My Greatest Mistake: Jolyon Connell, Editor of 'The Week' Magazine

My first job as a journalist was as a trainee reporter on The Press and Journal in Aberdeen. It was the late Seventies, and I was doing the usual things – fish prices and golden weddings. I was getting itchy feet very quickly, so I decided to go off with a friend and write a book. My editor agreed to let me go to London to research for three months, and I wrote a book called Fraud: the Amazing Career of Dr Savundra. Dr Savundra was the tremendous confidence trickster who had been exposed in the late 1960s by The Sunday Times's Insight team, so I talked to them as part of my research.

More and more, the idea of spending the rest of my life in Aberdeen didn't appeal to me. One night, I was in the pub drinking with the Sunday Times people, who said I couldn't possibly go back to Aberdeen, and that I should come down to London to get a job. They said that there was a job going as the chief sub-editor on the business section, and I should call the deputy business editor, Peter Harland, instantly. I was drunk, and stumbled to the telephone. He told me to come to see him there and then, so I went across the road and met him. He was charming to me, but within five seconds it was obvious to him that I knew nothing about subbing and even less about business. The idea of me being the chief sub for business was so absurd that he dismissed it instantly, but he did say that if I was willing (and brave), he would give me two days a week, writing for the business section.

After I said I'd think about it, I went back to Aberdeen. I was supposed to stay there for two years, but when I spoke to my editor, Peter Watson, about how I'd been offered a freelance position, he was frightfully nice about it. He said that he'd let me go, but he had one suggestion – that I got the offer in writing. It seemed sensible, so I wrote a letter along the lines of, "Dear Peter, I'm delighted to accept your offer; I'd love to come, and could you possibly put it in writing?" A week went by, and I got a letter that read: "Dear Jon, Thank you for your letter to Peter Harland. I'm afraid Peter is in hospital, so I received it. There are no jobs in The Sunday Times at the moment." It was signed – terrifyingly – Kenneth Fleet, who was the paper's business supremo at the time.

The same day, I bumped into my editor in the corridor, who said, "Actually, on reflection, you'd be wise not to force them to put it in writing." Of course, because of my pride, I couldn't tell him that I suddenly didn't have a job any more. I just smiled, and there it was: I had resigned, there was nothing for me at The Sunday Times, I had a book that wasn't published, and at the age of 24 my glittering career was over. After that, a dreadful farce began, with me going to London, calling Peter, saying I needed the job, him sneaking me into the office because Kenneth didn't know who I was, then Peter going back into hospital, so I had to stop. Madness. By then, though, I had contacts in the newsroom who I worked for on an investigation in Blackpool. Luckily, it worked out, because in three months they offered me a job.

Journalists have no career structure, so they have to take risks and be madly brave. As is often the case with mistakes, this one was important – they often lead to something surprising.