I was joined by the wife of our intrepid reporter on the streets of Tripoli as his image came through on our television screen.
'What is that terrible hat he has got on?' she cried in alarm.
I explained it was to stop bullets going through his head.
'But no one can see his lovely hair' she groaned.
There was more bad news to come. 'His colour coordination is terrible' said the loyal wife in a state of alarm 'why is he waving that red and black flag his father had from the Spanish Civil War? Any fool can see it clashes with his pink trousers!'
I ventured to suggest that our reporter was simply trying to identify with the rebels in order to get their sympathy.
Suddenly there was a burst of fire as our friend announced that Gaddafi's forces were crumbling. He fell in a pool of blood.
'This is a disaster' yelled his wife transfixed 'he's wearing brown shoes. He shouldn't be seen dead in those. His mother will murder me.'
I reflected on the brave men and women of the media who risked all in order to report back to us in our comfy armchairs. Of the wives left behind who would always carry an image of them falling in uncoordinated clothes, wearing brown shoes.
As always, our thoughts must be with the families.
