IT is January 1998 and I am sitting eating my lunch at my desk at the Sunday Sun newspaper just off Newcastle’s Groat Market.
The winter sun is whispering through the window over my shoulder and the office is almost deserted.
Suddenly a phone rings on the desk next to me. Following office protocol I answer the vacant desk phone.
“Is that Mike?” a broad Geordie voice asks.
I politely explain that he is out to lunch.
“Dinna worry,” is the reply. “Can you just let him know that Anton Deck rang.”
The caller hung up.
I left a suitable note on Mike’s desk which read: “Anton Deck rang at 12.45pm.”
The guffaws of laughter after Mike read my note still stay with me.