It’s Sunday morning. I have just fetched Swirly (my racehorse) and Quincy (Nic’s enormous grey Russian trotter) in for breakfast, before walking my border collies in the paddock.
As Mini is 17 this year, I keep her on a lead to stop her racing to the fence to bark at the other dogs being walked down the lane. We no longer do hills, just stay on the flat. But as we returned to the gate she keeled over like a felled tree.
Her eyes became glassy. I took off her harness and collar (I haven’t spent years watching Casualty for nothing) and soothed her until she eventually came to. We wobbled slowly back to my car.
Mini used to scale walls in one leap, balance on fallen logs across rivers, chase tractors, cars, birds and even planes.
She has been my constant, always cheerful, waggy, never a day’s illness until 2023 when, during a routine dental check, cancer was discovered in her throat, then on her spleen. She is insured, but still I faced a £24,000 excess fee.
I didn’t hesitate, because Mini is priceless: she has earned that tenfold for how she has looked after me in my darkest moments. Even today, she will hide if I talk on my mobile, so frightened is she recalling the horrible, hard conversations I had during the bankruptcy years. Her brown eyes implore, ‘Don’t answer that.’ So now, to stop her hiding, more often than not I don’t.
I can’t lose Mini. Not now, not ever. She is my person, my soulmate, the love of my life. But I am particularly low, given my recent heartbreak and betrayal – the buoying me up with promises and flattery, only to find out I’m nothing special, as the other women he was with were unremarkable.
Anyway, desperate for answers, not having heard from the German for four weeks, I unblocked and texted David 1.0 for a man’s insight, not only into their own sex, but into me: ‘Have you been reading my column?’
All my girlfriends, of course on my side, have been going nuts, texting, ‘What a b*****d! You deserve better! Are you OK?’ Streams and streams of outrage.
But David 1.0, confirming my theory that men believe they have a finite number of words and texts before they die, sent this. One. Single. Word.
‘Why?’
Then, later, ‘You never did understand me. I take no pleasure in your pain.’
Ah, so he has been reading it. But why make it all about him? What is it with men and their egos? Nic went out for dinner on Sunday night and asked the waiter if the custard was vegan. He replied, ‘It is indeed’, so she said, ‘You are my favourite man of all time! You are perfect!’
To which he said, smirking, ‘It’s a shame I’m wearing a wedding ring.’ She wasn’t flirting. The only way she’d be remotely interested is if he had a son.
Anyway, I texted David 1.0 again. I wanted insight, from the point of view of a man.
How can there be any pleasure in lying and cheating, upsetting people, having no relationship of any real meaning or depth?
His reply: ‘When you meet an intelligent, kind man that you find attractive, stick with them.’
Whaaa? I did try to stick with the German, believe me. I had a ceiling-height Christmas tree installed in my hotel suite. Ah, but is he talking about himself?
He replies. ‘Well, I certainly qualify. Try to be more tolerant of people.’
I let the German get away with murder! ‘I was super tolerant of him. And why is it always the woman’s fault? What about him shagging two other women in the course of three days, and lying about it?’
And what does David 1.0 reply? ‘Oh, f**k off. He’s a lying t**t, and you couldn’t recognise that. You are both as bad as each other.’
I didn’t lie or cheat.
That famous temper raises its head once more. And why is it my fault again?
God, I really do hate men. They aren’t even any good at being a friend, let alone a soulmate.