With no man on the horizon I have decided I need to be more handy. As in performing DIY. Oh, how can I make this not seem rude? I mean more self-sufficient around the house.
So I decide to change the bulb on my Best & Lloyd lamp, rather than put up with it flickering until I call an electrician. I rummage in the boxes in my outbuilding, which I plan to turn into a mud room/utility room. And there is a box of things David 1.0 bought when I was moving into the vicarage. A saw, paint brushes, wire brushes, a tube of pencils and sandpaper, alongside the toolbox he gave me as a housewarming gift.
He had been so hopeful, excited about moving in with me. I asked him, doubtless fear in my voice, what furniture he was planning to bring with him; there would be no problem with selling or renting his flat in Camberwell. ‘I might just leave it all,’ he said, ‘for the next homeless person who has nothing. A refugee, maybe.’
Thank god. He even bought an electric bike so he could cycle along the river to the allotment and his man shed. But despite his good intentions, he soon lost his temper doing odd jobs. I huffed and puffed when he put up the brass letterbox cover ‘by eye’, meaning it was wildly off-centre. ‘Oh, shush!’ he told me.
No man ever tells me to shush and lives.
For research purposes I’ve been looking back at my email inbox in search of a piece I wrote in 2013. I do believe an email inbox (mine currently holds 262,262 emails, not including spam and greetings from the Kennington Tandoori), as well as photos that pop up, unbidden, on my phone of lost animals, lost houses and men who turned out to be unable to cut their toenails or keep their d**k in their pants, encourage us to live in the past. To chew over historic, and hysteric, stresses (me to my agent: ‘Please don’t disclose to anyone how much Endemol are paying me for Celebrity Big Brother), relive grief, moon over the time I sat in the bar at Soho House waiting for a hot date.
There is me, taking a selfie in the mirror of my hotel before a summer party, clad in a cream wool dress by Bottega Veneta. I look amazing, although at the time I was unsure, shy. Why do we not appreciate what we have at the time? Youth. Hope. Anyway, up pop emails from David 1.0. We were embarking on our torrid affair, so he was quite feverish. ‘Hello gorgeous. Well, I’m certainly knackered now. I had a great time with you and am looking forward to many, many more. Love you. See you on Sunday. To say I’m excited is an extreme understatement. XXXXXX’
Nostalgic, I dig out a card he sent me that year: ‘Let’s have a great Christmas, and a great life together.’ It was his ineptitude at DIY that did for us. ‘If only I were 20 years younger,’ he said, in a rare moment of self-awareness.
Growing old too soon affects our animals most of all. Missy, the tiny, nervous collie I rescued in 2017 via the Wild at Heart Foundation when she was three (she had been abused as a puppy in Ireland) is also feeling her age. In January I noticed she had an enlarged nipple.
The vet checked her over, said it was nothing. On Tuesday, it had swollen to the size of a tennis ball. Back to the vet, who said it will need to be removed, booking her in for the following week. Unfortunately, clambering back into the car, it burst. Blood everywhere. Rushed back inside the vet’s. She had surgery yesterday and is now home, wearing a full body suit to stop the wound getting dirty and to prevent licking: she looks like an extra in Point Break.
The tissue has been sent to the lab for analysis. ‘Worse case scenario?’ the vet said as I was helped into the car. ‘It could be breast cancer. We will know more in a few days.’
I need someone to hug me and say she will be fine…
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Clare Balding. She has never played tennis professionally, so why is she allowed to present Wimbledon?
- Why do people in the crowd at Wimbledon insist on eating? Is there no place on earth people don’t eat?
- After I ticked the no-carrier-bags box on the Tesco app, the delivery man had to gingerly hand me my box of Olia hair dye and ‘intimate’ wax strips. Good news, though: the Uber Eats man no longer asks for proof of my date of birth.
