There’s something oddly soothing about knowing what happens next — especially in a world that never really pauses. When headlines keep breaking and the phones don’t stop buzzing, routine becomes a quiet kind of stability.
The newsroom hums long before sunrise. Screens flicker, scripts update, stories shift. It’s a constant shuffle of priorities, but within it, a pattern forms. The same team, the same first coffee, the same unspoken understanding that no ones up for chatting until at least 4.30am. It’s not exciting, exactly. It’s reassuring.
Every producer and presenter has their small rituals. The mug that must be used. The lucky pen. The playlist that starts the day. They’re not about superstition — they’re about focus. They create a rhythm when the rest of the day won’t.
Routine doesn’t block out the chaos; it just gives it structure. You can’t predict the news — you can only build enough of a framework to handle it. The familiarity helps. It’s the difference between reacting and responding, between noise and momentum.
There’s also a certain irony in it. The people who spend their lives reporting on change tend to cling hardest to repetition. To do lists, printing notes, everything in colour codes — little anchors in a profession built on constant motion. It’s not about control so much as steadiness.
With that said, when the show ends and you break into the real world, that same rhythm follows you home. You’ll check tomorrow’s running order out of habit, knowing it’ll change by dawn. And yet, it’s oddly reassuring — the reset, the routine, the knowledge that no matter how unpredictable the news gets, the shape of your day will hold.
However, the real comfort often comes in the out-of-work routine — the part that bookends the chaos. The afternoon before, I’ll meal prep, switch off and give myself a proper wind-down: a long shower, candles on, sleepy tea, a good book and bed by 7pm. It’s not glamorous, but it’s my version of calm. Then there’s the post-show ritual. The wary commute home — in full daylight — somehow feels like sneaking home after a night out, only my day’s ending as everyone else grabs lunch. Once home, I unpack my bag, make a toasted Marmite bagel, swap studio clothes for something soft, nap, then try to touch some grass — as people say — before easing back into the evening routine. It’s domestic, simple, grounding.
Maybe that’s the calm within it all. The news never sleeps, but there’s a steadiness in keeping pace with it. The repetition isn’t dull — it’s grounding. It’s what keeps the whole thing moving without losing yourself in the noise.
Not Sophia Loren 