47

Marlowe gives a slightly nervous grin.

"I know, right? I mean, I probably wouldn't actually do it—but I'd definitely be tempted every time I walked past it. Maybe, after enough times…"

Next, you head upstairs, all the way to the top floor where Marlowe works. Walking into the main office, you would almost expect to hear hundreds of typewriters echoing around you, as it looks as if the open-plan room with a dozen or so desks dotted around hasn't changed much in a few decades. But the main sound you hear, apart from a couple of computer keyboards, is what sounds like a radio commercial for dog food.

"Yeah. It's usually even less busy," Marlowe tells you. "I guess things would have been more hectic back when there was a print deadline, but now we don't usually have to rush so much. This week has actually been way more intense than ever, but it's never exactly over the top."

They show you to the desk where they usually work and walk you through how most days go when they're here. They tell you they're never sure what they're going to be doing until someone comes and tells them to grab a notebook and go somewhere.

"I usually spend half a day somewhere, watching whatever's going on and talking to people, and then they just ask me to write 100 words about it," they say, looking slightly wistfully at the other reporters who are busy working. "The job is still cool, and I know I have to start somewhere—but sometimes it feels like anybody could be doing what I'm doing. I don't really get to be creative; I'm just describing something that happened."

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