I suppose this shows what sad lives we journalists lead, but there's nothing to beat the thrill of a big story appearing out of nowhere.

One minute, we're sitting around in the Stock Exchange's media centre, feet up, swapping vicious gossip with colleagues from other channels.

Pazzam - and panic behind the scenes

Then - pazzaam - the top of the computer screen starts filling up with terse red-lettered messages, and we're scrambling after the scent.

Right now, we're just getting the first reports of a merger between the ITV giants Carlton and Granada.

It's a bolt from the blue, and the media centre is all in a whirl. I'm on the phone while I'm typing this, trying to get some juicy comments from the stockbrokers who follow the companies.

Some of those brokers are hearing about the story for the first time from us - which isn't terribly useful.

My producer Alaina is going through the files for useful nuggets; my BBC World colleague Angela is speed-reading the news reports on the computers.

The technicians Natasha and Darren, and our cameraman Andy, are powering up extra cameras and finding spare microphones and earpieces.

We're passing notes and shouting comments to each other, and feeding stuff through to our rivals from other channels, who are on the air right now and can't get away from their cameras.

Media jungle

We may be on different sides professionally, but we always help each other out. We're all in the same jungle.

No matter how good the report, it's all old hat the moment it's spoken. At least newspapers survive as tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers.

From your TV screen, you may think the Breakfast team is the only bunch down at the Stock Exchange studios, but there are people broadcasting all over the world from here.

On busy mornings, we even get old friends from German TV, or Asian and Arabic channels, reporting for their own audiences in their own languages. When we're all stood in a line, talking to different channels at the same time, there's quite a babble.

And in twenty minutes from now, when all the initial fuss is over, the place will be empty again - as people either go off for breakfast in the canteen, disappear into their own booths, or pop outside for a breath of fresh City air.

No matter how good the report, it's all old hat the moment it's spoken. At least newspapers survive as tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers.

Visits from the boss

The other time there's a buzz down here is when we've got a high-powered guest or two.

Then it's like a high-speed auction, each of us trying to get the boss onto our channels, and striking deals over when we can talk to them and for how long. We all want a bite of the cherry.

We tend to use the word "big" when we talk about bosses, but really they come in all shapes and sizes.

Some of them are surprisingly nervous - they run these huge companies, they control the lives of thousands of workers, but they're as frightened as rabbits when they come in and we start fighting over who's doing what interview when.

Others have a great, commanding presence - from the second they walk in the door, you know they're in charge, and are used to being in charge. Some are polite and friendly; others pompous to the point of being ridiculous.

Branson: no fuss and no minders

The other thing that varies is the size of their supporters club. I'm always amused when the head of a tiny little company arrives with a team of eight minders, advisers and secretaries.

It's one step away from wearing a neon sign that says, "I'm in the big league really". The truly influential company chiefs - the people who head up our biggest firms - tend to arrive with just one or two helpers.

And then there's Sir Richard Branson. He doesn't bother with any of that flummery at all. When we talked to him last week, he turned up by himself - no minders, just a cheery "Hi, I'm Richard Branson." (Not that we needed to be told - his must be one of the most recognisable faces in the country).

He didn't assume we knew who he was; nor did he say "Call me Richard", with the implication that we might call him Sir Richard. There was just a friendly greeting and an invitation to go and get cups of tea. Whatever you think of him or his companies, he's a class act.

On the air, he had plenty to say about his venture into the mobile phone business. He had less to say about those rumours that he's going to sell off substantial stakes in the wide range of companies that use the Virgin name.

Virgin Rail

One of those firms is Virgin Rail (which he only part owns now anyway) - and as he was with us on the day of another tube strike, we got chatting about the increasing militancy of the rail unions.

His line isn't one you expect to hear from rail bosses. He thinks train workers would be less aggrieved if they were treated better. He's hoping Virgin can avoid the threat of future strikes, because it gives it workers a chance to speak up if they're unhappy, and it rewards them with parties and treats when things are going well.

We already know he does this in his other companies - Virgin's staff parties are famous throughout business for their hospitality. When you hear some bosses talk about "partnership" and "teamwork", you know they're just words they've read in a management text-book. For him, they're real business.