Kerre Woodham: Pity the poor reporters

Very few people have sympathy for journalists. When it comes to the public respect rankings, journos are right down there with politicians and used-car salesmen - those other ubiquitous bottom feeders.

Maybe it's a case of shooting the messenger, maybe we're just an unlikeable bunch with disgusting personal habits. Whatever it is, I would ask that you spare a thought for all those journalists trying to rustle up news bulletins and newspapers during the summer holidays.

We are a nation where not much happens and for that we should be truly thankful. I'm enormously grateful that I live in a country where the word massacre means, for the most part, the cutting down of trees.

During the summer holidays, politicians take a break, so there's no political cock fighting to report on. Courts are generally in recess, and businesses wait until the New Year to announce any take-over plans or company initiatives. Even lowlifes seem to take a summer holiday.

So unless there's a disaster of epic proportions, it's just the road toll, New Zealanders' inability to drive, and surf rescues. And that's pretty much it.

I'm manning the microphone on NewstalkZB during the summer break and trying to drum up talkback has been a Herculean task.

The topic of euthanasia, topical because Philip Nitschke, aka Dr Death, is holding a series of meetings over the next week in this country, generated a good couple of hours talkback but a thin lipped emailer told me his important and powerful wife would no longer advertise on the radio station because he thought the topic was too depressing.

Silly or unfortunate names - well, we could still be going on that. Everyone had an example of some poor child whose thoughtless parents had condemned them to years of schoolyard bullying. Mrs Rabbit's decision to call her firstborn son Peter, because it was just too cute to resist, apparently, should have made her a sitter for a child abuse charge.

But the showstopper was the lovely Tess who married a bloke called Stickle. I didn't believe it for a minute - I've never heard of anyone with the last name Stickle. But a look through the white pages revealed there are indeed three Stickle families in New Zealand - two in Christchurch, one in Levin. Stickles there are, and it seems Tess had married one.

So we all had a bit of an incredulous shriek, and I could go home, having filled the gaps between the ads. But the next day at work, I received an email from our Christchurch newsroom who told me that an elderly gentleman had called and complained at considerable length that he once taught a lovely young woman called Tess, who had become a very dear friend, and the fact that she had married a man called Stickle should not have been the source of ridicule on the wireless. He was appalled and outraged - and verbose. The newsroom hotline was tied up for hours.

I figure that if your name is Tess and you're marrying a Stickle, you've got a choice. You become Tessa or Theresa, you keep your maiden name or you put up with the jokes.

What topics await national debate this week? I am beside myself with anticipation. In the meantime, I shall spare a thought for my colleagues churning out daily papers, nightly bulletins and hourly news reports. And take comfort in the fact a Spartan bulletin means a peaceful world.