At a prominent London journalism school, where NCTJ gold standard shorthand was the make-or-break of many careers, two students developed markedly different approaches to their craft.
One wrote with unwavering precision, maintaining perfect Teeline accuracy as prescribed. Like a sturdy oak in a royal park, this writer stood resolute in their technique, never swaying from the guidelines.
The other wrote with remarkable fluidity, adapting their style to match each speaker's rhythm. Like a reed in the Thames, their outlines would bend and flow, sometimes straying from textbook perfection but never losing the thread of spoken words.
"Your outlines lack proper discipline," the rigid writer remarked during shorthand class. "They drift from the standard like a boat without anchor."
"Yet they capture every word of the Prime Minister's questions," the fluid writer replied. "And isn't that rather the point?"
Then came the day of the Select Committee hearing. MPs fired questions in rapid succession, witnesses spoke in varying accents and speeds, from measured civil service tones to rapid-fire responses under pressure. The committee chair hardly paused between speakers, and supplementary questions flew across the chamber.
The rigid writer struggled to maintain their perfect outlines against this barrage of parliamentary discourse. Each time they attempted to craft a pristine note, vital words from interjecting committee members went unrecorded, their perfect technique finally buckling under the pressure of reality.
But the fluid writer moved like a reed in the wind, adapting to each new voice, every change of pace. Their outlines weren't always textbook examples, but they flowed naturally with the speech, bending but never breaking, capturing every crucial exchange.
When the time came to file their copy, the rigid writer found gaps where their perfect technique had failed them at critical moments. But the fluid writer had captured everything, their adaptable style proving more robust than unbending perfection.
From that day forward, students at the college learned that in Teeline, as in nature, those who adapt survive better than those who remain rigid. The true strength of shorthand lies not in unwavering perfection, but in its ability to flow with the ceaseless current of speech.
The tale still circulates in newsrooms from Fleet Street to the regional dailies: when the story breaks, when the court rises, when parliament divides, it's not the perfect outline that matters - it's the one that gets the quote right.
The moral of this story is:
The world doesn't need perfect shorthand, but it does need shorthand that works.
