Jonny McCambridge: With everyone watching I find my voice in the nick of time … just when I needed it the most

There is a cushion with a stitched message requesting that we do not sit on the sofa. A kindly member of staff gently reminds me a couple of times not to touch the furniture as the ever-growing throng of media pushes me further to the periphery of the space.

I am aware of the importance within the news agenda of what is about to happen.

I am broadcasting live pictures of a press conference to a number of media outlets and, I know, I cannot afford to get it wrong.

I keep adjusting my camera, making sure the sound settings are correct and the picture is in focus. I do this again and again, even though I know that I’ve got it right.

However, I have forgotten my spectacles. There are several buttons and switches on the camera which are too fine for my failing eyesight to read clearly.

Thankfully, a helpful younger colleague is beside me to read the tiny lettering. It doesn’t escape my notice that for many years I worked in the same office as this younger colleague’s father.

It reinforces the impression that I am an old man trying to do a young man’s job. I suppose it is a form of imposter syndrome.

The Northern Ireland Secretary and the DUP leader enter the room and begin to deliver speeches. They are at separate podiums and I have to adjust the camera regularly to ensure that the speaker is always in shot.

There is something else on my mind. I know that my name is on a list of journalists who are to ask a question, to speak out loud in this crowded room and with countless others watching live.

I have been in this situation a number of times over the years, but I cannot say I have ever become comfortable with it.

There are difficulties in the process, trying to find something relevant and novel to ask. Several other journalists may be called before me and almost always my question will already have been posed before I am given the chance to speak.

As I continue to fiddle with the camera, I come up with about six questions, to cover all eventualities.

But, as I silently run through the words over and over, they all seem feeble and foolish. The familiar dread that everyone in the room, everyone watching, will be filled with scorn at my amateurish attempts at interrogation is never far away.

In truth, it is only me that feels that I don’t belong here, but it is often hard to convince myself of that.

The Northern Ireland Secretary calls out my name. His eyes quickly scan the room to locate me. A shot of dread pollutes my blood, like dark ink flushed into clear water.

My mouth is dry, and no words come. Any attempt at coherent thought collapses into some sort of messy pulp. I start to panic.

A lot of things can happen in the dark vaults of the mind in a very short period of time. As I stand there, paralysed with fear, random thoughts present themselves quicker than I can process them.

Amidst the jumble, I search for some clarity. As I often do in difficult moments, I think about my son. I remember the challenges that he has overcome in preparing for and completing the P7 transfer test.

I remember how, like me, his nerve failed him at a vital moment. On the way into school building to sit the test paper he began to display signs of nervousness.

I remember how his mother and I spoke to him calmly, telling him how wonderful he was, how proud we were of him, that it was entirely natural to be nervous. That there is nothing wrong with being afraid, but the measure of character is how you deal with it. He calmed down and went inside to do the test.

The score he would eventually receive seemed to diminish in importance, I was just content that he had met the challenge.

The Northern Ireland Secretary continues to look around. I step slightly forward and say ‘good evening’ before I come up with a new question, putting on as authoritative a voice as I can manage.

The Northern Ireland Secretary and the DUP leader look directly at me as they answer.

Soon, the event is finished, and I begin to unpack my equipment. There is still some element of edge to my feelings because I now have several stories to compose, but I know the worst is over.

I spot a journalist, an old friend that I have not seen in a long time, and we share a hug. Another colleague comes over and commends me on my question, which I’ve already forgotten.

Later, as it nears midnight, I am reflecting on the day. I have put off reviewing the video, but I do it now. I watch the introductory remarks, some of the early questions, checking that the sound, focus and lighting are as I wanted them to be. I am always self-critical, but the conclusion is that the video is fine.

Then I fast forward to the part where I ask my question.

I grit my teeth slightly, preparing myself for the awkwardness of the encounter – but the video tells a different story.

There is no significant pause between my name being read out and my voice being heard – perhaps a second or two, nothing more than would be expected. As I said, the mind can process a lot very quickly.

The question I posed, while hardly likely to win me any awards, seems competent.

I decide to go to bed. I need some rest before the next working day.