I had my photograph in the Sun – no, not on page three! My colleagues and I had been on strike and the dispute had just been settled. After days on a picket line it was a joy to be able to dress up for the celebration party that evening. As I walked from the station to the venue, all dolled up in my somewhat décolleté glad rags, I was stopped by a journalist who was "interviewing" passers-by about HM Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother who was approaching her seventy-fifth birthday. I declined to say anything about her and he responded, "Oh God, please. We haven't managed to get anything from anyone under the age of 60". So I relented and said that I thought she was very stylish. He asked me what my job was and I laughed as I told him that I was a journalist – although I worked on magazines rather than newspapers. He groaned and I then went on my merry way.
A few days later, the birthday edition appeared. Sure enough, there were little pictures of the "public" – everyone apparently over 60 apart from me – with their sycophantic comments underneath. My "very stylish" had an addition which read "I think she deserves a medal for what she does", a thoroughly annoying expression that I had never used in my life then, nor since. What was worse, I was described as "25-year-old London beauty from XXX XXXXX Road, Barnes".
But the story doesn't end there. I was bombarded with mail – my surname is unusual so it wasn't hard for the PO to direct it helpfully to the right address, given the newspaper had so helpfully included the name of the small street where I lived in Barnes. All of it was from men wanting to meet me, wanting to date me, wanting to do rather more than either of those, and even several proposals of marriage. The postman thought it was hysterical, but I just reached the point when any letter addressed with handwriting I didn't recognise went straight in the bin. Of course it was a nine-days' or, more probably, a three-days' wonder.