MOST journalists are capable of slinging together a few well-chosen words. In many cases it was the main reason they were hired.

But ask those same scribes to speak in public and you will hear unhappy murmurs and much shuffling of feet.

There are exceptions such as the Labour politician Michael Foot who was once editor of the Evening Standard in London. But they are rare.

Most of those who take it up, certainly at a local level, are press ganged into it. In my case the editor at that time hated public speaking and wanted someone who could appear for The Argus in his absence. I already wrote the paper’s leading articles, so I knew what line to take. From that it was a short step towards speaking to various groups about The Argus and what it was like being a reporter.

It also became widely known around Brighton that I knew a fair bit about its history, so I was called on to speak about that. I spoke on subjects ranging from the story of the South Downs to how buses in Brighton got their names.

Some groups heard most of the talks at their own request which surprised me. On the other hand I was reliable and never made a charge, even for expenses. Many of the groups were townswomen’s guilds or women’s institutes which tended to be elderly and non-demanding. Some, like the Women’s Gas Federation, were previously unknown to me.

And me to them as this story shows. I had finished talking to 105 members of the local branch and answered some questions when I could hear the mighty roar of a (gas powered) kettle in the background.

The chairman asked brightly if there was one more question for me before tea. At this, a very old woman rose slowly to her feet and said:” I’d like to say, Mr Trimingham that I’ve never, ever, ever heard of you.”

This was less disconcerting than a meeting held by retired civil servants after a good lunch. The chairman said I should not mind if a number of members fell asleep during my talk. This I duly did but it was awkward speaking when I knew half the audience was definitely not listening.

I had other talks to perform, the worst of which was judging the most beautiful baby at a show in Hove Park. It was not hard choosing a particularly charming child from the large selection available. What I had not reckoned on was the enmity then shown to me by all the other mothers who naturally considered their infant was the bonniest. I got out of there as fast as I could.

I progressed to compering an Any Questions session for Hove Conservatives and a couple of general election meetings with speakers from all parties.

Once I appeared on a Brighton Festival panel about the Press and I also chaired a question and answer session involving Tim Smit of the Eden Project and the celebrity gardener Diarmuid Gavin. This was nerve-wracking because at the starting time neither speaker had arrived and the audience was growing understandably restless. They eventually walked straight on to the stage without giving me a chance to talk to them first about possible subjects or pitfalls.

Occasionally I was invited on to regional TV to comment on some Brighton scandal. Once I was half pleased with my answers on the West Pier only to be told the film was unusable because I had swayed several times out of the camera’s reach.

Appearing on radio programmes made me realise how wooden I was compared with the professional broadcasters. I was pleased with the send-off I gave to my journalistic colleague Mike Howard at his funeral only to make a particularly bad hash of a talk that same evening to the Max Miller Appreciation Society whose members all knew far more about the great comedian than I did.

My voice, often too weak to be attractive, fell into further decline a few years ago when I developed Parkinson’s disease. I struggled on, posting listeners at far corners of halls to alert me if I could not be heard.

I always could but at the last talk I gave during the summer heatwave, I was concentrating so hard on voice projection that I was neglecting the subject and speaking in an odd, flat tone. The talk was also far too short – not that this bothered my hosts, a townswomen’s guild in Saltdean whose members were only too happy to spend more time chatting.

I’d like to say I’m retiring but I really never officially became a public speaker in the first place. I won’t promise never to give another talk but you’ll find me surprisingly unavailable. Instead I’m joining most of my colleagues in silence, letting our stories speak for us in print and online.