People are still asking ‘So, how was your summer’ and mine was nice as far as it went: I didn’t ‘go away’ but spent long weeks rambling on Exmoor in the drizzle, baking scones and making and remaking beds for the various guests who came and went, supplying them with endless free hot meals. Then I was sacked on the spot by the new incoming editor of my paper. I always regard it as a badge of honour to be sacked. It’s business. In fact, most national newspaper editors have sacked me and then forgotten and tried to rehire me at least once, so I try never to take it personally (just as my then boyfriend Ivo dumped me in an Italian restaurant in Notting Hill but was so blotto he had no memory of the occasion and we married a few months later). I was holding up, I promise, but then Ivo broke his right hand playing tennis on my birthday, which meant my ‘lovely surprise’ was… hosting and clearing up a secret dinner for myself for 14 plus a miniature Schnauzer puppy belonging to my brother Jo, which has since been deported to Wales (that’s another story) by his wife.
Rachel Johnson
Diary – 13 September 2018

issue 15 September 2018
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