Victoria Owen of the Oxford Mail submitted this report to our recent writing competition on the dangers of investigative journalism. She takes a look at some of the daily dangers faced by a trainee reporter...

As I climbed out of my car, the silence of the twilight hours was tangible. The village was calm, and the burnt red sky, nursing the setting sun, seemed an omen of peril for the battle I was due to witness that night.

I had only my notebook as a shield as I entered the damp and cobwebbed village hall. There in front of me were the rebels, fortified by trenches of old Victorian tables musky with woodworm treatment. These were the parish councillors.

They knew I had no choice but to hear them out. My pen was my sword and I had come on a one-hack crusade to fight, in shorthand, against the village busybodies.

I browsed their demands: An astringent agenda, written with the clumsy font of a 1930s typewriter, stacked to the brim with items, from public footpath access at Mill Cross Farm, to planning for a stain glass conservatory at Rose Cottage (sympathetic to the building's style).

I could tell they were good and this would be tough - even before they'd agreed that last month's minutes were a fair and accurate note, the psychological side-effects of conflict had left me heady on the piano stool at the back of the hall.

Then the first round of bullets pelted down on me. Mrs Herbert-Pugh (Conservative) was condemning pub landlord Bill Smith (Independent) for his flagrant display of defiance against the Standing Orders.

He had failed to leave the room during a debate about licensing at the New Inn, despite clear pecuniary interests, and now he paid the price as a painful vote blasted against him.

Speed humps proved to be the next attack. Despite the children's petitions and mother's pleas, these cruel rebels would not take pity, and ignored the empty appeals for help at the roadside.

Surely further cruelty was not possible, but more was to come. Revelling in their authority, the councillors shouted, screamed and ordered that I note their every move. Into the night they fought, and I was helpless.

At last, at 10.45pm, I managed to make a break for refuge and fled to the haven of my office. The council had adjourned for last orders (and free beverages courtesy of Bill) and I was freed and sent away to relay the devilish display I had witnessed.

As I debriefed my superiors, the rush of relief flooded my body, and I departed the nerve centre of the Gazette newsroom knowing the warfare I had witnessed would return - on page six of tomorrow's edition.

Maybe one day I would be honoured for my courage, awarded the NCE, but until that day I would continue to dodge the daily dangers faced by a trainee reporter. The parish council battle was won, but the war was raging on, and next week I would brave the perils of the vox pop.

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