LIZ JONES’S DIARY

TO BEGIN WITH it all started so well and with so much promise. I’m writing this on my birthday. I’ve had lots of emails from girlfriends but nothing yet from David – and it’s now 10.49am.

Three gifts so far: Cowshed products from my best friend Sue, champagne from her mum and a new wireless printer from Nic.

David is in France being helpful (!) to some friends who have a house there. (I always wonder how perfectly normal people who don’t seem to work very hard manage to own more than one property. Where have I been going wrong? Where?)

I’m wondering if I should go out for dinner on my own. It’s not a big deal going to a restaurant and saying to the waitress, ‘Only me!’ because I’ve spent the past 30 years on foreign trips for work. During fashion week in New York, Milan, Paris or even London, no one ever offered me a lift in their limo, or invited me to join them for drinks. I imagine they were fearful I’d betray them by writing about how much alcohol they ordered on expenses, or the latest freebie hanging from a skinny arm, or the photo of themselves they have as a screen saver, or the fact they always sit front row reading a novel, or surreptitiously texting the nanny.

So I am alone today – SO FAR. I imagine this is why people have children, just so there is someone forced to turn up on your 60th, post a gift or, at the very least, send a text. The postman hasn’t been yet, so I am still in hope of a card.

Even if nothing else happens today it’s still better than my worst birthday ever, when my husband took me for dinner to a sandwich bar about to close (there were tea towels over everything), then I got home to find his emails to his mistress on my laptop, arranging to meet up when I took him on a mini break to New York. Surely today won’t be worse than that? No, that’s just not possible.

Ooooh. I’ve just taken delivery of some flowers. Cream roses. Some purple things. Perfect. I open the little card. Are they from David? Has he earned a Brownie point? ‘Liz. Have a great day! Caroline. xxx’ My new friend. I have only met her three times in my life. I haven’t been engaged to her or allowed her to wriggle around naked in my bed. So, not from my boyfriend. False alarm! Stand down.

Oooh! The postman. October Vogue with the Beckhams on the cover. Yay! Oily bathtime reading! A card from Caroline with a message, ‘No typing!’ Oh dear, I am typing. But nothing, nothing, nothing from David.

I decide to go out on my own. I park the car and go into a hotel. I ask for the risotto but they say they have no chef. I order a bowl of nuts instead and a glass of champagne.

After half an hour, a couple come over, ‘Are you Liz Jones?’ I consider saying no, but next the woman says, ‘And isn’t it your BIRTHDAY!!!??’ so everyone in the whole damn place could hear.

Oh dear God. ‘Um, yes, it is, but I’m just waiting for someone,’ I say. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘they’re very late.’

So I get up and leave. It is too humiliating. When I get back to my car there is a traffic warden. ‘Oh, please don’t give me a ticket. It’s my birthday. I just had to have a drink on my own. I’m a pariah!’ He gives me a ticket. I cry.

I have just got home. I half expected flowers at the door from David but there was nothing. Not even a note saying a bouquet had been left next door. I still haven’t had a text by 9pm. He knows the date. He even typed the date in a text saying he couldn’t be with me for the ‘actual day’. So why wouldn’t he text? We had sex, what, days ago? Is this how it is going to be from now on? What is the point of a boyfriend if you have to have a drink on your own and you don’t even get a card?

I don’t think I can stand it.

EVERYONE COULD SEE I HAD TO HAVE A BIRTHDAY DRINK ON MY OWN. I’M A PARIAH’’