Also, we don’t tend to be wealthy—by far most journalists in Washington come from middle class families, some even from lower-income levels. All they have to go on is their talent. Technically, America has no class system, though we’ve all known colleagues who consider themselves from the upper crust. But we tend to be ignorant about such matters. Some journalists here may have wealth, may have “come out” at debutante parties, but we don’t know who they are, because it makes no difference. We’re a meritocracy.

I don’t intend, Mr. President, to make a disparaging comparison of a sort, but you probably have no idea how hard we work. We don’t have three hours in the morning of “executive time” to do what we want—watch television, make phone calls to friends. And dinner at 6:30? That’s unimaginable. You see, Mr. P, while journalists here have always worked hard, your presidency has pushed them to the limit, starting with your early morning tweets, and often as not ending with a surprise nighttime announcement from the White House or news of a new scandal on the part of one of your appointees.

We cannot anticipate when you or, say, of late, Rudy Giuliani, is going to blab publicly about what you might not realize is big news. We might receive little notice, if any at all, that a cabinet officer or administration aide of significance is about to be fired or is planning to quit or has done so. Or that you’ve decided to make what might be termed a novel nomination. Reporters’ jobs consume them nearly 24/7, and weekends can be hijacked by decisions you make without having vetted a person or an issue, and reporters trying to cover you either have to scramble or are detained in a blacked-out room while you golf at Mar-a-Lago. Some journos I know—the ones who scramble hardest and are most dedicated to covering you as thoroughly as they can—don’t even make weekend plans these days since they assume that something will happen that will cause them to break them,

Lest you and others think our jobs are glamorous, our workdays can be quite frazzling. By far most of us don’t have secretaries to screen our calls, to protect us from interruptions when we’re trying to do our job. The nature of our work is clearly considered of a lower order than that of other professionals. (Yes, we think of ourselves as professionals, even if you, Mr. P, don’t see us that way.) When we’re writing, or on the phone with a source, others don’t consider that “working.” They don’t concede that a mere journalist might need uninterruptible time—unlike when we’re told that the doctor “is seeing a patient” or a lawyer is “in with a client,” or simply, “on another line.” A senator or congressman can be “on the floor,” “in a conference,” or even “meeting with constituents.” Getting through on a phone call to a mere reporter is far easier: We can’t be doing work that’s all that important. Our deadlines aren’t taken seriously. It’s difficult to say that we simply can’t talk at a particular time without giving offense. Ditto with email, which is followed by another one asking, “Did you get my email?”