Jonny McCambridge: Split trousers, a very public meltdown and the perfect antidote to a bad day

I was already falling behind when notification was given to the media of a political press conference at very short notice. I arrive in the brightly-lit room wheezing and gasping from having had to run, weighed down by the bags full of heavy video equipment.

As I hurriedly attempt to get the tripod erected, I am aware of a slight vibration from the phone in my left pocket.

I fish it out and see there are a number of messages advising of potential questions to be asked and requests for the video to be transmitted live. I set up the camera and do the technical tests.

As the politicians begin to speak there are more messages coming into the left phone. The production team advise that the WiFi signal is not good for live video transmission and ask if I can do something to resolve this. I scratch my head.

Then another message arrives informing that our photographer is not able to make it to the event in time and asking if I can take still images also.

I have no camera, just my phones. Unlike the photographers who can remain at the back of the room, utilising the power of the long lenses, I have to get close to the subject.

This involves me crawling on my hands and knees through the feet of the media throng towards the podiums, while staying low under the gaze of the TV cameras.

I am as close to the front as I dare to go. I can see one of the politicians glancing down to give me a confused and slightly concerned look. I snap some pictures on my work phone. They are not very good. I rise slightly onto my haunches, lifting the phone higher while I shift my weight backwards.

And then I hear the rip. It is clear immediately that I have torn a large hole in the backside of my trousers.

I pocket the phone again and retreat back into the crowd, keeping close to the ground so nobody else will notice the damaged garment.

As I take my place behind my video camera again, I can feel the activity again coming from both phones in my pockets. I check the work mobile, the personal one will have to wait until later.

There are more messages about the poor WiFi, asking if I have found a solution. I am trying to bash out a response when I hear my name being read out and a microphone is shoved into my hand.

It takes a moment before I realise that I have been selected to ask a question. The eyes of everyone in the room are upon me.

I lift the microphone towards my mouth. I am aware that the press conference is being broadcast live on radio. I am somewhere close to panic.

For reasons I can’t begin to explain, I hear myself saying out loud: ‘My question will be in two parts….’

I do not have two parts to a question. I do not even have one part. From the depths of my memory I desperately recall some of the facts of what is being discussed and splutter out something which might be considered a question.

The eyes of the politicians remain upon me, waiting for the promised second part of my inquiry. I have got nothing and mumble ‘Ummm…ummm….ummm,’ a few times before I freeze entirely. After what seems like an eternity, they understand there is no second part to my two-part question and proceed to answer the first bit.

The press conference concludes shortly after. As is usual, the media gather in a pack to discuss what has been said and to compare possible lines for stories.

I have no stomach to join them; partly because I don’t want to hear any sympathy over my public meltdown, partly because I am still trying to disguise the large hole in my trousers.

I go back to my car. It takes several minutes before I can compose myself. I have a few more messages to respond to on my work phone. Only after this do I check the personal phone in my other pocket.

There is a message in the family WhatsApp group. I open it to find a photograph of what seems to be a small pizza. There is a message from my son. It reads: “I made this in school today daddy. I am keeping it for you." For the briefest of moments, I think I am going to cry.

I drive home. My wife and son are there to greet me at the front door. The oil heating has been turned on and the front room is cosy. We gather together to share our stories of the day.

My wife and son laugh uncontrollably at the sight of my split trousers and the story of my mind going blank at the press conference. I laugh a little too. I’m not as embarrassed as I was earlier in the day; the harsh edges of the unpleasantness have been blunted.

And then my son tells me the story of the pizza he made in school. How he put on the tomato sauce and the cheese, sliced the pepperoni and placed it in the oven. He tells me the class were informed they could eat the pizza then or bring it home. He says he was so hungry in class and the pizza smelled so good, but he resisted eating it because he was determined to bring it home to show to us.

I warm the tiny pizza up and slice it into even smaller parts which are shared between the three of us.

It may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.