LIZ JONES’s DIARY: In which my faith in humanity is restored

I picked up Benji’s ashes on Friday afternoon. His lone cremation and wooden urn cost £720.

No wonder people ship sick equines to the slaughterhouse. My love for horses started at the age of five, when my parents unwisely let me watch them Animal farm. The image of Boxer being carted off to the glue factory gave me nightmares for years.

Last week I had a terrible argument with someone who said he “can’t take a pay cut” even though his workload has decreased. I’m such a fool. I’ve given away so much that I’m struggling to find the down payment to buy my house. I don’t know why everyone treats me so badly: a sibling, a spouse, employees. This person said that I am the common denominator.

Which is true. I’m too generous. Just like my mother. Give me something – say, a goodie bag No. 7 from my readers’ reading, or a plaid from Laura Ashley (I’ve come into the world since the days of Prada and Vuitton) – and I will immediately pass it on to someone needier than me . But it never works. All employees hate their bosses. When I was editor, I had more than thirty employees, mostly female. I gave them all my freebies – even my Louis Vuitton rolling luggage (to my then-PA, who complained that it had my initials embossed on it) – and Friday afternoon off. Tolerance when they disappeared on maternity leave without looking back. No one ever declined a raise. They all hated me and after I was fired they tried to sell stories to them The guard.

This is why I have a reputation for not being difficult now that I’m a writer: I’ve been on the receiving end of ‘I now charge £4 a word, even short words’ and ‘I’m not flying to LA unless it’s business class’ and (said as Eeyore): ‘Should I interview the author of A brief history of tractors in Ukrainian? The book is terribly looonnnggg.”

I was once roundly reprimanded by a famous American author (OK, it was Jay McInerney) for inserting asterisks into his f-word. ‘But it’s a family newspaper!’

When I’m asked to write, I always say, “Yes, of course, thanks for the assignment.” Maybe I should be more diva-like. I was recently giving a talk to readers and a woman’s hand shot up: “Is it true that you never turn down work?” She spit it out as if it were negative. ‘Er, I’ll say no if I don’t think the piece suits me. But I’m trying to imagine someone better.’ I also do that with TV. I get called almost every day to be the talking head on breakfast TV. Generally I say no, but given the intimidated researchers, I always suggest someone else, with a short biography, like Bridget Jones at a work party: “So and so has a whippet, and she’s very beautiful and witty.”

I had such a nice life when I was a low-paid worker bee, with no pay to work and worry about. I had lunch hours! Gossip! At a daily newspaper, the hours were so tough (5:30 a.m. to 8 p.m.; on call every Sunday to edit and respond to celebrity deaths) and the pressure so constant that I decided to make it fun. I named the terrifying female editor “Mummy” so she seemed less scary; soon even the editor guys started calling her that. I flashed a stupid, nonsensical grin that I learned from Trina Penny serenade; even the sports editor started growling.

I recently had trouble hearing a phone call, so I called a friend for help. I heard her say in the background, “Wait a minute, it’s her again.” Maybe I’m paranoid; Don’t know. I really hate people.

But then, on Saturday, I picked up a reader’s cat from a referral clinic. She had sent me an email to say she was sorry about Benji, telling me how sick her cat was. She doesn’t have a car and is retired. The cat is very heavy. I told her I would like to help. I turned it off and the woman pressed a small package into my hands. I tried to object, but she insisted.

I got home after a four hour drive, fed my dogs and sat down. Oh, the gift! A box of Matchmakers perhaps? Inside was a silk scarf from Hermès and a note saying she had kept it in a drawer for 45 years.

Look, some people are nice. It’s just a matter of eradicating them.

Jones moans…which Liz hates this week

• Hot point. I booked a dryer repair online and was called back. I told the man I was deaf. He said if I can’t hear it then he ‘can’t book the repair’. He took the fee, twice. When it had not been refunded after ten days, I called and said I had to send my bank details. So I did. The answer? ‘Hello. I’m Walter, Whirlpool’s virtual assistant. Would you like to book a repair?’ Gaaah!
• Book publicists not responding to three emails asking to review Kate Manne’s new book on ‘radical body autonomy’.

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and stalk her @lizjonesgoddess