Not quite as long as my arm: feed me bylines, Economist.

Unless you’re Patrick, or Patrick it’s unlikely that you know, or care, that the FT is longer than my arm. But it is, and as such, I’m having real problems reading it on the bus. What I don’t have problems reading on the bus, however, is The Economist. My endearingly sized Economist is no longer than my forearm, in fact. Perfect.

However, although I am in love with The Economist – there is something about it that I cannot love: its journalists. But this isn’t through lack of trying.

I love to love my journalists. I love to love Marina Hyde and Hadley Freeman when dipping into the Guardian’s showbizzy/fashiony depths. And I love to love Rachel Sylvester when I fancy a bit of Timesy politics. I love loving Chris Ayres’s Iraq coverage, and Iain Dale’s Tory biased blogging. I even love to love Vincent Moss, of the Sunday Mirror, returning Cameron’s stolen bike to Cameron.

But when I read The Economist I’m left staring into the abyss – as Peston almost certainly wouldn’t say. I look to see who wrote what, and I weep. For there are no bylines!

Give me bylines, Economist, so I can fall in love with your journalists who I would so love to love. It would make my – if not many other equally sad individuals – reading experience a whole lot more satisfying…

(Points for anyone who’s noticed my insane number of links. Someone wasn’t asleep in Chris Brauer’s (yet another one – ho!) online lecture today. Neither was Faaez.)