Even parish magazines have their Sir Herbert Gussetts

Somehow I managed to make a living for 40 years by stringing a few words together and being able to spot what might interest other people.

Being a journalist isn’t like having a proper job. If you cut the profession down to its basics it is only about being nosey, being able to use correct grammar and punctuation and turning the efforts of one’s noisiness into something others want to know about.

Not exactly being a doctor, an engineer or an airline pilot but a living nonetheless.

And as I climbed the greasy pole of journalism, I found I also had to develop a thick skin.

For many people, particularly those in positions of responsibility, objected to what I or my colleagues had written or published.

It wasn’t a case of whether stories were true or not but came down to the subjects simply not liking what had been written/ published.

And then there were those people who seemed to always write to you in green ink (for my younger readers, we used pens and pieces of paper to communicate in the olden days – unbelievable, I know).

These were the people who would pick fault with anything and everything – the newsprint was too flimsy/ too thick; the photographs too small/ too big; there was one spelling mistake on page 43 of your 56 page tome.

On retiring I knew I’d miss the buzz of a newspaper office, the fact that every day was going to be different and the long, boozy lunches.

But I certainly wasn’t going to miss the Sir Herbert Gussetts of this world.

But now, some years after putting my last edition to bed, a member of the Gussett clan is haunting me.

I edit, on a voluntary basis, my local monthly parish magazine and, despote having a speel chicker and a poof raider, the occasional typo slips through the net and my very own SHG is always quick to let me know.

For the latest edition, which I am working on, he has sent me an article with a throwaway last line in the email saying “No typos this month, we hope!”

My thick skin was severely tested by this but I calmed down somewhat when I spotted an error in his submission – the name of the speaker at his club next month was incorrect.

Thank you, thank you thank you. What goes around comes around. Now all I have to do is decide how to let him know.

Sir Herbert Gussett is a fictional character in Private Eye who is forever sending "Dear Sir" letters to the press.

I'm suffering from information overload on social media

Sorry you haven’t been able to enjoy my irregular rant but we’ve been away.

I would have liked to have informed you all before we went to sunny Norfolk for a week but, as a bit of an old fashioned fellow, I didn’t really want a bunch of reprobates to know our house was empty. Sorry, but that is just the way I am.

I know this is strange in this “tell ‘em everything” age but people do go a little too far with their “news” on social media.

On display in the servants quarters at Felbrigg Hall, Norfolk.

Maybe it’s just me but I’m not really that interested in what Samantha just had for lunch.

Or in seeing a photo of the flower bed that Christopher has just spent the morning digging.

And I’m certainly not interested in Tom’s latest hilarious “movie” of his cat looking at a mat. Cute for you, maybe, but dreadfully boring for the rest us. Honestly, Tom - get a grip.

But the biggest social media crime to my mind is letting all your “friends” know that you are at Heathrow Airport with wife and children in tow, waiting to board your flight for a two-week trip to Florida.

Right, better let my mate, just released from prison after serving two years for burglary, have your address. Guess you won’t be in on Monday? But he will be.

Have a good holiday.