random people were now hugging each other, jumping crazily on the spot with lightheaded joy. In midst of it all, the Prime Minister was getting crushed and hugged, a silly grin quivering on his face.
It felt great that moment, to be part of this underdog country that has, at long last, been seen, heard, taken seriously and done something wonderful to make its mark. It was something I'd hardly fought for, but I still felt proud, proud that we'd managed not to fuck it up, and with great flair.
I can only wonder at what the atmosphere would have been like if we had lost.
I hope the Muscovites will fall asleep peacefully in their beds this night, they should be proud too.
Groups of colleagues clustered around the newsroom expectantly, drinking coffee with only one eye on their computer monitors, nervously making little jokes about after-parties and Russian fury. Everyone from the most high ranking editor to the most junior journalist (probably me), slowly wandered across the floor to join the little cliques forming in the centre.
Somewhere across the island, a huge crowd gathered in a field, keeping an impatient, buzzing vigil with restrained energy.
Even from where I was sitting, I felt a frisson of nervous adrenaline as minutes ticked slowly by, a humming undercurrent of excitement. And then, when the results were announced, waves of relief and delight surged and broke, reporters who could not have cared less hours before cheering and clapping, whoops of surprised pleasure.
In that field, random people were now hugging each other, jumping crazily on the spot with lightheaded joy. In midst of it all, the Prime Minister was getting crushed and hugged, a silly grin quivering on his face.
It felt great that moment, to be part of this underdog country that has, at long last, been seen, heard, taken seriously and done something wonderful to make its mark. It was something I'd hardly fought for, but I still felt proud, proud that we'd managed not to fuck it up, and with great flair.
I can only wonder at what the atmosphere would have been like if we had lost.
I hope the Muscovites will fall asleep peacefully in their beds this night, they should be proud too.
She said, she said at 1:37 am
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