Ed­in­burgh, part two

Irish Daily Mail - YOU - - LIZ JONE'S DIARY -

IRE M OVED MY wed­ding hat, the shoes, the lovely dress, and put on sweats. I got a text from David: ‘I have no idea where you are.’

I ig­nored it. About half an hour later, the door slammed, and he slumped on the sofa. I didn’t even look at him. In fact, I put my hand to my face to shield me from the sight of his hor­ri­ble form. He dis­ap­peared. I watched The X Fac­tor, and wa­ter just kept run­ning from my eyes. Why could he not just be nice for one evening? Why did he have to spoil it? I got ready for bed. He was al­ready asleep in the spare room. I bar­ri­caded my door and tried to go to sleep, but I was too an­gry.

I sent him this: ‘David. You know what I’ve gone through in the past year through no fault of my own. I am also look­ing af­ter a sick pony: Dream needs 24-hour care, and yet you haven’t even both­ered to once ask how she is. And you think two sheep is a big deal. You care more what Ed, who frankly is a pa­tro­n­is­ing t***, thinks. I read your email to him, “Oh, Ed, I agree 100 per cent!” You ru­ined the one nice week­end I’ve had in about three years. My niece means a lot to me. I paid a grand for the flat and had to bor­row my out­fit. I spent all Thurs­day get­ting ready hav­ing spent three days in Liver­pool to earn enough to pay my vet bill. Ed pa­tro­n­ised me by try­ing to tell me that Herd­wicks, and I quote, “are not ac­cus­tomed to be­ing en­closed; they are nor­mally kept in flocks hefted to a stretch of moor­land, set­ting their own bound­aries”. How many sheep does he own? He must have looked that up on Google. God, you two should get some real prob­lems. Not one word say­ing, “Well done, Liz, for en­sur­ing Gove put ban­ning live ex­port in his con­fer­ence speech.” You have shown your true colours. I will get a train back to­mor­row hav­ing spent months or­gan­is­ing this week­end, find­ing a nice place for us.’

He replied by text: ‘I’ve spent the last five weeks help­ing, and look where that has got me, ****’

Well, that did it. I got up and stormed into his room. ‘Please leave,’ I said. ‘No,’ he said. I shouted at him, called him a ca­dav­er­ous t*** and slammed the door.

The next day, Sun­day, I woke at about 11.30am. I hoped to God he had gone. But no. He was at the din­ing ta­ble, watch­ing For­mula One. I started to pack. I would have to leave the ham­per of food, as I wouldn’t be able to carry it on the train. ‘I can’t leave, I have no money,’ he said. I told him to drop me at the sta­tion, and I would get him £200 from a cash­point, on top of the £400 I’d sent him on Thurs­day. He had left all the re­ceipts for look­ing af­ter the sheep scrunched on the ta­ble, plus the penalty charge for not both­er­ing to move his car. I gath­ered the re­ceipts and left the penalty charge where it lay.

He dropped me at the sta­tion with­out a word, and I stag­gered with my case, suit car­rier, lap­top and hat box to buy a train ticket: £76. I con­sid­ered si­phon­ing back the fuel I’d put in his car. I hadn’t eaten since Fri­day night.

I got home late on Sun­day. I sat at my com­puter, and added up what he – the Scrooge who had the cheek to ask to take a photo of my grand­mother’s ring, worth many thou­sands of pounds, be­fore I gave it to my niece, as if to make out he would one day buy some­thing sim­i­lar, to make up for the fact he spent £21.99 when he pro­posed – had spent on the sheep.

I then added up the curry and Sun­day lunch at the Sad­dle Room I’d bought him as a thank-you for res­cu­ing the sheep when he came up for my birth­day. I added on half the cost of the Ed­in­burgh flat: £450.

And then I added up how much I spent over three years feed­ing Pru­dence, his cat that he snatched back with­out hav­ing the grace to tell me. I de­ducted his sum from mine and sent him the to­tal he still owes me: £2,281.63.

Put that in your anorexic roll-up and smoke it.

WHY COULD HE NOT JUST BE NICE FOR ONE EVENING? WHY DID HE HAVE TO SPOIL IT?’’

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