I've been allocated a number of incongruous roles in my life so far. I've been dipsomaniac granny in a theatre production and a school chaplain in a feature film, not to mention real-life spokesman for a strike committee during one of Britain's most protracted industrial disputes. But of all the curious jobs I've been asked to fill, few were quite as unsettling as my time as political correspondent of Tatler. Apart from editor of Pravda's “How to Spend It” supplement or rugby league reporter for Vogue, it's hard to think of a less likely journalistic posting.

But I managed to survive by the simple expedient of including the name of at least one peer in every story.

The staff who processed my copy had one curious quirk. Whenever there was a choice between a U word as approved by the arbiter of upper class orthodoxy, Nancy Mitford, (lavatory, looking-glass, scent) or a non-U word (toilet, mirror, perfume), they joyfully insisted on the non-U option. For a rough-hewn lad of Aberdeenshire peasant stock it was all bewildering.

Almost as confusing as the new edict from the figure who has taken on Mitford's role as the final appeal court judge in all matters of correct form - The Times's own chief revise editor. This individual, who, like the Buddha or Anatole Kaletsky, inhabits a plane of reasoning several levels beyond the rest of us mortals, has passed a decree on the use of toilets which has made waves in other newspapers.

It has been ordered that henceforth “toilet” and “lavatory” shall both be equally acceptable terms when referring to water closets in Times copy. Loo can also be used, but only “in informal contexts”. Such as, presumably, sitting down on one to read the paper.

I'm grateful that there is room for flexibility. But I can't help feeling that we need more precision. Is it possible to refer to a “toilet” when writing about the sort of home (Blenheim say) in which the owner would never use the word? Where does this ruling leave those of us who hanker after the sophistication of a pissoir, the earthiness of the bog or the manly directness of the latrines?

As a free-marketeer, I welcome choice, but as a Conservative I would also appreciate a sense of gradation here. After all, good Tories know that the security of the throne is built on respect for hierarchy. We need a new, Times-specific word that takes priority over others and reflects both pride in this paper's traditions and an awareness of the impact of modern bean, pulse and oat-rich diets on our lifestyles. I suggest in future that we refer, wherever possible, to the need to repair to the Thunderer.

The write stuff

Talking of things going down the pan - what is appropriate reading in a recession?

The Prime Minister has taken to puffing Anthony Badger's primer on FDR's first 100 days as the book that best captures the temper of this moment. The Spectator's political editor has argued that the title that explains our predicament best is Ayn Rand's epic Atlas Shrugged, which charts the slow sapping of entrepreneurial energy and creativity when a nation allows the state to grow remorselessly. In the latest Standpoint the case is made for Trollope's The Way We Live Now, with its unimprovable account of how financial bubbles grow, captivate an ever larger audience, and then, all too painfully, burst. Its tragic villain, Augustus Melmotte, is the original Bernie Madoff.

All three have something to be said for them. But the best case I've read is for a book I imagine scarce one in a thousand of us has heard of. Lombard Street by Walter Bagehot is a study of banking after the last run on a bank in England, before the fall of Northern Rock, the collapse of Overend, Gurney & Co in the 1860s.

In The Weekly Standard over Christmas, Chris Caldwell championed Bagehot brilliantly by quoting from him judiciously, and extensively. In Lombard Street Bagehot anatomised banking - its curious fusion of hard mathematical science and blind faith - with a lucidity and authority that makes Robert Peston seem like Terry Christian. You can get a copy on abebooks.co.uk for about £7. But remember - even in a recession, when quality comes on the market, prices can go up as well as down...

One for the girls

I loved the BBC version of The 39 Steps at Christmas - what the licence fee's for, etc. I loved even more the BBC4 profile of John Buchan straight afterwards. But the person who adored both beyond measure was my wife. All the talking heads on the BBC4 documentary were authoritative and intelligent, but quite the best was my colleague Ann Widdecombe. Her critical insights were spot on and prompted me to pick up Buchan's early spy thriller The Power House. A new edition from Polygon has a cracking introduction by Stella Rimington. Buchan has often been caricatured as a writer of Boy's Own fiction, but he deserves to be reclassified as an author of the best sort of chicklit.

Michael Gove is the Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

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