Beware the writer, coming to a public place near you By Liz Cooper Smith

This is a Public Service Announcement for anyone doing nothing more than live their life. You could be lunging in your step class, standing in line to buy socks or smacking your child at a Wiggles concert. You could be complaining about your mobile service coverage, eating a chocolate bar or getting your hair cut.
Then all of a sudden, one a lazy Sunday morning, you’re flipping the pages of your local newspaper and there you are, alive in black and white. You’re the subject of a snappy little lifestyle article entitled, ‘Where The Yummy Mummy’s Are At’.
Your name has been changed Judy, the Eva Longoria look-alike and your son has been renamed Jefferson, the screaming three year old on the flying fox. As you read every word, it’s more and more you. It’s reaffirmed by the fact that you and your son were in the park last Tuesday.
The writer of the article of course, the dashing, young undercover reporter with a head full of hair [not that you remember], taking pleasure in telling all and sundry that he got your phone number.
Our debonair lovelorn social journalist may or may not reveal that he only scored your number because he backed into your car and you swapped insurance information. He may or may not mention that he looked uneasy when propping up his sisters’ on loan ten month old baby.
There’s a special name for these types of reporters, both the male and female variety. ‘Wrobber’. Part time writer, part time dobber.
It’d be easy to assume that by its name sake, ‘Wrobbers’ steal something. They do. But it’s not the type of steal where you find yourself shoving dresses into your handbag Winona Ryder style. ‘Wrobbers’ steal something very important to all individuals; the truth. They take its core and spray it with a bit of alphabetical Febreeze.

Full word count 896 words