My newspapers didn’t arrive this morning. I have a routine every morning: read the papers, do some yoga, get ready for work. Suddenly I had some free time.

Instead if calling customer service I wrote this:

The day the newspapers didn’t arrive some people walked around aimlessly in the streets; some men spent the morning making coffee for their wives and talking to them; husbands rarely talk to their wives in the morning [instead they practice looking serious and concerned when reading the newspaper], wives have to talk to each other in the mornings and that’s why you can never get them on the phone; some men actually got to take a closer look than usual at their kids before they left for school.

The radio stations didn’t know what to do. The news show presenters ummed and aaahd until the half-hourly news bulletins, and then they ummed and aahd again. Eventually some of the smarter ones just started calling politicians to ask them what they thought about the news not coming. The opposition politicians said it was the government’s fault, that the government had to go, and that if they were elected, they would make sure such a terrible thing would never happen again. But after they said that they really didn’t have anything more to say.

Some sad news addicts re-read yesterday’s papers, whatever was left around the house, just because they couldn’t start the day without their fix.

Many journalists showed up for work at their newspaper buildings and felt an odd stillness. That morning’s newspaper, neither theirs nor their competitions’, had arrived. Reporters always look at their own papers first, look for their own stories, and then rush to look at what the other papers did, especially the ones covering the same beats as them. Usually, a reporter’s morning is an emotional rollercoaster: the thrill of seeing their name in print, the glory of a front page article, the anger at having their headline changed, the anguish of seeing an error that was introduced by the copy desk; the glee of a scoop nobody else had, the grudging admiration of seeing a scoop somebody wrote in another paper [or, more to the point, convincing yourself that your competitors' scoop really isn't a story and that in any case you had written it months ago]. These are the things a reporter must go through before they really wake up and start the day, preparing for tomorrow’s rollercoaster, maybe it will be even better than todays.

But on this morning, there was none of that. Reporters felt they had nothing to show for their previous day’s work, and nobody to measure themselves up against. Robbed of their morning roller coaster, some of them slumped into their office chairs and lazily flipped through previous editions, as they searched for their already-printed stories as confirmation of their existence and brilliance – not quite the same though, as those papers had already provided the necessary rush days ago. It’s like drinking cold, stale coffee, but they’ll drink it if there is no other coffee anywhere. Its like riding the same roller coaster you’ve ridden many times before, its not really a thrill.

Editors mulled around their newsrooms looking for angles on what happened to the newspapers that day. Would it happen again tomorrow? Were the papers stolen overnight? Is there panic in the streets? [a quick squizz outside showed that there was none, just a handful of confused-looking people in pajamas and slippers giving each other some confused looks]. Some of the smart editors wanted a second source on that so they also looked out the windows. No, the streets were calm. Interns were placed at the windows and told to report any signs of panic and disaster.

Would the absence of newspapers affect the news at all, the editors asked. Was this the end of history, the present or the future? Was this the beginning of a pattern? Should the graphics department be told to prepare a graph?

The advertising department was on the line, what would this do for revenue? Every reporter wanted to know if this story was his or her beat? Was it a crime story, the police reporter asked? Is it a new form of terrorism, the military reporter asked?, and went into a corner to call some shadowy sources in the secret services. Will there be political fallout? Will we need to publish a poll on people’s attitudes? The Op-ed department wanted an opinion on the matter.

The printing presses report everything as normal last night. The delivery companies report delivering as usual late into the night. Are the anarchists at work? A quick call to all the known anarchists groups show that they were all just taking it easy last night, and that nobody knew of any special mission. They would check with any splinter groups and get back to us.

The kiosk owners had nothing to talk to their early-morning customers about, except the freshness of the milk and bread. Some customers actually stopped to smell the fresh bread, which is just as nice as the smell of fresh coffee. Some people in coffee shops pored over the menus they know so well, just because they are so used to reading something with the morning coffee and croissant. But once they finished reading both sides of the menu, and all the old SMS messages on their phones, they lifted their eyes and just let them rest on a slowly waking beautiful summer day in Tel-Aviv.