In late November 2009, more than 1,000 e-mails between scientists at the Climate Research Unit of the U.K.’s University of East Anglia were stolen and made public by an anonymous hacker. Climate skeptics claimed the e-mails proved
global warming was not real, completely made up by scientists.
At the time, I had been freelancing for a very prestigious scientific magazine, Engineering & Technology in Stevenage, UK, formerly IEE Review. I had written a number of environmental stories, including on electronic waste recycling and auto emissions and standards. I was not, however, a household name. I was living in a one-bedroom apartment in West Haven, Connecticut with my cat, just going about my business, making probably $16,000 a year. So when I received an e-mail from a new editor at Fox News, I was flattered. Flattered and horrified. What had I done to attract such attention? The person told me they had read some of my articles and were impressed. Would I be interested in coming down to Fox to discuss possibly writing articles on climate change and other topics? Just a discussion.
Pre-Covid, I leapt at any chance to race into the City. So of course, I did not hesitate to say yes. And on that fateful day, I dressed to the nines, psyched myself up, 'It's just a chat. You don't have to sell out. You don't have to be anyone you are not. You don't have to buy into the Fox News-speak and think.'
A very nice person met me in their super shiny lobby. I remember nervously standing there, looking at all the money walk by. I say money because as I said, I made about $16,000 and they probably had shoes that cost that much. The young man came down, and shook my hand (again, pre-Covid style), and we spoke a bit. I cannot remember what we said, but within minutes, I knew what I was there to say: "Thank you, I am flattered. I really am flattered you would seek me out and call me in here, but I don't think this is for me."
To be clear, he was not offering me a job. It was a discussion, but one I soon ended, realizing I was in the wrong place. Sort of like the time I went out for a drink with a married creative director named Buddy, and when he told me in his car that his wife wasn't home, I gasped and said what was he expecting! He had said, "So why are you here?" I raced out of that car and scampered back home as fast as you can say free Buffalo wings. This was the same. I knew it wasn't for me; I knew I was better off with my measly income and Payless shoes than selling out.
A journalist friend told me at the time that I should write about it. I was scared. I didn't know what to say. So this is it. Nothing happened. It was just a sorta "date".
PHOTO: By Jim.henderson - Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8899774
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