LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which I resolve to do things differently
It’s hopeless. I have to accept defeat.
On Tuesday, I texted him saying I can spend every other weekend in London. I wanted to dangle something nice to ensure he attends my office Christmas party (the Daily Mail plans to pap us as we enter, so keen are readers to see what he looks like; as Nic says, ‘If he has nothing to hide, what’s his problem?’
I’m to text the photographer when I’m on my way; honestly, I am very nearly Diana, Princess of Wales, off to the gym and to hold hands with Aids patients) and joins me in the Yorkshire Dales for New Year’s Eve.
He replied: ‘Wow. Amazing.’
Me: ‘I’m so relieved you’re pleased. I don’t want to come across as pushy, or to put pressure on you.’
It’s now a week later, and not a peep. From someone who initially texted reams and reams of lovestruck adoration. No one is that busy, surely. He is not the prime minister.
This proves that even when we lay down the law, say we need communication, respect, actions not words, men are incapable of change. It’s as though I have gone from being driven around in a Ferrari* to hobbling about sporting a blister. It hurts. I even sent him a column in advance of printing – something I never do – and he never got back to me. So the ruse that it’s my writing that has put him off doesn’t hold water**. I haven’t even printed the worst of him, which I will never do, as I am not in the business of destroying lives. I’m convinced he has another woman on the go.
I have had enough – 2025 is going to be different. Here is my list of New Year resolutions.
1. Never go to bed wearing what I have worn all day.
2. Light candles whenever I want, instead of waiting until someone special turns up.
3. Wait until 6pm for that first glass of wine.
4. Have more than just work assignments in my online calendar, and things like ‘Swirly farrier’ and ‘equine dentist’ and ‘Mini back to vet about her sore lady bits’. I need treats to look forward to. Normal things.
On Thursday, I am going to the Ivy in York with my friend Linda, who is in her 80s. There is something so grounding about having a friend who is of a different generation. She is so wise and knows everything:
‘The reason David 1.0’s loo is black is limescale.’ Next week my friend Andrea from Belfast is coming to stay for two nights and, thank the lord, the en suite is operational, although mice keep eating the Andrex toilet rolls I’ve put there. I’m reminded of Polly in Fawlty Towers asking Mrs Richards: ‘Well, how many sheets are you going to use?’
And to illustrate how different women are to men (remember, the German came to stay for the weekend but failed to bring a gift, while I made him Riverford organic steak with Jamie Oliver recipe patatas bravas, ironed my bedlinen and provided the alcohol), my Irish friend has just messaged me: ‘I have tried to arrange for a Waitrose order to be delivered to your house prior to my arrival so you don’t have to shop, but apparently they don’t deliver to your address?’
I replied: ‘I know. It’s tragic. I’m going to have to move.’
5. I’m also going to have to become a lesbian.
6. I hereby promise I will not unblock David 1.0. Even if a lightbulb goes or I need to rehome a spider.
*He drives a Range Rover. I’m thinking, that’s not very London single man about town… especially given who he used to work for.
** I don’t hold water, either. The cystitis from the sex at Kettner’s Soho House is still ongoing, rendering me incontinent. It’s slightly unfortunate that my car is being repaired, and I’ve been given a brand-new courtesy vehicle with cloth seats. I’m planning on blaming P***y Missy.
Jones Moans... What Liz loathes this week
- Christmas cookery shows. They all bang on about ‘if people turn up over the festive season or on New Year’s Eve, this shop-bought puff pastry can be turned into something sweet or savoury’. Who a) turns up unannounced, then b) expects food? Bugger off!
- Sourdough. Fresh, it’s tough; toasted, it’s a lethal weapon.
