I WAS 13 when I decided I wanted to be a journalist. Back then, it represented interviewing my favourite pop stars – I aspired to write for Smash Hits, naturally.

Today, I read excerpts of Smash Hits on Facebook - usually in groups subtitled “1980’s nostalgia”, a sure-fire sign that you’re knocking on in years – and cringe at the smug and snarky tone, with the hindsight that the 20-something blokes behind the typewriters knew perfectly well they were aiming their words at hormonal girls like me (I’ve read editor Mark Ellen’s autobiography, so I know it’s true).

In my late teens and early 20s, I aspired to take over Fleet Street, if not the world. I never made it to the Big Smoke, having come to the beautiful South West for my first job, met my Other Half and never left.

But I have discovered that local journalism has its own appeal, not least because news happens everywhere, and not just on a world stage. While Donald Trump is making dramatic waves in the White House, the headlines at home are every bit as exciting and a lot more tangible, because they are happening on our doorsteps and affecting our daily lives in very real ways – some good, others perhaps less so. This has been especially apparent over the last couple of weeks.

May began with the UK council elections, and I was lucky enough to attend the count at Truro Cathedral. The results came in thick and fast; while Reform won scored only one victory on my patch, it split the vote in several wards, leading to a few upsets and a lot of diminished majorities among those who had managed to hold onto their seats. It all made for a long afternoon of live blogging, and I felt like I’d really earned my money when I went home that night.

A few days later, I was invited to the UK gala screening (aka premiere) of The Salt Path, the film adaptation of the memoir by Raynor Winn, to the Lighthouse cinema in Newquay. It’s not often we have the promise of such glamour this far west, and this is probably the nearest I’ll get to my original journalistic ambitions.

The London press team were determined to bring Leicester Square to Cornwall, and I must confess I found the prospect of red-carpet interviews utterly terrifying. I’ve got very used to hiding my art behind a notepad, and the idea of others listening to my questions sends me into a tailspin; if I’d wanted that kind of life, I’d have gone into TV.

Of course, once the event was in full swing, things went swimmingly, and I resisted the temptation to ask Raynor Winn to “show some leg”, like the paparazzo who felt the lash of Hannah Waddingham’s tongue at the Olivier Awards.

As you’d expect from a movie about a long-distance coastal walk, The Salt Path went heavy on the lush scenery and kept dialogue to a minimum, to great effect. I’ll save my full review for another edition, but if you enjoyed the book, the film offers a pretty faithful portrayal and went down extremely well with a native audience.

Last Thursday, it was the turn of VE Day. I covered two ceremonies at the war memorial in Bosacawen Street, and an extremely moving evening gathering on the cathedral steps with singing led by the always brilliant Truro Male Choir. All present were keen to remember the sacrifices of those who lost lives and loved ones in the Second World War, and it was humbling to see near-centenarians lay wreaths in memory of comrades long gone, under the watchful eye of teenage cadets.

And finally, on Saturday, I headed into the city centre once again to witness the thrilling spectacle of our jubilant football team celebrating its recent promotion by receiving medals on the cathedral steps and driving down Boscawen Street in an open-topped bus to the joy of thrilled fans.

It was an education for this sporting ignoramus. I got my selfie with the mascot then hunched down in the press pit. I felt the roar of the crowd behind me, and learned the names of each player from their individual chants. Some of these were quite rude, which could make the video footage problematic. Being showered with champagne was fun, unless you had a serious camera minus waterproof housing.

All of the above have made me proud to work for a local newspaper. I’d be lying if I said it was always this exciting; some weeks, I ring round contacts in desperation, only to be told what I already know: “It’s really quiet at the moment.” And no news is better than bad news, right?

But when it’s good, it’s the best – a daily reminder that variety is the spice of life. Long may it continue.