I’m a bad feminist. I texted David 1.0. ‘Do you want to come for Christmas? Or are you still cross?’
Him, within seconds: ‘Hi, well, yes, I am still quite cross. I may get over it. Mainly I wouldn’t want to be a subject for your column [oops… when is this one published?]. So, if you think that is possible, I would see you again. I already have plans for Christmas, though. How are you? How is Mini Puppy?’
Well. Shall we unwrap that message, like a Christmas parcel? Why is he cross? That after we were no longer an item and hadn’t had sex for aeons, I had met someone else? What am I supposed to do, spend the rest of my life alone? And his demands? How about I make some of my own? Don’t be a grump, be helpful instead of just watching TV, don’t fly into a temper when you are only angry at yourself. And smarten up!
But instead, I replied, ‘If you have plans then never mind. Mini is very frail.’
‘Poor old Missy [sic. Listen, mate, I learned the name of your son though I’ve forgotten what your daughter is called.] I know how she feels.’
Me: ‘I expect you are already booked on New Year’s Eve.’
He always spends it with the Brixton Massive.
Him: ‘Actually, no, I’m not. Do you want to do that instead?’
Me: ‘Well, if you have plans for Christmas, then, yes. I’ve got a tree. The star on the church tower sits exactly on the top when you’re on the sofa.’ I sent a photo.
‘Beautiful. Will keep in touch re timing. I’ll probably come straight from France.’ Even that wound me up. How about, ‘When, ideally, would you like me to arrive?’ I sent him a photo of my marble prep table with the caption, ‘It’s a virgin.’
No one has ever or will ever prep anything on it. And do you know what he replied? Do you?
‘Classy. Great for pastry and for tempering chocolate.’
Pastry? Chocolate? Is he insane? Later, he adds, ‘Just noticed the original ancient flagstones. What a result. They look perfect.’
OK, well, I’m not buying any man food. He has to sleep in the spare room with his tea and endless sugary coffees station and own bathroom. I am never sharing a bathroom with a man again. I am also not getting him a gift: we will have to see what he comes up with first. I am not cooking and he is not under any circumstances tempering anything.
This time last year I ordered a baking tray, something I’ve never had the need to own. And a recipe box to make a chocolate yule cake. And we know how that turned out. This year? I ask him, again, what he eats these days…
‘I’m gluten free.’
I know! He says he eats cheese, so I tell him to bring some back from France. ‘They do have extremely good ones, but it’s a fallacy that France has more cheese than the UK.’ Oh, dear god. He is the twin of Toby Jones’s character Lance in Detectorists.
I tell him he can share the dog food. (My dogs eat human food.) ‘Only if you treat me with the same care and affection!’
We are not having sex. That chapter of my life is closed. It’s too exhausting, boring, ridiculous. You can’t have a frank, open conversation but he gets to see you naked? I check he still has my address: a nice gesture would be the delivery of a Christmas gift in advance of descending on me with a half-dead poinsettia.
The friend who hosted me at her country-house party has just read my review. As usual, I’d been scared to open any messages on a Sunday due to the inevitable fall out. I’d written I had ruined her towel when I washed my hair, smearing it with black dye. I read her message between my fingers. She’s bound to be furious.
‘Reading your diary makes me cry Liz. I feel so much for you feeling anxious about bloody towels! I want you to see my home as a place of solace for you where you don’t need to worry.
‘For some reason I feel protective towards you. Are you really alone at Christmas? Xx’
I am. And given the above I suspect that will be the case on NYE. When will I ever learn a little bit of self-preservation?
WHAT LIZ IS GRATEFUL FOR THIS YEAR
- My dogs, although Alice wakes me at 6am by bouncing on my head. Who knew spaniels were so hyper?
- My horses, although Pocket is a maniac.
- My friends, with a special mention to Andrea in Belfast.
- A reader, Dr Ails Smith, who gave me a basket of goodies. Hearing I no longer get Botox, she sent products from her brand of handmade skincare alternatives. They work.
