LIZ JONES: It turns out men aren't totally useless
I need to slightly retract last week’s column. You know, the one where I wrote that ‘men are useless’. The illustration was of the great big shiny letterbox David failed to fit in the middle of the door as he performed the drilling ‘by eye’.
Before he left for London, I’d been moaning about my Miele vacuum cleaner not working. I have since changed the filters and put in a new fuse (the first time I’ve ever done that), all to no avail. Dead.
Two days later, David messaged me, ‘I hope this will ease some of your stress.’ I thought, ‘What’s he on about?’ But didn’t reply. A few minutes later, a man (turned out to be a neighbour, but I’d never met him) knocked on the door. He was carrying a large box and looked really annoyed.
‘Are you Liz Jones?’
‘Um. Yes.’ Given I have complex PTSD, I thought he was going to arrest me.
‘This was delivered to my address.’
I stared at the label: the address was indeed all wrong. I opened it, and inside was a new vacuum cleaner, from David. I couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed it was not… a Miele. I texted him to say thank you. He replied that it is only cheap, but perhaps a local person can mend the Miele.
As I explore the Vicarage more, I discover all the lovely Georgian windows, bar two, have been painted shut, the sash cords broken or missing. I called an expert, and he promised to come round at about 5pm. Tired of waiting, I walked to the local pub, mainly to see what it’s like.
The pub was open; something of a miracle given most places in the countryside are usually shut. The florist is open as often as a total eclipse of the sun. I sat down with a glass of wine (they don’t serve food).
Going to a bar or restaurant on my own is completely normal for me, because I’ve always travelled for work. I can’t understand why some women find it awkward or shaming: my phone is far more interesting than a monosyllabic lump who finds fault with the menu, asks for a drink they are never going to stock (‘Do you have any pastis?’) and makes me pay the bill.
That is, until a man sitting at the bar suddenly shouted at me: ‘Why are you wearing wellington boots?’ I tried to ignore him, considered gesturing that I’m deaf, but he persisted, so I said, ‘I’ve just come from my horse,
I’ve got dogs.’
Him: ‘But it’s not raining.’
I felt like asking him why he is a fixture at the bar, and why he is over 25 stone, but merely ignored him. In London, no one would turn a hair if you showed up in a bustle and top hat with a squirrel on a leash.
I told David the window expert was, as it turned out, a no-show, and anyway could only start restoring the windows in August. ‘I will do them,’ he said.
‘Is there a chisel in your new tool box?’
To be honest, I haven’t opened it, so I did, and had a look.
‘No.’
Over the next few days, sandpaper, waxed cord for the windows and a chisel arrive. The male neighbour is now not just annoyed, but quite tired looking. It’s a revelation that someone might do something for me without being paid huge sums of money.
It’s never happened before. I wonder why he is being so helpful? In the past, I never felt worthy of any support.
Now, I do. If someone wants to be in my life, they have to earn that right.
Jones Moans... What Liz loathes this week
- I have just read that if you have nightmares, you are more likely to suffer from an autoimmune disease. These daily health-scare stories are the most likely to finish us off…
- Bank holiday Saturday. The DPD driver left my coffee beans outside a house with completely the wrong number; he took a photo! So typical of the British worker: let’s do the job as quickly and shoddily as we can, so we can get to Lidl, load the trolley until it groans and race home to grill carcinogens.
- Why does Apple keep charging me for things – £10.99. £8.99. £5.99?
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess
