The moment of revelation arrived a decade ago, after midnight and more than one glass of wine. I was in a London taxi, sharing a ride with a public relations man I know, following a dinner we had both attended.
Journalists and PR people have fundamentally different agendas: we have stories to break; they are paid to make sure some stories remain untold. Yet our daily dealings can be quite cordial, even when we’re not sharing wine and cabs. For one thing, PRs read our stories; it’s hard not to like them a bit.
Many also have a way with words and, as we drove through London that night, I remember my fellow passenger making a pithy, if mildly inebriated, observation. “My job,” he admitted, “is to sow doubt.”
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