Dave Morris, the Shropshire Star’s municipal correspondent, looks back on more than 40 years in journalism.

Blog: My hands were so cold that I struggled to change gears on my motor scooter.

The snow was falling heavily and I was really worried that I would not make it back to town.

It was the winter of 1968/69.

And as a cub reporter I was paying the price of a dropping a clanger which had angered my editor.

Back in those days, working for a small family-owned newspaper that had hardly changed over the previous 100 years, funerals played a big part in my reporting duties.

The paper still covered funerals, no matter who the deceased was. It involved standing in the doorway to the church or chapel and asking mourners for their names.

Once the funeral was over, it was usually back to the family home, church hall, pub, or chapel school room for a pre-arranged chat – and ham sandwich – with a senior member of the family for some biographical details of the deceased and a list of the relatives who had followed the coffin.

The most funerals I covered in a week? Nine.

This was a far different world to the films in which fast-talking, hard-bitten journos who were always dashing into the newsroom with their major scoop and shouting “Hold the front page”.

But back to that snowy winter day.

I had been sent to report a funeral at the remote edge of the paper’s “empire”.

Everything went well – until I got back to the office and discovered that I had forgot to get a list of the tributes on the wreaths, for which there was a charge for publishing. The list of mourners and biographical details were free.

I received a severe telling off and was sent back out to the church which on my slow scooter – and the snow – took at least 40 minutes to reach.

It was mid afternoon, quite dark, and spooky in the deserted graveyard, but somehow I managed to get the names from the wreaths -  on my knees and brushing snow off the cards.

I felt so very depressed.

Making my way back to town, I was very cold, soaking wet and shivering.

I was also near to tears. I’m sure if someone had shouted “boo” I would have cried.

It was also one of those very rare occasions over the past 43 years – I could count them on one hand – when I’ve felt like quitting.

But back at the office, the radiators were going full blast, and I quickly began to dry out and cheer up. Next day the ordeal was well and truly behind me, and I never made the same mistake again.

I can’t recall whether the winter of 68/69 was particularly severe but I often seemed to be freezing and soaking wet.

Perhaps my mode of transport had something to do with it.