Sara Mohr-Pietsch has presented Radio 3's Breakfast show since 2007. Tomorrow is her last one. Regrets? Well, yes, she has a few....
When people ask me what I do for a living, there's only ever one follow-up question. What everyone wants to know first about the work of a Breakfast radio presenter is: "what time do you have to get up?"
Hundreds of identical conversations later, the minutiae of my morning routine chewed over with alarming fascination, I've finally understood why. It's a quid pro quo of intimacy. Breakfast radio is the most intimate broadcasting there is – even more so than the late-night airwaves. First thing in the morning, you're at your most vulnerable and exposed. You have sleep in the corner of your eye, toothpaste in your mouth, and a whole day to plan; you're late and you can't find the other sock. And even though we've never met, all the while I'm sitting there in the corner chatting away.
If I knocked on your door, you wouldn't let me in without ID, but you regularly take off your pyjamas while I'm in the room. You stand in the kitchen barefoot, making toast, while I talk at you from the radio on the counter. You're in the shower, and there I am too – and in your bedroom, and in your car in rush-hour traffic. If you really think about it, it's a wonder anyone ever turns on the radio at all. And it's only now that I'm about to present - on 15 November - my last Breakfast show and have a lie-in of my own that I'm starting to appreciate the amazing generosity and leap of faith taken by hundreds of thousands of listeners every day by simply not switching off when I open my mouth. So, by way of thanks, since I've seen your early mornings, I'll show you mine.
Welcome to the impeccable orchestration of my weekday morning routine. At 4.30am, my radio alarm goes off. It's tuned to BBC Radio 3, and the first thing I hear is the Through The Night theme tune. (For the record, I can't stand Milhaud, and I'm delighted to say that after tomorrow I don't intend to hear it ever again.) I have precisely three minutes to come to, before my phone alarm goes off (4.33am). It's set to the duck noise (you know the one), and it drags me to the next level of consciousness. What's more, it's half way across the room, so I actually have to get out of bed to turn it off. (It took me ages to hone that little sequence, and I'm rather proud of it. It'll stand me in good stead for every early-morning flight I'll ever catch.)
At this point, my exquisitely choreographed routine diverges. On a good day (more likely in summer when it's light), I make myself something delicious for breakfast, do some yoga, meditate, have a leisurely shower, choose my clothes carefully, and saunter out of the house at 5.20am. Little things help: putting clothes on the radiator the night before so they're warm next morning, or lighting a candle to make it feel a bit special even though it's just another Thursday.
On a bad day (in February, when the duvet not in direct contact with my body is cold and there's condensation on the windows), I get back into bed and hit snooze till 5.05; then I panic, put on all the wrong clothes, forget my umbrella, and leave at 5.26.
The BBC, in its infinite wisdom, has a car waiting for me outside. I used to think this was an outrageous extravagance; now, I realise it's the only way they can be sure I don't keep hitting snooze until my phone battery runs out. If I don't turn up by 5.30am, the driver's meant to ring me. Remarkably, that's never been put to the test.
If all this sounds pretty ordinary: in one sense, it is. It's what I do most days (alternating fortnights presenting Radio 3's Breakfast show with Petroc Trelawny), and after a while it becomes normal to be up at that hour. And yet, it's also part of an extraordinary job. I reckon I've presented somewhere in the region of 900 shows, and it hasn't ever stopped being a thrill to arrive at the doors of Broadcasting House in the half-light. In all that time, I haven't fallen out of love with the sight of the orange light (which means we're on air), and the feel of the microphone fader under my fingertips. I get to spend my morning choosing wonderful music for a hugely appreciative audience which, over the years, has become a cherished community (one I hope will travel with me to my new programme, The Choir). Along with the amazing team of producers and studio managers I'm creating something live that exists and matters beyond the walls of the studio. I watch with interest as the world wakes up on social media, from @big_ben_clock's lonely "BONG BONG BONG BONG" to a cacophony of trends, and then I get to saunter smugly down Oxford Street at 9.15am, against the flow of office workers, my job done for the day.
The beating heart of the operation is, and always will be, the music. I'm constantly touched and amazed by the breadth of knowledge and interest our listeners show, and the curiosity with which they approach the new. I remember one tweeter beside himself with joy at discovering the fractured beauty of Mortuos Plango, Vivos Voco by Jonathan Harvey, which I played the morning after the composer died. It's a juggling act, of course – you can't please all of the people all of the time, and no day goes by without one message telling me to turn that rubbish off. Of course, that "rubbish" could be anything from Bach to Stravinsky, Hummell to Cage. Tastes are individual. But at other moments, popular opinion swells behind a single piece. In my final show, I'm playing a virtually unknown Cavatina, a movement of a Piano Concerto by Emil von Sauer, which a listener requested a few years back and with which I, and everyone else listening, fell instantly in love. At moments like that, it's not a job, it's an honour; and the 4.30am alarm is an insignificance.
Of course, there are costs, mainly involving a permanent state of mild jetlag. It's not great for your health: shift-workers suffer from a higher risk of stroke and heart complaints and, anecdotally, peculiar things like gum disease because of eating at weird times of the day, and feeling the cold more acutely. You're basically tired all the time, and because you go to bed at 8.30pm, the social life suffers a bit, as does the concert-going – which, in my line of work, is a bit of a downer.
But for the privilege of sitting in your kitchen while you make the tea, and being on the receiving end of listeners' outpourings of love for the music I love too, it's a small price to pay. It's been an honour, and if it weren't for the monumental lie-in I'm about to have, I'd be tempted to do it all over again. Reported by guardian.co.uk 3 days ago.
When people ask me what I do for a living, there's only ever one follow-up question. What everyone wants to know first about the work of a Breakfast radio presenter is: "what time do you have to get up?"
Hundreds of identical conversations later, the minutiae of my morning routine chewed over with alarming fascination, I've finally understood why. It's a quid pro quo of intimacy. Breakfast radio is the most intimate broadcasting there is – even more so than the late-night airwaves. First thing in the morning, you're at your most vulnerable and exposed. You have sleep in the corner of your eye, toothpaste in your mouth, and a whole day to plan; you're late and you can't find the other sock. And even though we've never met, all the while I'm sitting there in the corner chatting away.
If I knocked on your door, you wouldn't let me in without ID, but you regularly take off your pyjamas while I'm in the room. You stand in the kitchen barefoot, making toast, while I talk at you from the radio on the counter. You're in the shower, and there I am too – and in your bedroom, and in your car in rush-hour traffic. If you really think about it, it's a wonder anyone ever turns on the radio at all. And it's only now that I'm about to present - on 15 November - my last Breakfast show and have a lie-in of my own that I'm starting to appreciate the amazing generosity and leap of faith taken by hundreds of thousands of listeners every day by simply not switching off when I open my mouth. So, by way of thanks, since I've seen your early mornings, I'll show you mine.
Welcome to the impeccable orchestration of my weekday morning routine. At 4.30am, my radio alarm goes off. It's tuned to BBC Radio 3, and the first thing I hear is the Through The Night theme tune. (For the record, I can't stand Milhaud, and I'm delighted to say that after tomorrow I don't intend to hear it ever again.) I have precisely three minutes to come to, before my phone alarm goes off (4.33am). It's set to the duck noise (you know the one), and it drags me to the next level of consciousness. What's more, it's half way across the room, so I actually have to get out of bed to turn it off. (It took me ages to hone that little sequence, and I'm rather proud of it. It'll stand me in good stead for every early-morning flight I'll ever catch.)
At this point, my exquisitely choreographed routine diverges. On a good day (more likely in summer when it's light), I make myself something delicious for breakfast, do some yoga, meditate, have a leisurely shower, choose my clothes carefully, and saunter out of the house at 5.20am. Little things help: putting clothes on the radiator the night before so they're warm next morning, or lighting a candle to make it feel a bit special even though it's just another Thursday.
On a bad day (in February, when the duvet not in direct contact with my body is cold and there's condensation on the windows), I get back into bed and hit snooze till 5.05; then I panic, put on all the wrong clothes, forget my umbrella, and leave at 5.26.
The BBC, in its infinite wisdom, has a car waiting for me outside. I used to think this was an outrageous extravagance; now, I realise it's the only way they can be sure I don't keep hitting snooze until my phone battery runs out. If I don't turn up by 5.30am, the driver's meant to ring me. Remarkably, that's never been put to the test.
If all this sounds pretty ordinary: in one sense, it is. It's what I do most days (alternating fortnights presenting Radio 3's Breakfast show with Petroc Trelawny), and after a while it becomes normal to be up at that hour. And yet, it's also part of an extraordinary job. I reckon I've presented somewhere in the region of 900 shows, and it hasn't ever stopped being a thrill to arrive at the doors of Broadcasting House in the half-light. In all that time, I haven't fallen out of love with the sight of the orange light (which means we're on air), and the feel of the microphone fader under my fingertips. I get to spend my morning choosing wonderful music for a hugely appreciative audience which, over the years, has become a cherished community (one I hope will travel with me to my new programme, The Choir). Along with the amazing team of producers and studio managers I'm creating something live that exists and matters beyond the walls of the studio. I watch with interest as the world wakes up on social media, from @big_ben_clock's lonely "BONG BONG BONG BONG" to a cacophony of trends, and then I get to saunter smugly down Oxford Street at 9.15am, against the flow of office workers, my job done for the day.
The beating heart of the operation is, and always will be, the music. I'm constantly touched and amazed by the breadth of knowledge and interest our listeners show, and the curiosity with which they approach the new. I remember one tweeter beside himself with joy at discovering the fractured beauty of Mortuos Plango, Vivos Voco by Jonathan Harvey, which I played the morning after the composer died. It's a juggling act, of course – you can't please all of the people all of the time, and no day goes by without one message telling me to turn that rubbish off. Of course, that "rubbish" could be anything from Bach to Stravinsky, Hummell to Cage. Tastes are individual. But at other moments, popular opinion swells behind a single piece. In my final show, I'm playing a virtually unknown Cavatina, a movement of a Piano Concerto by Emil von Sauer, which a listener requested a few years back and with which I, and everyone else listening, fell instantly in love. At moments like that, it's not a job, it's an honour; and the 4.30am alarm is an insignificance.
Of course, there are costs, mainly involving a permanent state of mild jetlag. It's not great for your health: shift-workers suffer from a higher risk of stroke and heart complaints and, anecdotally, peculiar things like gum disease because of eating at weird times of the day, and feeling the cold more acutely. You're basically tired all the time, and because you go to bed at 8.30pm, the social life suffers a bit, as does the concert-going – which, in my line of work, is a bit of a downer.
But for the privilege of sitting in your kitchen while you make the tea, and being on the receiving end of listeners' outpourings of love for the music I love too, it's a small price to pay. It's been an honour, and if it weren't for the monumental lie-in I'm about to have, I'd be tempted to do it all over again. Reported by guardian.co.uk 3 days ago.