https://web.archive.org/web/20200303170025/http://abctvgorehill.com.au/assets/contributions/ruth_harris_2E.htm
When working on Drama, the set was drawn up on the floor, and the Producer walked around the actors, looking for camera positions through what was known as a black box with different size holes, representing different angle lenses, and I had to follow him making notes and comments to tell the actors later. The Producer was also the Director in those days, not separate positions as now. Everything for the show had to go on requisition forms, props, sets, costumes, makeup, graphics - Bill Kennard was the Graphics Sup. It was interesting to sit in while the Producer and Designer mapped out a set and between the Designer and Wardrobe, costumes were designed and made. Zilla Weatherby was Wardrobe Mistress, and we usually had a look when fittings for the actors were made. Then suddenly today was Production day and it became very exciting sitting in the control room above the studio (when we moved eventually to a proper studio), and the actors or dancers and singers were in costume...
All programs in early days went 'live' to air, and we had some anxious moments. If the cameraman wasn't careful and knocked into one of the flats, the viewers saw the wobble of the set, heard the noises, but everyone just carried on. Or an actor had to be prompted, which fortunately didn't happen very often. Now, of course, if the slightest thing happens, the whole scene can be videotaped again - we didn't have such luxuries, and I think the fact that it was 'live' gave a certain excitement about it.
Also at https://web.archive.org/web/20200303170028/http://abctvgorehill.com.au/assets/publications/radio_active/pubs_ra1957.htm below
THE WHIRL OF A SCRIPT GIRL
By RUTH PAGE (Script Asst., H.O.)
When Grandmother began her campaign for equality, I’m sure she thought she was doing the right thing. When she stormed the ramparts of Commerce, Law and Medicine, I’m sure she thought she had won a great victory for her daughters and grand-daughters.
From a tiny world of her home she had visions of being independent, of working in an office. To her this was an exciting prospect. So, as we all know, she set about making her dream a reality. And she won.
You and I had no trouble at all in becoming typists and secretaries. It was almost expected of us. We took our lot for granted – but we were not content.
As we sat at our typewriters we dreamed (in this modern age) of being script girls in television. We saw monitors and cameras, lights and talent and stopwatches and producers and shooting scripts, and studios and galleries. We saw ourselves as vital cogs in the fascinating wheel of production; and like grandmother – in a relative way – we stormed the ramparts.
But perhaps my natural romanticism is creeping through. There is really nothing romantic about this business. I t only in those vague thoughts of a typist that any romance exists. This you learn the first day.
That first day starts with, "These are the forms we have to issue". And there staring you in the face are white forms, blue forms, yellow forms, all neatly numbered, and all of which don’t mean a thing. That exciting world of the studio and the gallery seems suddenly far, far away. But there is no time for dreaming. The nemisis (you come to know it as nemisis) rings, and a voice – usually male – says something vague about not having TV 8 or TV 11 or 5, or some number, and could he have it? So it starts.
You tell your producer, who tells you in no uncertain terms to tell him (that is, the voice) that he’s waiting on a writer or an artist or news, or any one (you come to learn) of a thousand things which exists for the producer, but don’t seem to for the voice. But you ring the voice, who tells you to tell the producer - - -. At the end of the first day you’re not quite certain what the difference between a typist and a script girl really is. But don’t worry; this goes on for weeks.
By the time TV 8 or 11 or 5 or blue or pink forms mean something, all thought of that exciting studio and gallery, and being a vital cog in the crazy wheel of production has completely and finally disappeared. Now all thought, all will is brought to bear on such things as – "I hope he doesn’t change his mind again". "I hope that man-invented thing doesn’t jangle again". "I hope he doesn’t call another night rehearsal!" – While there’s life there’s hope.
And then, suddenly, to-day is production day. You find yourself in the studio. And somehow, in those first few minutes all the forms and the telephones and the changes and the voices and the rehearsals have been worth it. But, wait for it. The man to whom you have been for the most part sweetness itself, and who in return has been approximately human, if a little eratic, has turned suddenly into a not-so-far-from-erupting volcano. He is full of such questions as – "Why didn’t we do so and so?" And somehow the "we" doesn’t include him. It is now that you hope you’ve done everything, and that the volcano doesn’t erupt at you. The chances are that it won’t, but, girls, that’s a chance you take.
Then it’s all over, and the big day to-day is yesterday, and a voice is saying something about TV 8 or 11 or 5, or pink or green forms not being in, and you’re back where you started. Not quite, because your producer who was yesterday a volcano is a benign breeze who breezed in early, and breezed out again to relax after yesterday’s show.
You sit for a minute to think about that studio and gallery which you’ve seen, and you realise that you didn’t feel quite what you thought you’d feel – anyway you’re not quite sure what you did feel – ah well – TV 8 and 11 and 5 and yellow and white, and voices and nemesis – such is the price of progress.
RADIO-ACTIVE, October 15, 1957 – Page 4
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