LIZ JONES’S DIARY

In which David and I play a game of Mr & Mrs

NICM OV E S OU T of my cottage next door on Friday. It’s a good thing, as she will have privacy, a garden for her dogs, and be near the horses (I will still have a 32-mile round trip). I’ve already been feeling isolated for a while now. We no longer have dinner together, or go to the cinema, or even talk much. I never see her. I get to the horses, and she has gone. Ah well. It always happens. To me, anyway. It will just be me and the farmer next door, in the wilderness.

So, feeling lonely and bored, I texted David. ‘I miss you, you rotten old sod. You’ve inveigled yourself into my affections. Plus, I am scared of wasps.’

I mentioned wasps as a huge nest has appeared above my sitting room window. It’s quite beautiful, a papier mâché hive, but the sight of the wasps pouring in and out of the entrance is a little alarming. It’s like the first day of the sales at Selfridges. Someone told me to pour petrol on it at night, when they are sleepy, and set fire to it. I’m not going to do that! Despite the fact I’d probably burn the house down, I even have to check houseflies are dead before I vacuum them up!

David replied, ‘Can’t believe you are scared of anything. Other than me inveigling myself into your life.’

I can’t believe he wrote that! I am scared of EVERYTHING. He knows nothing about me, nothing at all. I texted back, ‘If you don’t know me by now, you will never, ever know me. Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oooh.’ ‘I can’t even remember who sang that.’ Me: ‘Let’s do a quiz.’ Him: ‘Go on…’ Me: ‘OK. Who is my favourite designer?’ Him: ‘Vera Wang.’ Me: ‘Nooo! It’s Alexander Wang. She makes wedding dresses. He is edgy and cool.’ Me: ‘What vegetables do I hate?’ Him: ‘Do I have to list them all? Aubergine, courgette, most mushrooms, large tomatoes, peppers…’ Me: ‘Correct. What drives me most mad?’ Him: ‘Me.’ Me: ‘Correct. Favourite film?’

Him: ‘The Christmas one. Errr…’ (I think he means It’s a Wonderful Life. That’s one of them. I also love My Favorite Wife, Bringing up Baby, Roman Holiday, Some Like it Hot…) Me: ‘Favourite novel?’ Him: ‘Don’t know. No idea.’ (He is not helped by the fact I read novels on my iPad these days, so he never gets to see a book jacket. But for future reference it’s Jane Eyre, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, The Time Traveler’s Wife…)

Me (a couple of easy ones to encourage him): ‘Favourite breed of dog, pop star…’

Him: ‘Oh no, I’m getting behind, this is just like school. Um, collie and Prince.’ Me: ‘Correct. What must you never give me to eat?’ Him: ‘Anything stacked.’ Me: ‘Correct.’ (At those awards things, I’m always given roasted vegetables in a stack. Can’t stand it.)

Me: ‘Favourite shoe designer.’ There is a long, long pause, so I type, ‘Have you had another heart attack?’

Him: ‘Laboutans or Minola.’ (sic) Oh dear. I award him half a point. Me: ‘OK, your turn to ask me.’ There is another long pause. Him: ‘Problem is, I don’t have a favourite anything.’ Me: ‘Yes you do.’ Him: ‘Other than you, what do you think is a favourite for me?’

This is like when I got divorced, and my husband used to phone up my solicitor for advice.

Me: ‘ Drugs, cigarettes, Filipina women, sleeping, quiz shows, unironed T-shirts with holes in them.’

Me, again: ‘ Lard. Butter. Anything from the 70s: Crisp ’n Dry, Stork, Lucozade.’

Him: ‘ You know me so well. Lard, very funny. OK, stop.’

I sometimes feel with David that I’m flogging a dead horse. Not that I would ever do that, obviously. But I feel like Sisyphus. This is why we had the argument the other night: I was trying to get him to tell me his passions. He said he doesn’t really have any. He never talks about his kids, his marriage, his dreams. He will say that’s because I’m a writer, that I will mine him for nuggets, but I don’t think that’s wholly true.

And that was it. Either he died, or he was annoyed, or he fell asleep. It’s like when Hilda used to try to get Sam to flirt with her. She would wag her paddle tail, pounce with her front paws, strut and circle him – and he would just place his big black and white head on his crossed paws and emit a deep, heartfelt sigh.

I can’t believe he wrote that. He knows nothing about me, nothing at all